#well I could but I didn’t want to dye my hair to be Crowley again so 🤷‍♂️🤷‍♂️ no costumeee

[thatskindarough]

This Halloween is gonna suck because I have to work form 6-am-11am and have school form 4-10 (really 3-11 with my commute)

😭😭 SPOOKY SEASON MY BELOVED WHY MUST YOU EVADE MEEEEEEEEEEEE

At last boops are back

[rooksamoris]

Hi i absolutely loved your kalim post, got me gigling and stuff. anyways i love the way you write so i would like to request for a headcanon with kalim and ruggie, with a reader who plays the drums and has a punk sense of fashion, like was in a band back in their world (you can ignore the other world part if you want) just some very fluffy headcanons!

💞 — with an s/o who has a punk sense of style and plays the drums.

💞 — ruggie bucchi, kalim al-asim (separately)

💞 — warnings: none, this is pure fluff and romance

💞 — around 700 words. i hope i did your request justice!! im not a participant in the punk aesthetic, but i did study the movements for one of my art history courses.

RUGGIE BUCCHI

🩷 — You mentioned being in a band once over lunch, and that’s where all this started. He first asked if you made good money, to which you said it was never about the money, but the counterculture messages. He still doesn’t really get the point.

🩷 — I think he would totally vibe with the punk ideology, specifically the anarcho-communist stuff and the great art?? You show him some zines that you and your friends designed and he’s totally entranced.

🩷 — He fucks with anticapitalism, lets be so for real. I think he would be really into the punk aesthetic over all, and probably sees how well it would fit back in his homeland. Grandma Bucchi probably had a secret punk past that Ruggie just doesn’t know about.

🩷 — He was once working at the lounge, you know to make some extra cash, and you happened to storm out of Azul’s office at the same time, cursing about capitalism.

🩷 — Ruggie fell in love with you all over again, honestly, but at the same time he needed the cash so he just quietly nodded in agreement to what you were saying.

🩷 — He once walked in on you playing the drums and was like, “Woah, babe—I didn’t know you were this good?” If you throw something at him, he deserves it.

🩷 — He wants to get you a new drum set, but he’s broke as fuck, sadly. He works extra hard to keep you some money off to the side for you. Leona doesn’t ask why he’s working so hard all of a sudden, and just tosses money at him.

He rested his tired head against your stomach, relishing in the way you ran your fingers through his hair after his hard day. There was something insulting about being at the beck and call of the wealthy and privileged, but he thought it was all worth it. At this rate, he would be able to get you that drum set by your next birthday, and then he would get to see you play with that passion once more, “Ashei, ashei,” (thank you in Maasai).

KALIM AL-ASIM

🩷 — Kalim and Jamil catch you wheatpasting around campus and Jamil is immediately like ‘no, you can’t be with them’ and Kalim is just entranced and not letting anything stop you and him from being together.

🩷 — Even more so when he figures out your infatuation with music. He walks into the Light Music Club room and sees you sitting in front of his drumset, and just falls head over heels. He’s immediately asking you for your music inspirations and the styles you prefer to play.

🩷 — When you tell him that you were in a band back in your homeworld, he’s even more interested. 

🩷 — After you explain to him the concept of punk from back in your homeworld, he gets Cater’s help to curate you a playlist so that you could indulge in similar music while in the Twisted Wonderland.

🩷 — He understands that the counterculture movement was meant to combat people literally in his social class—the irony of him helping you wheatpaste posters in protest of Headmage Crowley is not lost on him.

🩷 — Teach him more about punk art! Hairstyles, posters, zines—he wants to fully immerse himself in it since you seem to hold it near and dear. Jamil catches you helping Kalim dye his hair in the Scarabia bathroom, and just sighs and walks away.

🩷 — Totally infatuated with the way you do your hair and your makeup, and asks that you do his to match. He has the funds to get you a new drumset so that you can play your music whenever you want. It probably has matching embellishments as his.

🩷 — Oh, and you have to join the light music club!

There was a little red box left on your bed. You shared a glance with Grim, before approaching the box and opening it. The fear thing you saw were some very expensive looking drumsticks and then a little note, ‘You should join the Light Music Club :D! — Kalim al-Asim’ you snorted at the irony before holding the drumsticks a bit closer to your person. How sweet.

©rooksamoris 2024. do not steal or translate my work!

[sarah-dipitous]

Hellsite Nostalgia Tour 2023 Day 268

Stuck in the Middle With You

But, Sarah, it’s the end of the month. SURELY you have an episode of Sherlock to watch. You WOULD think that. However, the good people at the BBC and whoever puts together their DVD sets for shows neglected to put The Abominable Bride on either season three or season four’s DVDs. And now it’s night so I don’t want to go searching for it. Also, just to get it out of the way, not gonna watch Sherlock on Halloween either. That can be another day I swap some stuff around

“Stuck in the Middle With You”

Plot Description: Mary keeps her involvement with the British Men of Letters a secret as she brings Sam and Dean in a case. But a double-crossing changes everything

Would I Survive the First Five Minutes??: No one died —scratch that. The cold open was just really long. RIP random hunter who called on the Winchesters for help

Oooooo Dean did not like that waitress calling Cas handsome. Oh, now he’s DEVASTATINGLY handsome, Dean??

Was that demon the waitress????

I love “trying just a tad too hard to relate to humans” Castiel, but…I don’t like what’s going on with Mary…like I get the Winchesters lie to each other and those closest to them ALL THE TIME but come on

How powerful is this guy that bullets didn’t slow him and Ruby’s blade didn’t work? AZAZEL??!!??!! Maybe??

Ok. Now that we’ve gotten a better look, it’s definitely not her

JESUS, MISHA. I know Cas just got BADLY stabbed and can’t heal himself, but the whimpering as you try to drag yourself away from getting stabbed again is A LOT to process

He is not just some really powerful demon. He’s literally just a guy. Hit him with your car —Mary Winchester, probably

Casssssssss what is happening to you???

Oh, she roped this other hunter in so Sam and Dean wouldn’t ask questions

This whole British Men of Letters thing is taking this show in a direction I don’t think it had to :/

I hate watching him be in painnnnnnn. My poor poor angel

Crowley!!!

Oooooo, so this guy is a prince of hell

Ooooooh, Mary took whatever Crowley gave Ramiel…excuse me?? Ramiel just LET Crowley take over hell after Lucifer got put back in the cage at the end of season 5?

Ah, fuck. Crowley’s in trouble with Ramiel for letting people(the Winchesters) bother him

Oh, Cassy…baby, you look terrible.

I love that Sam’s getting the holy oil, Mary’s getting the angel blade, Crowley’s trying to make another deal…and Dean? Dean’s putting on some brass knuckles to fistfight the prince of hell who hurt Cas

Well, that backfired…sorry, Crowley

I think Mary should dye the tips of her hair red…just something about the way that blood is looking in it. She could rock it

Cas telling the Winchesters that they’re his family 😭😭😭 you know he doesn’t take that lightly.

I know I should be sad about Cas being so close to death, but to hear him say “I love you” *camera pans to Dean* “I love all of you” *back to Dean…….and then Sam*

SAY SOMETHING, MARY!!! WTFFFFF. You got SO LUCKY Sam got a hold of that lance

What a strange and uncharacteristically heroic thing for Crowley to do, snapping Michael’s lance to save Castiel

I “love” the number of times they throw in a brief shot of Sam to cut down on it just being Dean and Cas with the “I love you”s and the “let’s go home” 🙄

Waaaaaaait, does Mary see Cas as one of her boys??? That’s so cute!! Wish she hadn’t almost gotten him killed by secretly working with the British Men of Letters tho

REALLY?!?! We did this all for the Colt?! The gun the boys got like TEN SEASONS AGO??

Oooooo, Crowley’s trying to keep Lucifer the way he’d been kept. Sadly (for Crowley), Lucifer’s gonna prey on his inadequacy complex

[astringofmadhousefloozies]

Hobbies and Holidays, Or The Halloween Fic

Yes, I know it’s June. I just like Halloween, man. Yuu’s quiet dedication to the finest of holidays sours when confronted with assholes who fuck around for clout.

Contains coarse language, attempted violence, sexuality and nerds being nerds. As always, if you enjoyed it or have any questions, let me know! I like talking with people.

~*~*~*~

"What's cooking?" Ace, cheery as could be, walked his way up towards your set up on the Ramshackle front lawn. "Is it curry? I hope it's curry."

"You might not want to stand downwind." You poked at the bubbling mess on the propane stove, sweat rolling down your back. A beautiful August day, perfect for your project. This sure as hell wasn't something you wanted to do indoors.

"Whaddya mean by that?" The breeze shifted towards him, and he turned an impressive shade of green, stumbling back with his nose covered. "What's in there?"

"Mice. I told you to keep upwind." You went in with a hand strainer, and scooped a pile of tiny bones onto a ratty towel.

"Why are you boiling mice?" 

You mirrored his are-you-goddamned-stupid-or-something face back at him. "I wanted the bones. I went to Sam, but he said he's not allowed to order in dermestid beetles after last time, so I gotta do it the old-fashioned way."

"That's absolutely disgusting,” her said, the disgust and disbelief plain on his face.

"Don't we all know. Grimm fucked right off when the ghosts showed me the mouse graveyard."

"And your first thought at a pile of rotten mice was 'ooo, free bones' like some kinda crazy necromancer?"

"Yup." You scooped out another pile of bones. If you left them in there too long, they'd simply dissolve like in a cooked fish. As it was, you'd have to find a way to strengthen them. Maybe dip them in resin?

"Why am I your friend, again?"

"Because you feel responsible for me."

"Yeah. And you're fun when you aren't being weird and doing shit like taking cemetery pictures."

"I'll stop taking the pictures when I stop finding good grave iconography."

"Yeah, weird. I'm going to leave you to be a gross little maggot by yourself today."

"I'm not eating them."

"They're stewing in a pot."

"To get the meat off!"

"Yeah, whatever. See you at supper. I hope you don't stink."

"We'll find out, won't we?" you muttered, sotto voce, but he was already gone.

~*~*~*~

It was a beautiful day in September, and you heard him far before he knew you had. When you turned to look at Idia, floss wound around your fingers, he started. "Is my stealth that bad?"

You gave him the ghost of a smile. "You're not as quiet as you think you are." He hasn't cottoned on that you can hear what's in his headphones, if they aren't set just right on his head, and you aren't about to tell him. The face he makes when you pick him out so easily was too good to lose.

He nodded, fidgeted, looked at the spread on the table. "What are you doing?"

"Well, she's got to dry. So I'm working on this pattern until the top coat goes on."

'She' was a currently eyeless, disembodied head, that you'd picked up along with her body in a second hand store for a pittance. You'd unstrung her, scrubbed her clean, and now were putting on a face to match her sweet if imperious expression, a bratty princess of a girl in miniature. You hadn't realized you'd liked dolls until you'd seen her. But, when you had, your breath fled your throat in the same way it had only once since coming here.

He looked, but knew better than to touch. He did a little bit of craft work himself, mostly model painting, and wasn't about to muss your hard work. "She's... nice?" He didn't quite get the appeal, despite having two vinyl dolls you knew of stowed carefully in their packages under his bed. When you'd asked, he just muttered that they were anime characters and didn't come out except for photos because something something collectibles something resale value. Boys.

"I could do better. But it's enough. Thank you for letting me borrow the painting set up."

"Y... welcome." He squinted at the embroidery, finally noticing something. "Are those bones?"

In the center of each withered, poisonous blossom in your embroidery hoop, you'd stitched a tiny vertebra to serve as the center. "Yeah?"

"Why?"

"Why not?"

He wasn't ready to push it any further. "If you want..." He hesitated, and stumbled, and you waited until he just brought out his tablet to tap it out on a screen instead. "You can come do that in Board Game Club, if you want. There's a window. Azul shouldn't mind."

"I'll join you after I gear up and put the sealant on her. Thank you for inviting me." You gave him your best, most dazzling smile. "You know how much I like when you include me in your stuff. I know it's not always easy for you; how shy you are and all."

He squeaked and looked away, and you continued. "I should be there in about an hour. Make sure Azul doesn't keep up trying to wager me in chess. I can't fucking play worth a damn and he knows it."

He smirked. "He likes easy marks. Maybe try and get goo-"

You flicked a bone at him, and it hit him square on the nose as he yelped.

~*~*~*~

Welcome, October. Coolness and colour, a certain something on the breeze that felt like a home you'd never let go. Even if it hadn't quite hit the dorms the same way as they main area of the school. (Those little fairies that ran the weather machine didn't seem to believe in seasons for the dorms, or perhaps Crowley gave them a chewing out after the spring?) In amongst the Heartslabyul roses, you'd think it was still summer, and you weren't one to let a day of warmth go.

"Oh, in this chapel of ritual, smells of dead human sacrifices from the altar..."

"Stop that."

You looked up at Riddle, who'd found you in your secluded corner. "Why?"

"You can't sing and the lyrics are awful."

"Is there a rule against that?"

He nodded. "The queen gets to approve all music."

"Ah, of course, mine rosen liege. My petaled monarch. Emperor Rosa." A collar appeared on your neck, and you did not slow down. "Cardiac Sovereign. Dauphine De la Coeur. I can do this all day, Riddle; that collar don't do shit cause I ain't magic."

The colour was high on his cheeks. "Is it your job to annoy me?"

"Oh, you got me. I wake up and spend every moment thinking 'How do I best piss off Riddle Roseheart? How about I stand outside his door and blast nightcore from a boombox?' "

He narrowed his eyes at you. "Stop joking."

You laughed. "Yeah. I only do that with Shoenheit."

That managed to get a bit of a smile out of him. "Why are you being a pest over here, and not at your own dorm?"

"I'm just doing crafts, man."

"While sitting on the grass."

"Yeah, man. Won't be any grass to sit on soon enough. Made sure to not be on the croquet grounds or anything."

He looked at the mess of foam and ribbon around you. "What are you even doing?"

You looked down, and back up at him. "Crafts?"

"More specifically, before I kick you out for being awful."

You held up a padded frame, that you were carefully wrapping a satin ribbon around the many bars of it. "What does that look like?"

He just glared instead of admitting he didn't know, so you got to your feet and held the frame over your chest, the shape clarifying by being pressed over what it mimicked. "It's ribs. It'll tie on with more ribbon. Might put beads and stuff on it too."

He looked for a beat before nodding. "For later this month?"

"Indeed."

"... Continue, then. But be quiet!" 

He was nice enough to remove the collar before he left, but not nice enough to leave it off as soon as you resumed singing to yourself once you'd assumed he was out of earshot.

~*~*~*~

"Hey, Lil?”

"Yeah?"

You looked over the riot of cheery pumpkins and Far East aesthetics that had sprung from your lawn. "You should've asked me, first."

Lil smiled at you. "But then you would have said no."

"I wouldn't have. But," you guestured to the papier mache dragon, "Really, my dude? This isn't what I would have picked at all. I'm not going to match."

"You're working on a costume? Already?" He lit up. "What's it going to be?"

"You'll see."

"Do I get a costume?"

You looked down at your not-cat. "Grimm, I didn't think you'd want one."

"I do now!" He scrambled to your shoulder and tugged at your hair, wailing. "Costume! Costume!"

You rolled your eyes. "Stop that, before I sell you to Lil to practice recipes on."

~*~*~*~

Grimm was no help. He changed his mind every few minutes on what he wanted. At least your incorporeal roommates were a sweet help, finally gearing him up with a hat by the beginning of the week.

"Do you still need one, Yuu?" The middling ghost, the one neither plump nor skeletal, seemed concerned.

"No, babe. I've been working on this since..." August, you think. "I'm good. I hope I can get a week out of it. I could at least do a different face each day."

Realization dawned across his face. "That's what that was for? I see. I guess you won't need..."

Oh, he made you a costume. Layers and layers of rotten gauze from the curtains, a spindrift take on the bedsheet ghost. 

"Hey, I can use this, don't worry. Can you stoke the fire? I've got to dye this to match, I'll need some water boiled."

~*~*~*~

There's too many fucking people. You don't know any of them, they're loud, and they cram in wherever you need to go. But their fussing over you, their asking for pictures is nice. If only...

"Hey, are you lost, kid?" You lean down and reach a hand out to a fearful-looking six-year-old. "I can help you find someone who can help?"

He promptly burst into tears and collided into Floyd as he ran away.

"Hey there itty bitty. You need an adult? Hold on." Even with Floyd... being Floyd, he was a hell of a more welcome sight to the kid, and soon had him balanced on a shoulder to yell for his parents. "Who's under all that?"

"Your favourite shrimp, you overgrown string bean."

Floyd make an o of surprise and flicked the veil up. "It is you under all that! See, kid, She's not scary. She's pretty."

The kid simply eyed him dubiously before going back to trying to wave his parents down to get away from these lunatics.

All your hard work paid off beautifully. A mass of bones, beads and decay, a beautifully jeweled skeleton crowned with a fine halo of gold-and-bone spines and dried flowers. You rattled gently with every step, eyes staring out from a painted skull. They only thing you regretted was Riddle catching you earlier. Even if he hadn't intentionally steered it that way himself, everyone would assume you'd intentionally went to match Heartslabyul. Even more, now that you'd turned those curtains into a veil, even if you'd stuck all the bone and garnet drops you could onto the edges.

"Thank you, Floyd." You leaned up towards the kid. "Didn't mean to scare you, little darling."

The kid just stared at you in fear, and fortunately his parents came along to claim him, leaving you and Floyd by yourself.

"Shrimpie~" He'd scooped you up to replace the kid in his arms before you could protest. "You're so cute like this! Let's go to the alchemy room."

"What's in the alchemy room, Floyd." At this point you were used to him just... hauling you wherever. And you’d found that if you went along with the lighter end of it, he took you seriously when you said no. Weirdo he was, he'd at least gathered that you'd hang out willingly if he didn't push it.

"Oh, well you look so nice! You'll look much nicer in the water tube than the dummy we have in there."

"There are several reasons that can't work, Floyd. Least of it is I only breathe air."

"You're a ghost right now, you don't breathe at all."

"This outfit would not survive a dunking. I'm not sure it'll last the week if I don't repair it every night."

He kept smiling at you. "Even better! Wearing nothing at all on Halloween! Everyone would take even more pictures."

"Yeah yeah, and you have nothing at all in your room if I want to speed that up." You flicked his nose. "Put me down and we can walk over and check how it's going."

"Excuse me?" A stranger. "Can I take a picture of you and your boyfriend like that."

"I'm not her boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend. Go ahead though."

~*~*~*~

"What are you working on?"

Idia's voice was slightly muffled under the pumpkin head. "People kept calling my projection 'cute'. Idiots! They don't know the true fear of Pumpkin Hollow. So I'm adjusting the projection mapping so it's less cute, and more accurate."

"Hm. It seems fine to me as it is."

"You would think that. You don't care if there is a cuteness to things that are scary."

"There's beauty and sweetness in even death." You thought for a moment. "This is for that series you sat me down for? You got mad when I played with the toys?"

"Those. Are. Collecta-" he stopped when he whirled on you, faltering into silence. You really wished you could see the face he was making, he made such sweet faces, especially when he looked at you. You craved them, wanted him to look only at you with those expressions.

You smiled at him. "There's no use in leaving a toy in a box! I don't buy anything I don't intend to play with."

"Ah. Errrrrrrrrghhhmmm." He turned back to his work, took a deep breath, and turned back around. "You watched them, would you give me feedback?"

"Sure. Could you lean down a little?"

He did, and you carefully pulled off the pumpkin, revealing - nothing. No head at all.

You laughed. "Turn that off."

"Why?"

"I just opened your box. Time to play."

He made a strangled noise and started back, looking this way and that. "Right now? Anyone could come in!"

"Just for a moment! How can I give you a kiss if I can't see where I'm aiming?"

His head flickered into view, with a face full of mischief. "... Just one?"

~*~*~*~

"What happened to your makeup?"

"Wouldn't you like to know, model boy." You looked Vil up and down. "You're actually pretty hot like that. It's a miracle."

"Of course you would only find me attractive when I look like a corpse." He rolled his eyes hard enough to sprain. "Do I need to go lie down in a glass coffin too? Stay very still while you actually work up the courage to touch me?"

You snorted. "You wish I would touch you, you overblown jackass."

"With you looking like that? I'd die."

"Bite me, asshole."

"You'd like it if I did."

Your tone grew playful. "Is that a promise for later?"

"Ugh." His shudder was too exaggerated to be anything but an act. "Go ask your ugly little playmate for a bite, we all know what gross shit you get up to."

"You're just mad it's not you."

He pointed a perfectly manicured nail at your painted nose. "You're just mad I want nothing to do with you."

"Then why are you even talking to me?"

"I- why am I talking to you. Go away."

You did, but not before pulling on his cape to wrinkle it.

~*~*~*~

You had a dreadful feeling things were about to get worse. Call it intuition, or paranoia. But with any luck, that would change after a good night's sleep.

(It did not.)

~*~*~*~ These fuckers were getting exhausting. What a grand idea, picking unknown flowers to stick in your hair for selfies! That wasn't an excellent way to come down with a hideous case of contact poisoning at all. You had to swat one girl's hand away from a bed of monkshood, reciting symptoms of aconite poisoning at her until she stalked off in a huff. 

And futzing around with the decorations! The only reason you didn't outwardly congratulate Leona on trying to rip apart a bunch of tourists was that murder is supposed to be bad, no matter how irritating and disrespectful the murder victims were. Even you knew better than to go around fondling random ears and tails! 

(That's why you'd made the anatomy books in the library your friends. Far more polite than going up to a fellow student and saying, "May I feel around your skull for a few hours to satisfy my scientific curiosity? No one at home has ears like that and I'm very curious about the underlying muscle structures." )

Better see what's going on everywhere else.

~*~*~*~

You got up in tiptoe and lightly touched his arm. "Hey, Floyd?"

"??? Yes, Shrimpie?" His face instantly brightening, he dropped the absolutely delighted Magicammer he'd had pressed to the shelf and turned to you, leaning in as you crooked your finger.

You whispered in his ear, "Why waste magic on them when you can do so much more with your fists?"

He shone like the sun as he pressed his cheek to yours in lieu of something more intimate. "You always know just what to do."

~*~*~*~

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE."

The crowd of idiots instead turned on you with flash photography. "Another ghost! This'll get so many likes!"

"I MEAN IT!" Blinking away the spots from your eyes and casting all good sense to the wind, you grabbed a fire poker from inside your bedroom door and started swinging. They laughed and clapped - and only stepped back when you got the damned thing stuck in the wall while taking a swing.

"What an excellent show!" And more. Fucking. Pictures. How in the fuck Vil deals with this shit without murdering everyone in a hundred-foot radius, you'd love to know.

"I SAID-" yank "GET THE FUCK-" yank "OUT OF MY HOUSE!" The force of finally pulling the poker from the wall sent you careening onto your ass, and Grimm only stopped long enough to laugh at you before resuming his own ineffective charge. You stumbled to your feet, muttering. "Stupid little mother fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking..."

"Oh, it's a chase game! Let's go!" And they all fucking scattered into different rooms as you watched them in disbelief.

"I am going to kill everyone in this building and then myself for good measure."

~*~*~*~

"Leave."

"Aren't you going to scare me, Miss Ghost?" This last idiot was joyfully skipping around a bedroom that you'd had the ghosts empty out, nattering into her phone. A livestream, you think.

You're in you goddamned pajamas. "Sure. We don't use this room because the floor's not sound. Get the fuck out and leave before you fall through to the next floor."

The girl instead started to hop in place. "Oooooo, so scary! You'll have to try better than that!"

You rushed her. You probably would have throttled her (and wound up with a new ghostly roommate in the process) but as she backed up, your leg went through the floor where she'd weakened it, which left her cackling. 

"You weren't kidding! Bye now!" And she just fucking left you there like the wretched asshole she was.

~*~*~*~

"I'm so sorry, Yuu."

"Nothing to be sorry about, Mal."

He rested his head on your bare knee and looked up at you. "If I hadn't picked your home as a stamp location, people wouldn't be invading this dorm, and you wouldn't have been injured."

"You fixed me up, didn't you?" He was the one who had pulled you rightways, and shut the scratches on your leg. Of course, he could have left your socks on to do that, but hey, those had been fixed too. You reached down and put your hand on his cheek, rubbing circles by his eye while he stared up at you like an adoring dog.

"This was supposed to be fun for you, so you could have a perfect Halloween."

"That's still a few days away yet. There's still time. And hey."

He blinked up at you as you leaned your face in close, flushing faintly as you did. "Any luck, we'll all make it to November without assault charges."

~*~*~*~

"Yuu?"

You subconsciously growled like a rabid animal as you turned to Lilia with your eye twitching.

"By all the queen's powers." He shrank back. "You alright?"

"Magimons broke the lock on our bedroom and shook her awake last night." Grimm was, by some miracle, in a better mood than you; content to be a comforting weight in your arms and be your anger translator.

"They took," you added, "my groceries."

Lil looked at you in blank shock. "What about the wards on your doors?"

"That's for magic, not fucking morons with no sense of personal space." If you made it through 'til November without actually biting someone's throat out and getting put down like a mad dog, you'd be sincerely surprised. "You of all people should know that."

"Hey, I put them back up after I drop in. You want to go sit with Malleus today? I think you need it."

"Nope. If I snap at him he'll take it to heart. Or just kill everyone who's not staff or student because they upset me."

"No he wouldn't."

"We both know he would."

"He would not because that would be bad press for the kingdom."

"... well, damned if I ever though I'd say this, but thank god for politics."

~*~*~*~

You stare at the empty plinths as everyone started yelling and scrambling. You look to the rubble of the statues, the bases, to Cater, and back to the rubble, nudging what may have once been a staff with you toe.

"And it's not even for a fucking political movement."

~*~*~*~

"Yuu, if we can get rid of the magicam monsters, we can have the party!" Grimm smiled up at you, all sharp teeth and blue eyes. "Aren't you happy?"

You didn't have the heart to tell him that at this point, you'd rather they'd just cancel everything and simply sleep through till All Saint's. Fuck your costume work. Fuck the party. Fuck everything. If you see another jack o lantern you will smash it. Fuck this holiday. You're so tired.

"Yuu, do you have ideas on how to drive the magicam monsters away?"

You stared past Cater's ear because you didn't feel like looking anyone in the face. "Tried to brain a few with a fire poker. Th'just thought it was funny."

This was met with the sound of air sucked through teeth, and a warm hand on your shoulder. "Come with me please!" And Ortho pulled you away with the force of a vaudeville hook.

"You're having a very bad time!" So sweet, so earnest. Right now he was the only person here who could be that chipper and you not want to put their nose out the back of their skull.

You gave him a weary smile. "What was your first clue, honey."

"She keeps kicking in her sleep. When she sleeps. And she's all snappy and horrible!"

You gave Grimm a single light warning shake. "Shut up, Grimm."

"Would you like to stay over so that you can rest properly?" He was hovering directly in front of your face. "Maybe if you're somewhere you won't be woken up, you'll feel better."

You raised an eyebrow and stared over at Idia, who was trying very hard to pay attention to both your conversation and his. "Shouldn't you clear that with someone first?"

Ortho rolled his eyes, the effect on his little boy face frankly hilarious. "Oh, he'd be so upset you have you over. Deeply so. He wouldn't get a wink of sleep with you there." He leaned in. "Except he would, because you wouldn't do anything to keep him up with me there, would you?"

You wheezed. "You think so little of me, Ortho."

"I like you very much even if what you both get up to is gross."

"Of every boy in this school, Yuu. You picked that one."

Ortho glared down at Grimm. "That is my brother you're talking about."

"Stop it. Can we check back in?"

~*~*~*~

"So we're going to run round and scare the piss out of them?"

Jade nodded. "That is the idea, yes."

"... Can I help?"

"Of course, Yuu." Jade smiled his smile that didn't reach more than a millimetre beneath his eyes. "But we've agreed you can't have any blunt objects. For everyone's safety. And the school's reputation, of course.."

"... Yeah, that's for the best."

~*~*~*~

"Can you guys watch Grimm for the evening?"

"Of course." Mal beamed at you from his seat on the Ramshackle steps. "Where will you be that he doesn't want to be?"

"I don't like the horse."

"You ride horses?" Idia was sitting between Mal's legs as Malleus carefully arranged the bright hair into a high ponytail.

"Epel taught me." You paused for a minute. "Do you?"

"Mother made me learn. I haven't in years."

"Makes sense." He didn't like the outdoors, after all. "Mal, how'd you convince him to let you touch his hair? He only lets me do that in private."

"It will look nicer coming out of his pumpkin helmet if arranged higher." Mal crooked his mouth and dragged his lacquered nails along Idia's scalp, making a soft noise when Idia gasped, shivered and abruptly stood up.

"Nope nope nope nope no more of that-"

"May I at least put the elastic in?" Mal held up a black band. "It's fireproof."

He instead snatched it and ran for the library as fast as he could without cracking the armour. You and Mal watched him leave.

"Hm."

"Mal?"

He was still watching the blue light vanish into the distance. "I think I can see the appeal." His dreamy smile gained a sharp edge. "What a delicious sound."

You snickered. "God, I know, right? You should hear some of the other ones I've got out of him."

"You're both disgusting."

~*~*~*~

You hadn't worked out an actual story for this one, just your ghostly roommates and Grimm telling everyone to leave the statues alone. But some asshole, wearing aviator shades and the ugliest piecemeal hoodie you'd ever seen, mounted a plinth to start taking selfies. And once that started, more got the idea, and joined him, trying to nudge the statue away to make room.

So, that's where you came in, pulling into sight at the end of the drive, in tarnished gilt and rotten splendor, jeweled Death on a pale horse.

Sunglasses looked at you and froze, before snapping another picture.

Fucking pictures. You're so sick of pictures.

You snapped the reins and nudged your heels, and who knew anyone on two legs could move that fast? Though potentially being run down by a warhorse was great motivation to move thine arse, as it were. And, thank god, everyone else booked it out the gate after him. 

It only took a little maneuvering to lock the gate while still up on a pale horse named Beans, and now? Time to take him to his stable and go the fuck to sleep. Maybe through past tomorrow. Fuck Halloween.

~*~*~*~

You were riding your merry way when a familiar voice called out to you. "You dropped some loot!"

"What did I lose, Idia?" His little speakers mimicking the clang of armour were working overtime as he jogged up beside you. Once he reached you, he held up... a shoe.

"Huh." You looked down, and you had indeed lost a shoe while charging down a bunch of Magicam-obsessed assholes on a warhorse. "Thank you." That's when you gave Idia a level gaze, and stuck you leg out at him.

He swallowed back his noise of shock, and shaking, took your stockinged foot and slid the shoe back into place. 

"Good boy."

He was turning from shell pink to a deep red that rivaled the roses in Heartslabyul. But that didn't mean he didn't know how to keep playing when emotions were high. Before letting go, he leaned down and kissed the top of your foot.

Now it was your turn to go red; a wonder the painted skull didn't simply melt off of your face.

~*~*~*~

"Shrimpie~"

You took a breath and prepared yourself. Scoopsies was inevitable.

True to form, Floyd had his whole conversation with you in a bridal carry. "We're gonna have the party!~ We chased them all away!~"

"That's..." Honestly, despite all the rage and pain this week had caused, you were rather happy about the news. "Nice."

"Ah - where'd your face go?" He leaned in, and you stopped him from getting too close with a finger pressed to his lips.

"I didn't feel up to wearing everything." Your embroidered gown and painted skull was replaced with a simple back veil and black dress. "I kind of hate this whole holiday right now and I'm ready to kick the next pumpkin I see."

He nodded, kissing your fingertip as he did. "I can help you after. But we need this all for the parade." He brightened. "You should paint up and get on the horse again for it!" He smiled, full of dreamy fondness and not a small amount of hunger. "I heard what you did to the magicam monsters... I wish I could have seen."

"Hey, I heard you didn't do too badly yourself." You leaned in conspiratorially. "Anyone pee themselves?"

He smiled like the sun post-eclipse. "Yup!"

~*~*~*~

Epel had been nice enough to help you kit out Beans in a fancy black harness, so in amongst the crowd of costumed students, you were both equally eye-catching. And hell, pictures weren't so bad right now. People were keeping a distance, murmuring to each other as they aimed their cameras. You thought you were getting a dirty look or two from Vil for stealing his thunder, but he had himself on the prow of a ship! It wasn't comparable.

"So," you said, leaning down a little, "How are you handling this?"

Idia looked up at you, you thought. "The mask makes it easy. They're looking at the costume, not me."

"I'm glad it helps. I wish you'd take it off, but you being comfortable is more important."

"What? You want me to ruin the effect by taking the mask off? Clearly you have no respect for the holiday." His voice had the sweet, bubbling quality that came when he was excited and happy, and it warmed you to hear it.

"Oh, no, of course not. But why would I want to taste a plastic kiss,” you said, reaching a hand down to run the trailing ribbon of his hair through your fingers, “when I could taste you instead?"

You had to give him credit, he only faltered for a moment before continuing. "Right now? In front of everyone?"

"I would if you'd let me, right now." You lowered your voice. "And worse."

He stifled a groan and only walked funny for another ten minutes.

~*~*~*~

"I thought you didn't like horses." The stables were in sight, but Idia had turned up, surprising you.

He rolled his eyes, and held his arms out. "Dismount, fair maiden."

What.

"I mean it. Your Pumpkin Knight awaits."

You shook your head, voice soft. "Baby, no."

"I'm trying to be romantic. Like your novels."

"Idia."

He stared back at you, sour-faced. "What."

"I outweigh you by at least sixty pounds."

"I can do this. I carry Ortho around all the time."

"Ortho's chassis is mostly fibreglass and aluminum. I can carry Ortho. I think Grim could carry Ortho."

He took a step forward. "Do you want me to leave you on the horse or not."

"His name is Beans." But, you managed to dismount into Idia's arms, where he stood stock-still and trembling.

"Kkc."

"Babe? Put me down before your back goes out."

His knees gave out first, and he crumpled beneath you as you both yelped.

"You alright?"

"hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh"

You crawled off his chest and he could actually breathe again.

"Better?"

After a few breaths, he managed a weak smile. "Maybe kiss it better."

Beans beat you to it, snuffling at Idia's face to make sure he wasn't dead.

~*~*~*~

You are not much of a party person. You like them, but the ideal party is a few friends hanging around in the same room, chatting at a reasonable volume and then going home to go the fuck to sleep. This was a little much.

But you know what this party had that you hadn't seen in what felt like years? Cute girls. In cute costumes! You've been flirting your ass off, with decent success; it turns out that the Magicam Live you did with Vil weeks ago had paid off in the form of smiles and fluttered eyelashes as girls crowded around you to hear tales of how fucking obnoxious you could be in this school and get away with it because you had friends in high places.

At least, until you caught something out of the corner of your eye, and you stopped. "Hey, I gotta check on someone - raise your hand if you like boys. Okay, you see -" You stopped and pointed at your poor, unsuspecting target. "With the blue-black hair and the painted spade? That's Deuce, he doesn't know how to talk to girls worth a damn, so give him some slack. But he's a sweetheart, you won't regret it."

"What about the redhead?"

"Ace is a prick but he's delightful. Chat him up too." With that, you went to check on Idia, huddled into a corner after an attempted force-feeding.

"You alright, babe?"

He nodded. "They're too much. But I'm alright now."

You leaned back against a nearby chair, looking him up and down. "You sure you aren't going to eat anything? I don't think anyone's going to care too much if you have your face out."

He remained completely still, and you realized you could hear a faint whirring.  "Idia. Have you been using the robot double all evening."

"... I swapped out ten minutes ago."

You made a noise and he flinched. "I was going to swap back in after it calmed down!"

"... No you weren't."

"Okay, no I wasn't. But I was there for a while. I have proof, I brought plates back with me."

"You could have just told me. It's been a hell of a lot for you, I know what you're like."

Idia - well, his robotic avatar - shrugged. "If you're going to lecture me... come by and do it here."

You stopped. "You really want me to yell at you in person?"

"I want you to come by. If you want. You can stay as long as you want... if you want. I have snacks, and movies, and games that even you could play."

You snorted. "Oh, the siren call of a fucking nerd trying so hard to woo his chosen..."

"I changed my mind actually, you can't come."

"Aww."

"... That's a lie." He paused. "You can even take the Yume Twins out."

Those vinyl dolls he never let you touch. You throw your veil back and kissed the stupid plastic pumpkin head. "It's a date."

~*~*~*~

"Yuu?"

You peered at Malleus from around a stack of Tupperware. "Mal?"

"You.. enjoyed it all, despite everything?"

"Despite everything." You hefted the stack towards him. "Would you like to help? I want to grab stuff from the party that'll keep at room temperature."

He absently flicked a finger, sending the dishes swirling around to settle in a stack in midair, before placing a hand on your shoulder. "I have a... request."

"Anything," you said, and you regretted saying it as his breath hitched.

"Would you..." His voice faltered, and instead he simply wrapped you in a tight embrace, leaning down to bury his nose in your hair. You could feel him, chest heaving, scenting your greased hair through tulle, murmuring something against your scalp.

"Malleus."

He stopped, but did not move.

"No spells."

"You would not forgive me if I tried." You could feel his smile against your hair.

"I would not." You pulled back enough to look at him, and nearly froze at his besotted gaze before he schooled it into his more usual face. "Mal, you know you only feel this strong because I'm your first friend, right?"

"Does it matter? It is sincere."

And that makes it so much worse. "You know I don't feel about you like that."

"..." The grief that flickered across his face was enough to shatter a stone heart. "To stand with you and hold you is enough."

And they said fairies can't lie. They could, they were just terrible at it.

"You said you were going to ask for something?"

"... Not anymore. I doubt you would give it."

He vanished into thin air in a swirl of wind, and the Tupperware clattered to the steps, the spell holding them gone.

~*~*~*~

The nice thing about Idia's room is that, being a prefect, he had an attached bathroom to scrub the paint off of your face. It was a monochrome murder in the sink, splatters of grey with the occasional pinprick of red where you'd disturbed the new bumper crop of pimples from painting up as a skull for a week. Thank fuck that was over with. Even if the day proper had been lovely, the events of the week had thoroughly soured you on Halloween.

"You alright?" Idia poked his head in, long since divested of armour.

"Yup. How'd you get that shit off so fast? You got a suiting-up machine hidden somewhere?"

"It's less complicated than you'd think. Cosplay magic."

"That's nice. Unbutton me."

"... wha."

You looked at him via the mirror, meeting his wide eyes and shimmying in place. "Unbutton me. I can't reach them all myself."

"How'd you get that on every day?" He hesitantly walked behind, eyeing the row down your back as though it would burn him at the touch.

"I have roommates, remember?"

"Mmh." He finally undid the first three, before flicking his gaze back to yours in the mirror. "A... Are you sure?"

"I wouldn't ask, otherwise." You kept looking, as he took a breath and resumed. "Idia."

He paused.

"Keep going, I'm just going to chat at you for a bit." Two more. "You know I..." How to phrase this. "I don't intend to stay mint on card forever, you know. You can take me out and play."

He twitched, but kept going. "Maybe I don't want to damage you. There's only one of you, after all."

"I'm not so breakable." You had one side of you face completely clear, the other still smeared grey in the creases. "Would you rather stay mint condition, yourself?"

"..." He took a moment to gather himself, staring at the exposed skin of your back. "Maybe I want to... admire a bit. Get to know my- your- Uh."

You waited with a soft smile, until he found the words. "No one said you have to play straight away when you take something out of the package. Right?" He placed an experimental hand on the expanse of flesh between bra band and waistband, and did not draw away.

"Right."

"... Maybe I just want to hold you a bit before we play."

What a sweet boy you had. "Take all the time you need to. Even if we never play like that, I like you. Spending time with you is what I want."

You could see the motes of pink flickering through his hair. "Can I hold you now?"

"Of course."

He slid his hands under your dress, around your waist - then grabbed your soft, flabby tummy in both hands and squeezed. "Soft~"

You squealed with laughter. "What are you doing?"

"It's bare skin that's neutral territory," he huffed, before hugging your back to him and resting his chin on your shoulder. "And it's warm, too."

"Not so much as you. Keep me warm, will you? It's getting so damned cold at night."

He buried his face in your hair. "I can do that."

~*~*~*~

You woke to someone banging at the door.

"Son of a bitch." You managed to free yourself from Idia's sleeping grasp and make it to the door as a familiar voice started up. "Shroud, your tin can brother's already helping with clean-up, if you skip out because of a stupid game I will-"

You opened the door and looked levelly into Vil's face, which twisted in surprise. He gave you a once over (unshaved legs, mussed hair, boxer briefs from the men's section and a blue-black striped shirt that was clearly not yours) and then peeked over your shoulder at Idia (dead asleep, smiling faintly, possibly naked under the blankets). He kept looking between the two of you with increasing disbelief and horror, until he stepped back, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Good for you."

"Thanks." Your face still hadn't changed.

"It's twelve thirty. If you're not both out helping clean up by three, I'm telling everyone."

"That's not much of a threat."

"Maybe to you. Shroud!"

Idia shuddered awake, bleariness washed away by terror as he saw Vil in the door and covered himself in the blankets.

"Be out helping cleanup by three or I'm telling everyone exactly why you're late." With that, he stalked off and you shut the door, mirroring his nose pinch.

"Dramatic bastard, ain't he? Even when he's being nice."

"How is that nice?" He only stopped shivering when you sat back down on the bed.

"Two and a half hours, Idia."

He blinked at you.

"How much can we do in two and a half hours?"

Realization dawned, and he started snickering as he dragged you in close.

[aziraphalescloset]

Aziraphale at the Bastille Part 1

This costume is going to be a long process so I’m going to post about it in chunks. 

I think everyone who watched Good Omens who cares a whit for fashion fell in love with this confection of a costume: the angel Aziraphale in lace and frills and white satin pumps in a French jail, possibly about to be guillotined, until he’s rescued by a tall, dark demon.

(The left two pictures in the second image show the executioner, now wearing Aziraphale’s wasitcoat and frock coat, after Aziraphale miracled a costume swap.) Close examination of the costume reveals a couple of things: first, it’s actually kind of shabby-looking, and second, it’s out of date for 1793; by that time, men’s waistcoats and frock coats had become much shorter and more svelte, with smaller cuffs and coat fronts that sweep back, exposing more leg. Naturally, that’s what Crowley is wearing in the scene, though he’s dressed as more of a plebe than Aziraphale.

Now, Aziraphale looks a little shabby in modern times -- his waistcoat especially is very worn around the buttons and hem, presumably because it’s the same one he’s owned since Victorian times. But I’m not going to go to all the trouble of making this outfit and make it shabby, so I’m going to upgrade it when I make it in doll form.

Process photos after the jump.

First, I need a shirt. Again I’m turning to Thimbles and Acorns via Pixie Faire for the pattern for an 18th Century men’s shirt and stock. At this time, a man’s shirt served exactly the same purpose as a woman’s shift: it was a simple, comfortable, readily washable garment that separated the human (with its attendant grime and odor) from the clothes (which might be made of harsh fabrics and dyes). The tails were very long in order that they could tuck between the legs to act as a sort of underwear. In fact, the shirt was regarded basically as underwear; it was unseemly for more than the cuffs and collar to be visible, and the collar was always held closed with a tied neckcloth called a stock. The basic design of the men’s shirt remained unchanged for centuries. For those of you who are fans of the 1995 TV version of Pride and Prejudice, this is the garment that Colin Firth goes for a swim in, and for Elizabeth to stumble upon him, post-swim, still clad only in shirt and breeches, was really quite shocking!

Anyway, back to the matter at hand.

The Thimbles and Acorns pattern is fairly simple with a self-ruffle at the cuffs and neck. For Aziraphale I upgraded the cuffs to two layers of lace, and I added lace ends to the stock. I originally planned to use a very thin cotton batiste but it was just too transparent and was too stiff. So I’m using a white synthetic fabric of some kind, rayon or nylon or something. It’s a little staticky but it has a beautiful soft drape.

There is a lot of fiddly hand-sewing in these patterns to make facings that cover seams. This is the view through my magnifying lamp while I’m sewing the facing down over the front neck opening with its self-ruffle.

Finished shirt, without the buttons and button loops yet.

The next thing I did was adapt this pattern for Crowley. I have a Crowley doll that is a different type than Aziradoll. Aziradoll is an American Girl, which has a pretty wide, soft body compared to most such dolls. I found on eBay a used doll of a skinnier type, Just Pretend, Inc., with extremely weird pink eyes and red hair. It is roughly the same measurements as more popular skinny 18-inch dolls like Kids N Cats and Carpatina. So I modified the width of the shirt and made a few other changes to convert the pattern to Crowley’s size. No lacy frills for Crowley; it’s crisper self-fabric cuffs and stock. The fabric is just a regular acetate lining. It’s a little shiny, which seems suitable for a flash bastard like Crowley. Here’s a process photo of those self-fabric cuffs.

It’s still loose -- these shirts are supposed to be loose -- but fits the doll pretty well. Here’s a photo without buttons or stock.

Next step is breeches. Again, Thimbles and Acorns provides with this pattern for a George Washington military costume. I made the breeches almost straight from the pattern, using a really luscious-feeling crepe-backed satin. (The parts on the left are for a waistcoat, which I’ll post about another day.) The parts for these breeches are weirdly shaped -- these bear no similarity whatever to the cut of modern men’s trousers.

I discovered while making these that crepe-backed satin is a pain in the butt to work with. It seems like a very fine fabric, but it’s made of rather wide warp threads with very thin weft threads, and once cut it really wants to fall apart. It’s also desperately easy to accidentally pull a little weft thread and create what looks like a run in the fabric. My first assembly attempt ended in failure because the fabric started disintegrating around the tight corner at the junction of the drop front and the trouser leg.

I cut some new parts and substantially beefed up the interfacing around that seam. I also used a more stable cotton fabric for the invisible inner facings of the drop front and vents. It seems to be holding.

More assembly pics. Really interesting topologically.

Leg plackets. The detail in this bit is exquisite. If I ever need to sew a placket on any garment I’m creating from scratch, I’ll work from this pattern.

Drop front is sorted. It got a little off-center, I’m actually not at all sure how, but it didn’t matter in the end.

Adding the waistband.

Test fit. The next step after this was the sheer terror of buttonholes. I hate buttonholes. BUT I DID IT.

At least the terror of sewing buttonholes comes with the pleasure of selecting buttons. After a lot of agonizing (and, I’ll admit, some shopping), I eventually used some vintage pearl and mother-of-pearl buttons for the breeches. They’re Heavenly.

That’s it for shirt and breeches for Aziraphale. I’m working on the waistcoat, but more urgently, I need to replace those plain brown shoes with some gorgeous satin pumps. I also need to adapt that topologically weird breeches pattern for the smaller Just Pretend doll for Crowley. 

In the meantime, here are the two Ineffables lounging around in, basically, their underwear. How indecent!

[sushiandstarlight]

“Scarf”: NaNoWriMo 30 Days of Prompts

Today’s Prompt

Read this story on AO3

Personal note: today I bring you tooth-rotting Christmas fluff.  Also, I do not knit or crochet, though I have poked at both hobbies.  Mostly, I take what little I know from the knitters and crocheters in my life.

“I've joined a knitting circle in town.” He had said it without preamble over dinner at their favorite restaurant.

“Knitting?” Crowley tried to recall what knitting looked like, “Something to do with string and big needles, right?

“Well, crochet actually. Right now, anyway. Apparently they go back and forth for new people. Crochet, they said, was easier to learn.”

“Crochet.” That, he assumed, also dealt with string and needles.

“Yes. I thought- I thought, you have your garden to muck about in... I should have something, too. Aside- aside from my books, of course. But, having no shop or customers-” the way Aziraphale said the word customers: it dripped, ever so, with disgust, “I wanted to find something to do with my hands, you see?”

“Sure, Angel. You crochet now, it's cool.”

And nothing more had been said about it that night. Or any of the following. On Thursday evenings Aziraphale would kiss his cheek and disappear for a few hours.

The house started filling, little by little, with bits of yarn. Squares at first, some parts of them loose or tangled, other parts stiff and tight. Tension, he said, he was learning tension. Crowley thought he knew plenty enough about tension, but didn't mention it.

He would come in from the garden once it was too dark to work (not that he couldn't see, but it was the human thing to do and they were living among humans) and find the angel in the living room, in his chair, lap full of yarn- the string was called yarn, he had learned- and tiny hooked needles. There was muttered counting and some amount of grumbled curses over “dropped stitches.”

Eventually they had a big pile of what he called pot holders in the kitchen. They were squares of all sorts of colors, Crowley supposed to go with the seasons. Or maybe Aziraphale got tired of one color and went to the next, hard to be sure. They were more uniform than what he had done before, perhaps he had learned about this “tension” he muttered about for weeks.

And then he became secretive. New projects stopped showing up around the cottage. Crowley would come in for the night and have the feeling that Aziraphale had hidden something swiftly right before he returned. Something about the near-manic way he would be staring at the book sprawled out on his thighs.

Their first Christmas after the events of almost-megeddon was fast approaching. He might not have guessed except the pot holders in the kitchen were red and green now, as opposed to fall colors. He wondered if he should get Aziraphale something for Christmas. He probably should.

“Don't come in here, Crowley, I'm on Christmas business!” Crowley stared at their bedroom door, now barred from entering it. He supposed that answered that.

“I'll be back, Angel, I'm headed to town.”

“Kisses!”

Crowley stared at the door for a further minute before shaking his head and heading out to the car. He returned some hours later with large bags from all the local craft stores. Who could have guessed there were so many kinds of yarn? What on earth were they all for? He had spent some time before he left, going around and touching all of the crochet projects he could find around the house, trying to guess the material. Or at least know it when he found it again at the store. But, that was an impossible method, he had found. Dumbfoundedly, he had stood in the yarn aisles- AISLES, plural- touching them one at a time.

“Whatever project you're getting them for, you should get the colors in one dye lot,” The overly-friendly employee of one store had said, “so they'll match.” Whatever that meant.

It wasn't so much that he bought out the stores, at that point. That would have taken a miracle to get home and would definitely have been noticed by his angel. But, he did settle on buying the softest of yarns. The ones that drifted through his fingers rather than dragging. Aziraphale enjoyed, nay deserved, soft things. He was soft and he had not had enough softness in his centuries.

“Oooh, what have you got there, my dear?” Crowley startled, clutching his packages to his chest, suddenly grateful that the stores had elected to give him unmarked bags. He was pretty sure they were all giggling about him, even now. Their smiles as they helped him and rung him up had been... conspiratorial. 'Happy Christmas, Mr. Crowley,' they'd smiled, 'I hope he likes them!' He wondered if they worked on commission.

“Nothing!” his voice hadn't squeaked, it really hadn't, “Christmas business, as you say. Nothing here to see.” He swept upstairs and hid the bags under the bed.

Christmas morning had dawned colder than expected, crisp even. He was happy enough to give the angel the gifts he had picked out, but he was even happier to stay right here, tucked snug and warm under the covers with him. But, fingers tickled along the tattoo on his face.

“Five more minutes,” he grumbled, not opening his eyes.

“You said that five minutes ago,” Aziraphale was smiling at him, he could hear it in his voice. Yeah, it was possible he had asked before, and it was possible he would ask again. He grumbled some more and slid further under the covers, wrapping his arms around the angel's waist.

Time passed, how much he couldn't say because he drifted. He felt fingers comb through his hair.

“Five more minutes,” his voice was muffled by the angel's bed clothes pressed against his face.

“Really, Crowley!” Aziraphale chuckled softly, Crowley enjoyed the bounce of his chest, squeezing him and nuzzling closer- the sound and feel of Aziraphale's happiness made him giddy. It also had the side effect of waking him up completely, at last.

“Happy Christmas, Angel,” he rolled on to his back and stretched, feeling the blankets fall down around his middle. It wasn't nearly as cold as he remembered it being... how ever many minutes ago, how ever many minutes he managed to bargain for.

“Happy Christmas, Crowley, you beautiful creature,” Aziraphale was draped over him and kissing him softly, a bit teasingly, his smile pressed to Crowley's lips. It was like drinking happiness, Crowley decided, this was like drinking Aziraphale's very joy. It made the already giddy part of him crow inside.

“Maybe,” Crowley snaked his arms back around Aziraphale's middle and tugged him down onto his chest, “maybe five more minutes.” He was smirking, himself, as he muttered against his soft lips. They pulled down into a frown. When he pulled back he saw it was mostly for show.

“I suppose you don't want your gift, then.”

“Got all I want, right here,” he squeezed him.

“Soppiness is not going to get you any more five minute reprieves.”

“It was worth a shot.”

“Hmm.” And then Aziraphale did his worst: get left the bed and took all his warm softness with him. Crowley groaned and pouted dramatically.

“Bastard.”

He heard chuckling fading as the angel padded down the stairs. He sat for a few moments more, hoping he would return, but then gave it up. He threw back the covers- extra messy so Aziraphale would make a fuss later- and stepped into his slippers. Slippers. He had slippers now. Who'd have thought? Grabbing his robe, he donned it and went downstairs.

The night before he had waiting for Aziraphale to fall asleep and then he had snuck down with his packages and piled them under the tree. Every skein was wrapped individually in shiny, red wrapping paper, tied with white ribbon. There were... a lot of little red packages. When he got to the bottom of the stairs, Aziraphale was in the sitting room, staring at them.

“Looks like St. Nick really delivered this year,” Crowley walked up behind him, hugging him and resting his chin on his shoulder to peer at the piles of packages, “You must've been a good boy.”

“Oh, Crowley, it's too much, isn't it?”

“Nah, could be half of them are fake. You won't know until you open them,” he was getting distracted by the line of Aziraphale's jaw and nuzzled his nose against it. Aziraphale's arms came up and rested over his, squeezing his hands.

“You're planning to spoil me, aren't you?”

“What? I got you nothing. This is all Santa's work. I might have to have a chat with him, he thinks he might win you from me with presents.”

“Pssh, really.”

“You should be spoiled,” he placed a soft, gently sucking kiss where his jaw met his neck and delighted at the shiver he felt, pressed as close as he was, in response, “I won't have it any other way. Sorry, you're gonna have to suffer it.”

“I suppose I'll survive it, somehow,” there was a beat of silence, “but I did not get you this many things.”

“It's not a competition. No tally's here. I'm sure I'll like whatever you give me, Angel. Just enjoy your presents, alright?” He let him go and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Something strong and earthy for him, something light and slightly floral for Aziraphale. When he returned with tea, there were three more packages under the tree: these wrapped in silvery tissue paper with black ribbon.

“Oh, did St. Nick make another stop by? Find something at the bottom of the bad did he? Bad form, should be more organized. He would be hell to live with, you know?” Crowley sat their tea on the coffee table and then sprawled on the sofa.

“I can feel the mussed bedsheets from here, you fiend. You're hell to live with.” The statement held absolutely no fire.

“Just so,” Crowley propped his slippered feet on the coffee table, to be a further annoyance, “Go on and open them.”

“All of them?”

“Sure, why not?”

“We could take turns?”

“Oh, go on, I want to watch you.”

Aziraphale dithered another moment before sitting on the ottoman beside the tree. He picked up the first one, pulling off the ribbon and finding the tape to pull it off gently. Crowley watched in growing madness as he carefully removed the paper, folding it and setting it aside.

“It's yarn!” and then his fingers dug into the skein, “Oh, it's angora yarn!”

“Best for you, Angel,” Crowley took a sip of his tea.

“Tell me they aren't all angora.” Aziraphale was staring, wide-eyed at the packages.

“Well, not all of them. There's some different wool blends. Some of it's alpaca? I think. And a few are made from bamboo. Amazing, humans, eh? I never would have looked at a bamboo plant and thought yarn. But, oh Angel, it's so soft. You had to have it.” Crowley watched him over the rim of his mug as he opened them all one by one, cooing over the softness and the variety of colors. And stopping to fold every. Single. Piece. Of. Paper. He couldn't decide if it was endearing or crazy. When he had them all unwrapped he stacked them gently under the tree. Then he grabbed the silver packages and strode over to the sofa. He sat them down next to Crowley and picked up his own mug, pausing to allow Crowley to snap it warm.

“Perfect,” he smiled over the rim, tucking his feet up under him and angling himself towards the demon, “your turn, love.”

Crowley put his mug down and picked up the first package. It crinkled under his fingers. Something soft. He looked over at the neat pile of wrapping paper Aziraphale had left behind and then back over at the angel himself. Then in a flurry of movements, he had the paper flying everywhere.

“You're such a child!” But Aziraphale was laughing, batting at the paper that drifted his way.

“Oh, but it's...” he picked up the pile of yarn and let it unspool over his knees, “Angel this is beautiful!” He lifted it, almost against his will, and rubbed it against his cheek. The scarf, black on one side and red on the other was buttery smooth against his skin. He wrapped it around his neck a couple times and then let the rest hang over his chest. Only now could he see that the ends were tasseled in the same colors, alternating. At the ends, just above the tassels were designs. On one side they matched his tattoo. On the other was a pair of wings. It would depend on if he was showing the red or black side, which one would show. He stared at the designs, a lump forming in his throat.

“You really like it? I mean, I'm still learning, but I thought it was okay.”

“Okay,” the word came out strangled and a moment later he was climbing over the sofa cushions and into Aziraphale's lap, “I love it, really.” And he leaned in and kissed him soundly, slipping his fingers into the hair at his name. Aziraphale kissed him back, holding him close for a moment. Then he pushed against him, smiling against his lips again.

“There are two more, you know? Do I get a kiss like that for every one of them? I might have tried to make you some more,” his eyes were twinkling with mirth and happiness and it made something in Crowley's chest ache with joy. He wondered if a demon could be discorporated from feeling this good. Surely, they weren't built to contain it.

“I could have the kisses now and the presents later,” Crowley peered at him through his lashes, nuzzling his chin into the scarf around his neck.

“Oh, do open them.”

“You don't want my kisses,” he pulled his face into a pout.

“Now, you know that's not true!” He was starting to look honestly worked up.

“Alright, let's see what's in package number two,” he pulled the ribbon off and put it atop the angel's curly hair and then he destroyed the paper in the same fashion as before so it fell like confetti over both of them. It was matching gloves in the same black yarn with his sigil in red on the backs. He reached for the final package, shredding it mercilessly, and found a black beanie with his sigil on the front. It was a whole set, just for him. He reached up and pulled the hat down on the angel's head, sitting back and smirking at him, “oh, I like that look, I do.”

“The mark of the beast, for sure.”

“I do say,” he tugged it down until it covered his eyebrows and nodded, his work complete.

“But you like them?” The angel's voice was small, quiet.

“I love them. I love that you made them for me. They're perfect. I'll wear them until they fall apart and when I do,” he rubbed his cheek against the silky yarn, “I'll think of you, even when I'm away.”

Aziraphale wiggled happily, grasping the ends of the scarf in either hand. Crowley cocked his head to the side in question.

“I'll have those kisses now!” and with a tug, he pulled Crowley to him by the scarf and took them.

Previous Prompt Ficlets:

Family / Hearth / Frosty / Ribbons / Wrapping / Cardinal / Coal / Unwrap / Blustery

[yn-dreamlife]

Sam Winchester x Reader

Summary: You’ve been blind since you where six years old but one day after something happens you can see again, now you can finally see the man who you love, but does he still love you?

Warnings: angst, Fluff

Characters: Sam Winchester x reader, Cas, Dean, Rowena, Crowley, Gabe, Bobby.

I open my eyes and I am met with the sight of darkness, of course this isn’t unusual due to my circumstance. I sit up and look over noticing I can’t see the beautiful blue that always radiates from him. “Sam?” I call out, I don’t hear him anywhere close by. I get up grabbing my cane and begin counting. I take one step away from the bed and turn to the left the proceed to take five more and I reach out feeling for the door handle but soon realize the door is open, ‘that’s odd Sam always closes the door.’ I thought to myself.

“Sam?” I call out again, I listen as I hear my own voice reverberate down the bunker hall, I can hear running water in the distance and realize someone’s in the shower. I quickly make my way there keeping an eye out for any familiar colors. I get to the shower room and knock as I open the door.

“Hello?” I look over and see a purple hue. “Ah hello Dean have you se-“

“Son of a bitch!” He shrieks I laugh placing my hands on my knees.

“I wish I could have seen your face!”

“Damnit y/n/n! Don’t do that! You scared the shit outta of me!” I continue laughing and he grumbles asking me what I want.

“Have you seen Sam?”

“Yeah in the library, now stop staring at me it freaks me out.” I felt a pang in my chest he might not of meant in a way that’s saying I’m a freak or anything but it’s how I took it, after a childhood of being called a foggy eyes freak i couldn’t help but believe it.

I turned around walking away and I heard the door shut and lock behind me. I walk to the library not needing to tap my cane on the ground since I knew the way. As I approached I could hear sam talking on the phone.

“Yeah I’ll be there soon, okay agh I love you!” He spoke happily.

Who could he have been talking to? He doesn’t say I love you to anyone except me dean and cas.

“You’re the best cherry!” Cherry? That’s not a name I’m familiar with. Sam wouldn’t cheat on me though.

“No no don’t worry y/n’s still asleep she won’t suspect a thing!”

I heard a females voice saying goodbye and she loved him and he hung up, I didn’t recognize that voice. I heard sams footsteps approaching and quickly backed myself up I hit a corner and quickly sunk down. He ether didn’t care or didn’t notice I felt tears well up in my eyes. And I quickly began walking to deans room. When I got there I knocked softly but there was no answer. I had already heard Sam leave the bunker the tears flowed more freely. I knocked louder again and just kept knocking until I was banging on the door. I sunk to my knees continuing to bang on the door.

I gave up with my hands and began hitting me head against it weakly. “Dean?!” I called I suddenly heard footsteps rushing towards me and I fell just as he got down next to me into his arms. “Dean.” I sobbed. He began rubbing his hands up and down my back trying to soothe me.

“What’s wrong y/n/n what’s happened?” I didn’t look towards him instead I stared at the ground.

“Does Sam- would Sam...” I trailed off. If I said it it would be that much more real.

“Sam... what?” Dean asked gently turning my head up to face him I would assume. But I ripped my head back down.

“Does Sam love me?!” I cried.

“Of course he loves you y/n! Look at me.”

“No, you don’t want my weird eyes on you! And no, Sam can’t love some weak blind girl like me!”

“Y/n what’s brought all this on?”

“Sam, he’s been distant lately, he’s not there when I wake up, he’s not there when I go to bed, he doesn’t show affection very much, and...” I trailed off.

“And? Y/n talk to me.”

“I heard him on the phone with a girl, he called her cherry and said he loved her. And he said how I was asleep and would suspect anything. He left a few minutes ago. He walked right past me and he didn’t even notice me Dean.”

“He... what?!” Dean shouted. I flinched and he quickly lowered his voice, “if I find out that he really is cheating I’ll freaking rip his lungs out.” He paused and tilted my head up again. “And y/n, your eyes are beautiful.”

“But you said that- that they freak you out!”

“Sweet heart I meant it freaks me out how you always seem to know where I am even when you can’t see, you make better eye contact the sighted people.”

“Well some people have colors... like you-your purple.”

“Really?” I could hear the smile.

“Yeah, Cas is like a black with sparkles of dark blue. And sam-“ dean cut me off

“We aren’t going to talk about him right now. No instead me and you are gonna go into the tv room cuddle and listen to music and talk, sound good?”

I nodded my head “thank you dean.” I said as I reached my hand out he lead it to his cheek and I placed my lips where my hand just was, it was common for me to kiss him on the cheek, after all these years he had taken up a brotherly role to me.

True to his word me and dean sat on the couch cuddling and talking about anything except Sam for hours, I honestly had forgotten about until I heard footsteps fast approaching. I tried to untangle myself from the blankets and from dean but before I could sam had came in.

“What are you doing with my girl dean?” He seethed. The anger coming off of him was rsditatimg from him. I wouldn’t look at him instead I looked at the floor, I knew if I saw the beautiful blue I would break.

“We’re not doing anything and besides I’m not your anything anymore sam, so just go back to your ‘cherry’ why don’t you!” I shouted at him.

“Baby what are you- oh! No y/n it’s not what you think!” He stepped forward but suddenly purple was blocking out all the blue.

“Get out.” I heard dean growl.

“Seriously?!”

“Get. Out.”

“Fine! But just you wait... you’ll see!” And with that he stomped away.

Time skip

It had been two weeks and I hadn’t heard a word from Sam, well at least I chose not to. He called a bunch and texted but I didn’t allow my phone to read them aloud to me. Maybe I was being to harsh maybe I should have heard him out btu now the damage was done. By now I had all my things packed and I was ready to go. I know Dean loves Sam and family comes first, so I was ready to walk to the nearest motel, I knew the way... well enough. As I left my room and began walking down the hall I couldn’t hear anything besides my own footsteps, as I got into the map room I hear a light flick on and suddenly I saw purple emerge from around the corner.

“Just where do you think you’re going?” I heard dean question me.

“What how did you-“

“Went to say goodnight and saw your bag packed in your room, i was hoping you’d change your mind but just in case I was here to stop you.”

“Dean you can’t stop me my mind is made up, I’m going, and you’re going to let your brother come back because you love him and family comes first.”

“Family don’t end in blood y/n” I smiled at the term.

“Bobby?” I saw the familiar yellow of my adoptive father appear.

“Damn right baby girl,” I heard his footsteps approaching and wrapped my arms around him tightly.

“I missed you dad.”

“Missed you too.”

“Don’t suppose you missed me too?” I heard a whisper behind me and suddenly whipped around there I saw the familiar blue that no matter how much I tried not to let it still sent butterfly’s to my stomach.

“S-sam? What are you-“

“I think we can explain dear.” I heard a familiar Scottish accent. Suddenly four new colors appeared.

Cas’ black with sparkles of dark blue, I saw a golden white that I knew to be Gabriel and a dark maroon that was Crowley as well as a familiar red for rowena.

“Okay what’s going on?”

“Do you trust us love?” Crowley spoke this time. I looked around at all the colors of people I considered family and nodded my head.

“Take samsquateches hands sweets.” Gabe spoke slowly guiding me to him.

“W-what?!”

“Trust us honey bee.” It was cas now who spoke.

“O-okay.” Gabe let me go and I held my hands out moving forward with my eyes closed, for some reason I wanted him to be the one to grab me. The same way he grabbed my hands to help me escape when we first met, this was me asking if he was still my Sammy.

“I’m here y/n I gotcha.” I could have sobbed at the sound, he knew. Those where the exact words he said to me that day and he knew that’s what I wanted to hear.I wrapped my arms around him tightly a tear slipping from my eye.

“Y/n, I have some explaining to do. I have was distant before because I dint want to get your hopes up or spoil the surprise. And ‘cherry’ is actually rowena. I call her cherry because one time dean put some bright red hair dye in her already naturally red hair and it came out as bright as a cherry, I said I love you to her and her to me because we where both so excited.”

“I’m sorry Sammy, I should have just- I was so stupid.” I went to grab my hair the way I had since I was six and first lost my sight but he stopped my hands before I could rip at my hair.

“No you where guarding yourself, the way you had to for such a long time. But can I show you what we’ve been working on?” I nodded my head and he put me an arms length away and grabbed my hands.

I watched as rowena Crowley Gabe and cas all moved around me. “Close your eyes everyone.” I heard rowena say.

“You too y/n” cas said chuckling I raised an eyebrow. Looking towards him.

“Seems kinda pointless me being blind and all but okay.” And with that I closed my eyes moving my head back towards sam. I heard them all speaking in a language I didn’t know and suddenly even though my eye where closed colors where bursting beneath my eye lids. Beautfiul blues purples and green. As well as vibrant yellows pinks and reds. And blindingly bright whites and every color between. I gasped and I felt Sam squeeze my hands.

But suddenly it all stopped and I was met with an unfamiliar color. It was brighter than the usual black I saw but it was still a shade of black. I felt sams hands cup my cheeks.

“Open your eyes princess.” He whispered and I realized he was crouched down to my height. As I did I was meant with a bright light and slowly I realized what was happening. Tears welled up in my eyes and my hands quickly went to cover them rubbing the heel of my palm into them brushing away the tears. I looked back up and I was meant with beautiful hazel eyes.

“Sam?” He nodded his head grinning at me. “Is this real?” I reached my hand out caressing his face. My fingers brushing over his cheek bones and over his nose moving to his silky brown hair that felt so soft.

He nodded as a tear slipped down his cheek. “It’s real, it’s real.”

Everything seemed to settle in my mind and I looked around, “I can see!” I felt my heart rate speed up in excitement. I quickly rapped my arms around sam pulling him into a kiss and I moved between everyone starting with Bobby and dean.

“Dad, you... god I always knew you’d have such a kind face!” I said more tears leaking from my eyes as well as his own which I’m sure he would deny. He had a beard and wore a baseball cap. I looked to Dean seeing his bright green eyes and the freckles that dusted his cheeks.

“And no wonder your so well liked with the lady’s there dean!” I teased grinning at Sam as he scoffed but the smile never left his face.

“Aw Cassie bear! I knew you where like a giant teddy bear! And I must say your color matches your wings perfectly!” It was true his wings where beautiful dark black with dark blue feathers sprinkled in. His eyes where also a bright blue and I saw the trench coat I had felt so many times as I hugged him. I went to Gabe next.

“Wow, your eyes are beautiful Gabey. And your wings are so magnificent they also match your color!” He smiled at me brightly.

And i next turned to rowena and Crowley “you two... wow, gotta say I’m surprised how well everyone’s colors matched them! Deans slightly confused me but I’m sure I’ll figure it out!” Everyone looked confused except for dean and Sam.

“I always saw colors, just hues it’s how I was able to look at you and see you, do you want to know your color? Well it’s not very nice to wonder such things, you shouldn’t even have asked.” I grinned at them and they all chuckled. I found my eyes falling back to Sam.

Everyone seemed to notice and found something to busy themselves with, he was so tall and his hair looked perfect on him. I knew it was long due to the numerous times I had run my hands threw it but I could never imagine it. His jaw line was so sharp, and his eyes where so bright.

I didn’t notice more tears slipping from my eyes until he gently brushed them away. “What’s wrong angel?”

“I wish this would last forever.” I whispered.

He smiled his eyes also watering as he moved so his eyes where level with my own. “sweet heart... it is.”

“R-really?!” He nodded. I flung my arms around his neck, “thank you Sammy... and I’m so sorry.”

“Baby I understand. Believe me, I would have been mad to. Didn’t you listen to the messages or the voicemails?” I blushed shaking my head.

“I- I knew I would have called you back and at the time I still thought you where with ‘cherry’” he smiled gently at me.

He sat me down and he read all the messages to me and we listened to the voicemails together. Some he was crying telling me he was going to fix it. Others he was excited about a breakthrough in the spell. Some where just long winded apologies and confessions of love but his last voice mail left me confused.

“And when you finally see my face I can ask you the question I’ve wanted to ask you since July 1 two years ago.” I closed my eyes as I tried to recall the day and I remembered we where at the beach I loved the way the sun felt on my skin and how vibrant there colors got while we where there.

“What where you talking abo-“ I cut myself off with a gasp as I turned to back to Sam opening his eyes. He was down on one knee and a ring box in his hand.

“Y/f/n, I have wanted to ask you this for over two years, the moment I saw that smile etched onto your lips I knew I wanted to be the one to keep it there, so me being me I began to research. I wanted to allow you to see the place you loved so much I wanted you to see the sky during the rain storms you love, I wanted you to see your father and your childhood home, and I wanted you to be able to see my face while I told you this. That was the day I set my mind to allowing you to see again, the surgery as a child didn’t work and I wasn’t going to allow you to go through that pain again, this solution had to be permanent, and pain free. So I got together with the smartest and most powerful people we know. So y/f/n, if you will do me the honor of being my wife I promise to take you to every place your heart has desired to see, I will teach you to read and write, I will teach you anything you wish, and most importantly I will be by your side until the end of time.”

I sat there shocked into silence. He had been working on this for two years and I almost left him over a misunderstanding. No scratch that I did, and yet he didn’t stop, and he still wants to Marry me. The tears continued to flow as I shook my head quickly, “yes!.... yes!” The grin on my face was so wide it almost hurt but I didn’t care because the second that ring slipped on my finger and his lips met mine I felt whole. And I knew he would live up to his promise.

[cannebady]

Prompt: Aziraphale and Crowley reading reviews for the bookshop

Thank you for the prompt @captainclickycat!

In hindsight, Crowley isn't sure why he set the blasted thing up to begin with. It was, more than likely (read: most definitely), the result of quite an extraordinary amount of alcohol, because all of his best (read: worst) ideas have always started that way and why would this one be any different?

This one, evidently, was him setting up an official Yelp account for A.Z. Fell & Co., Antiquarian and Unusual Books located singularly in one London, Soho. He's sure that it'd seemed like it'd be a laugh riot at the time, though he's not entirely sure why, and he's sure that his sloshed self had been perfectly positive that Aziraphale would never even find the page so honestly what did it matter?

What his sozzled brain hadn't counted on was that, for all of his long and storied existence, he'd been the architect of his own irritations and, like the best of cosmic jokes, it seems that he would continue to be for the rest of bloody eternity.

First of all, he'd truly never thought that Aziraphale would acquire, much less actually use, a mobile phone. But, here in the after of the world that shouldn't have been, it seems that stranger things have truly happened. Of course it didn't help that he'd kept suggesting that Aziraphale get one and then, had gone so far as to actually present the angel with one, fully loaded. He just hadn't counted on the angel taking the blasted thing with his bright, shiny, sea-foam eyes, to which Crowley had no functional defenses, and then take to using it like a fish to water.

The second thing, that came on the tails of learning to use his mobile, was that Aziraphale discovered that he could look up restaurants wherever they were and didn't have to count on Crowley to do so. Additionally, there were reviews he could look at that were just, "So helpful Crowley! Look at these humans, inventing something so useful. They always have been wonderfully creative." Each word was imbued with absolutely heinous amounts of love and good will and Crowley was really just the worst demon there ever was, because he was so damn charmed by Aziraphale being charmed that he didn't put two-and-two together before it stuck him upside the head like a two-by-four.

---

"Crowley", Aziraphale whispered intently while Crowley was quite comfortably napping on the back room sofa.

Crowley tried to ignore it, he really did. He was so wonderfully comfortable and it really would be a shame to wake up. However, it's been established that he has fuck-all in terms of ability to deny Aziraphale anything, so of course he took the bait.

"Yes angel?", he replied, trying to infuse demonic levels of annoyance of nonchalance (read: sleepy, part-yawn, part-soft demon noises) into his tone.

"There are reviews, for the bookshop, on the Yelp!"

It takes Crowley a minute to catch up, because he's still not used to Aziraphale having internet access or knowing what something like Yelp is. He's about to wonder aloud what customer would actually be satisfied enough with Aziraphale's customer service skills to go so far as to write a review about it, before he realizes that he's the one who set up the account in the first place and promptly forgot.

"Wha, erm, what're they saying angel?" he asks, just a bit concerned that this might all be traced back to him.

Aziraphale scrolls down to the first review and Crowley comes up to read over his shoulder.

Marci S.

Soho, London, United Kingdom

2 Stars - 25/1/2020

"I've lived in Soho for years and finally decided to go in. The shop is in complete disarray, but the selection is great. I was satisfied until I actually tried to buy a book. The shopkeeper was icy, difficult, and downright combative. I left empty-handed. Not worth it."

Crowley cringes for a second, before Aziraphale huffs.

"Well, honestly, what did she expect? Hefting a first edition Austen around like that. Am I supposed to sell that to just anyone?" And Crowley wishes he wasn't so fucking impressed by Aziraphale's lack of propriety in these situations, but here he is, smiling like a loon.

"Oh, well of course. Why would she think she could buy a book in a book shop?" He gives a patented shit-eating grin which Aziraphale returns with an eye roll so well rehearsed it'd put Liz Lemon to shame.

"What else, angel?" Crowley asks because he's a glutton for punishment and he just loves that he still gets to rile Aziraphale up. That there's still a world where he can.

"Well, ah, here's another one." Aziraphale scrolls and lands on the next review which is, somehow worse.

Peter W.

Covent Garden, London, United Kingdom

1 Star - 22/12/2019

"Ponce of a shop owner wouldn't let me look at any of the rarer books. Been looking for a first edition Wilde for my son but the pansy wouldn't even let me near, real bastard he was."

Crowley can't help himself. Aziraphale is radiating righteous anger and looking more indignant by the second and it's just too good. Crowley's practical jokes never work out this well and he didn't even need to manufacture the reviews! A.Z. Fell & Co. has a 1.7 rating overall and he knows, he just knows, that every single one of those reviews are 100% honest.

Horribly, once he starts laughing, he can't quite stop. It takes the angel a second to realize that Crowley's breathy sounds aren't commiserating sounds of support but are rather poorly held back guffaws and he pulls out his best thin lipped glare and that's it, that's the end of Crowley's self control. He starts laughing in earnest, nearly bent over at the waist and feeling tears line his eyes, when he hears a truly irritated squawk leave Aziraphale's mouth.

He tries to speak through his bouts of laughter, "Oh, hah, angel, you-," he breaks off again, "you really are a bastard though." To which he receives a thunderous look, laced with millennia of angelic righteousness, a scathing, “Do shut up”, and a fussy turn that would've been a hair flip had Aziraphale had the hair to do so.

Aziraphale is manically scrolling before he stops and the air changes. If Crowley had been less filled with mirth, or had been less self-confident, he would've felt the change in tension. He would've realized that the specific change meant that Aziraphale had found exactly what he needed and that he was about to hand Crowley's arse to him for the 99 millionth time in their very long lives. But, as it was, Crowley was feeling far too chuffed for anything so fleeting as self-awareness.

When he finally looks back to the angel, planning a bit more gloating, he sees a carefully serene, calm smile reaching back, and his blood runs ice cold. This can't possibly be good.

"Well, how about this one, then?", he says and gestures for Crowley to read what's on the screen.

Naya L.

Lambeth, London, United Kingdom

4 Stars - 13/10/2019

"Mr. Fell is actually quite nice, if a bit fussy once you get to know him. He really knows his stuff. He let me use some of his original texts for my thesis. A bit odd, though, every time I went to do a bit more work or look at a new text, there was a man completely asleep, snoring, on the sofa. Weird look about him, sunglasses while indoors (even while sleeping?) and lots of black leather, definitely dyes his hair red. Looked a bit like a washed up rock star. Maybe a friend of Mr. Fell's? Either way, the selection is fantastic even if it smells a bit odd and seems a bit dingy."

Crowley's not laughing now. It takes a moment for him to register that the "indignant squawk" he heard was actually from his own mouth rather than the angel's.

"How dare she-, a washed up-, these are Valentino!"  He yells gesturing wildly towards his own face and the sunglasses that aren’t actually there at the moment, creating more of a chaotic flapping than any recognizable gesture. And now it's the angel's turn to stifle a giggle behind a well-manicured hand. "And I do not dye my hair! It's just like this! I'm a demon, remember?"

At this, Aziraphale starts making a sound that Crowley will respectfully refer to as cackling.  Of course, this was going just too well. And he clearly needed to stop kipping on the sofa as often as he did or it'd do awful things to his carefully crafted reputation.

"Oh, my dear, that's just divine” the angel says wiping an ancient handkerchief primly under his eyes. Crowley wants to be annoyed, and he is to some extent (he'll find bloody Naya L. and give her a piece of his mind, he will), but Aziraphale is just so happy and he's a true sucker for that laugh and that smile.

"M'not washed up, m'just retired."  Through the haze of exasperation, he realizes, perhaps for the first time, that he really is. Retired, a retired demon. That’s what he is. Aziraphale seems to realize it too, because his smile morphs from snide and down right bastardly to warm so quickly it gives Crowley emotional whiplash.

"Yes, I suppose we are, dear." The angel puts down the phone and herds Crowley toward the sofa where they can get comfortable; Aziraphale seated on the far end and Crowley's head comfortably pillowed in his lap, angelic fingers carding through his (definitely, absolutely not, dyed) hair.

Were either of them to look at Aziraphale's phone screen, they'd see the review just below Naya L., which read simply:

Damian R.

Soho, London, United Kingdom

5 Stars - 10/10/2019

"Can’t remember why I went in there in the first place but there was a huge snake. Just a real big snake, all black and red and gigantic. Just sitting in the bookshop, not sure why. Nice lookin snake overall tho. Would probably go back." 

[freyjawriter24]

Snek Boi

(working title - suggestions welcome!)

My entry for the Great Good Omens Snake-Off!

You could spot Crowley in a crowd from a mile away. It wasn’t the bright hair that did it – although that had been a major contributor in earlier times, before the humans had figured out how to create a rainbow of hair dyes – nor was it the ever-present pair of dark glasses on his face – although that did stand out occasionally, depending on the light levels. No, it was the way he moved.

Crowley had the body of someone who used to be a snake, and whose corporation had never quite forgotten it. His spine would bend at odd angles, his hips would sway in a way that almost defied physics, and his legs looked like they’d never quite learned how to walk properly. Six thousand years of living in human form, and Crowley still looked more like a snake when he moved than the tattoo on his face did.

Except, it wasn’t quite six thousand years. Not consistently.

Because when Eden was razed and all celestial beings – angels fallen and not – lost the ability to show their wings on Earth, Crowley kept his snake form. He was still able to transform at will, become the thing forced on him by his rapid descent from Heaven, and use it to curl up tight in on himself or slither away through tiny gaps. It was a defence mechanism of sorts, he supposed, and he hated it.

No, that wasn’t fair. He didn’t hate being a snake – he rather enjoyed it, most of the time. He liked the feeling of the warm sun on his scales, and often took to napping like that when he knew no one would see him. He liked the sensation of the ground against his belly, of the smoothness in the way he could move around like that. He liked the shapes he could make in that form, looping himself into a ball or draping himself artfully across branches or furniture. What he didn’t like was what it represented.

The thing about Falling was that it changed you, in ways too numerous and too horrifying to think about all at once. One of the things it changed was vulnerabilities – no longer was immortality certain for eternity, but now it could be ended by no more than a drop of holy water. The demons, of course, had found a counter for that. They could not solve it, and did not have the imagination to make anything new, but when they finally hit the surface of the new place they called Hell, they found the fire there particularly effective at the opposite destruction. All the immortals became mortal when half of them Fell, that was the strange thing.

But another thing Falling did was change your being at a fundamental level. Whereas the celestials Upstairs had their bodies decorated with marks of their angelic nature – gold leaf or silver, soft or bright colours, in freckles or marble cracks or across joints or on keratin – the creatures Downstairs were given a very different aesthetic. Brightly-coloured hair shrivelled and took on a strange new shape. Silvered teeth became sharp and surprisingly difficult to speak through. Dappled gold on cheeks swelled and became sticky, uncomfortable, and alive. Swirls of multi-coloured angelic beauty shrank and condensed and drained to be dark as Hell.

Most demons had an animal they were closely associated with. All demons who had Fallen did, at least – some of the creatures in the celestial basement were never angels in the first place, but that’s a different story altogether. Most of these animals were considered scary or dirty or strange by the first humans – though whether the associations came about because of some knowledge of demons, or whether they were chosen for demons because of the known future associations, God only knows. Flies, toads, moths, scorpions – all manner of insects, arachnids, reptiles, and amphibians. Birds and mammals were rarely on the list, presumably because of their proximity to humanity in terms of empathy, but there were a few exceptions. And, of course, snakes.

Crowley’s snake form was a reminder of everything he’d lost in the Fall. Everything he’d become (through what he still wasn’t convinced was entirely deserved means), and everything he would never be able to stop being.

He hated that this source of comfort, this respite from the angled gangliness of his human corporation, was also such a firm pointer towards his Fallen nature. He hated that even his human aesthetic was bound to it, the snake in him peering through his slashed yellow eyes, showing itself through his scattering of black scales, making itself heard through verbal tics he couldn’t quite eradicate. He hated the shame that came with his looks, the fear humans felt when they saw his eyes, the disgust they showed when they caught a glimpse of the reptilian parts of his skin.

Most of all, he hated what Aziraphale must think of him for all this.

The angel had made his thoughts quite clear on Crowley’s appearance way back in the early days. They’d been stood before three crosses, wincing at the sounds of pain, and the demon had just dared to say that the demonic name the angel had first been told was not the one that fitted right.

“Well, you were a snake.” Perhaps Aziraphale hadn’t meant to put so much derision into the word, but it sounded harsh and heavy to Crowley, and it bounced around his skull decades, centuries, millennia later while he was trying to sleep. There were certain words and phrases that often did, and he could do nothing to stop them, even if he dared try to use logic to scare them away.

Of course, everything came to a head with Armageddon. Now there were far worse things than snake flying around his mind – things involving fire, lots of fire, and an empty, horrifying sense of not-here-ness, of intense, deep loss.

The dreams kept him up at night, occasionally, but were soothed by the calming presence of the angel next to him. Aziraphale would stroke his hair, hold him, whisper gentle things in his ear until the stupid, unnecessary blood stopped pumping at rocket speed through his veins and he remembered how to make this body breathe. He was always there when he needed him, usually sat up reading by the moonlight that would have been too weak for human eyes.

He was always there, always comforting, always safe. And yet he hated Crowley’s demonic snake-iness just as much as the demon himself did.

That was why he hid it.

He didn’t mean to, not really. It wasn’t out of anything malicious or duplicitous. It was more shame, really, than anything else. But it was more that it didn’t ever come up. If by some strange coincidence Crowley would have been able to get them out of a tight spot by turning into a snake, he would have done – with much apology and self-deprecation, of course, but he would have done it. But it hadn’t ever come up, and it never seemed like a good time to mention something so disgraceful, so he hadn’t.

Which was why the demon had never changed form in Aziraphale’s presence, or anywhere that he thought the angel might walk in on him. It was only ever at the Mayfair flat, or out in the desert, back in the day, or when he knew for sure Aziraphale was on another continent. Never in the Bentley, though that would have been nice. Never outside in London, which would cause too much attention anyway. And never, never in the bookshop.

Well. Almost never.

Crowley wasn’t quite sure of the sequence of thoughts that led him to such a reckless action. But it was cool outside, the sort of not-quite-cold freshness that made his skin crawl, and it was warm in the bookshop, specifically in a patch of sunlight magnified by the domed skylight.

Aziraphale had gone out, looking for something specific at the British Library, and he’d promised he’d be back in time for dinner, but what with the time of year and the angel’s tendency to get distracted by books and history, not to mention both of those things together, Crowley knew it’d be dark before he got home. By which time any warmth would have gone from the snake’s scales, and he would have woken up, shaken away the grogginess, and had time to remember how to both look and behave like a functional human being again. So it was relatively risk-free. Or so he thought.

(Perhaps somewhere in there had been a deeply-hidden, long-buried desire for Aziraphale to know the truth. Perhaps the recklessness was a subconscious plea to be known. Or perhaps there was some higher divine nudging in there, just for the drama of it.)

The angel had left, and the demon had locked the door and shut the blinds behind him, and then he’d transformed in the bookshop for the very first time, and enjoyed the sensation of the flooring under his belly, and revelled in the joy of not having to deal with limbs anymore, and moved over to the warm patch of ground and curled up and went to sleep.

The tinkle of the shop bell was what first disturbed his deep slumber, but what actually woke him was the shocked gasp the angel let out when he saw him.

Crowley started up out of his nap in shock, hissing involuntarily, and transformed back into his human corporation instantly. He grabbed wildly at the sunglasses that he’d left casually on a nearby shelf, and shoved them on as quickly and firmly as he could.

“Azsss... Angel, I...”

The demon was shaking, actually shaking, and he didn’t know what to do. He wanted to run, wanted to bolt out the door and never come back, wanted to get in the Bentley and drive off to Alpha Centauri on his own after all, wanted to burrow into Aziraphale’s arms and never come out. But, well. That was the problem, wasn’t it?

“Crowley.”

His voice was far too soft, far too full of fondness and affection and... and love.

The angel took a cautious step or two forward, eyes shining. Crowley felt trapped – not by Aziraphale, who had now paused a few metres away, careful not to overcrowd him, but by the situation, by whatever physical or metaphysical reason that enabled him to shift between his two forms. Whatever that was, was trapping him. Trapping him in his demon-ness: unquestionably Fallen, inescapably different from Aziraphale. And now the angel knew.

He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. Tried to tell himself he could accept Aziraphale’s pity, the I still love you that was sure to come. After all, it was the ‘love’ part that mattered, right? Not the pitying way he would look at him, not the sadness hidden behind those declarations of loyalty, not the ‘despite your flaws’ the whole thing would entail.

Because that was the problem, really. He knew the angel would hate that part of him just as certainly as Crowley himself hated it. Except Crowley didn’t only hate it, because sometimes feelings and emotions just don’t make sense, and he loved being a snake, even if he hated the reasons behind it. Which is why he couldn’t bear to think of Aziraphale’s pitying reaction.

And now the angel knew. And Crowley was about to feel that searing pity first-hand.

“Why didn’t you tell me you can still transform?”

“I, err, um, well,” Crowley blustered, struggling to figure out what to say. “I just, well it never really came up, and I, uh, it never seemed like a good time, I –”

He stopped, and took a breath, focusing hard on a spot on the floor to the right of Aziraphale. He’d never been particularly good with words, but he knew the importance of them. He didn’t know how to get everything he wanted to say across right now, but he knew it was important not to say the wrong thing. He didn’t want the angel crying on him or anything. So he settled on silence, for the time being.

His eyes darted up to look at Aziraphale.

The angel smiled, slightly sadly, and Crowley could feel something tightening around his heart at the pity he knew was coming. He set his mouth in a tight line, bracing himself for impact, and thanked Somebody that he’d had the sense to keep his glasses nearby to hide behind now.

“No, I suppose there is no perfect time to say something like that.”

Crowley nodded slightly, trying to stop his hands from clenching into fists. He watched Aziraphale from behind the dark lenses in much the same way a cornered mouse must watch a pampered housecat, uncertain if the predator will act on its deep-buried instincts.

“I’m glad.”

Crowley’s head jerked up at that, narrowing his eyes at the angel.

“Not that you didn’t say anything, I mean,” the angel clarified. “Just that you have that... outlet. It must be quite freeing, I should think. Like being able to stretch your wings...”

It was a similar sensation, Crowley thought, but not exactly the same. For him, at least, getting his wings out felt like unbinding something that had been pulled taught and held too tightly in place – it was a relief, an ached-after pleasure. Taking on his snake form was, if anything, more of a comfort than a release – he didn’t itch for it in the same way he itched to stretch his cooped-up extra limbs – but the feeling of being in one’s natural state, of feeling calm and content and complete was certainly the same. Often, in fact, the only way he was able to cure any aching for his wings to be free, like they had in Eden, was to become that other form he had been in the Garden; the tight feeling at his back never followed him as a snake. He didn’t like to imagine how uncomfortable it must be for Aziraphale, who had no secondary release like that.

The angel took another half-step forward and smiled again, his eyes searching the black lenses for a hint of the yellow eyes beneath. Then he opened his mouth and continued the thought.

“And I’m glad that you didn’t lose that part of yourself.”

He couldn’t take it. Crowley made some strange, involuntary noise in his throat, then turned and strode away a few paces, crossing his arms defensively and refusing to look back at Aziraphale.

“Crowley?”

He didn’t turn. He’d thought for a moment that he could manage this, but it was too much. He’d never been that great at understanding or dealing with emotions anyway – it had taken him a few thousand years to realise how much he loved Aziraphale, after all – but now it was all too much, too difficult to comprehend, and he could feel himself shutting down. He just wanted it to stop, everything to freeze, for Aziraphale to just forget the conversation and invite him out for a quick bite to eat, not keep talking and get closer and closer to saying something Crowley was going to wish he had never heard.

“Crowley, my dear, I’m sorry if... I’m sorry that this is a sensitive subject for you. I just – I want you to know you don’t have to hide yourself from me, okay? You don’t have to curl up somewhere you don’t think I’ll find you just so you can transform. I really... I really don’t mind.”

And there it was. I don’t mind. He was trying, oh, he was really trying, but it was still there, still seeping through the cracks. Pity, in all its angelic glory. Crowley had to bite his tongue to stop himself from snapping, but he couldn’t help the hiss-like growl that escaped his lips.

He silently cursed that, too. He hated how betraying even this version of his body was – the hissing, the sibilance that surfaced when he was stressed, the scattering of scales that still grazed his skin, his goddamned slitted eyes. Everything about him that wasn’t blatantly human was blatantly snake, and that was the root of the problem – any sign he wasn’t human was a sign he was a demon, and every one of those could be traced back to the form he could still, for some unfathomable reason, take.

Crowley couldn’t see Aziraphale, but he could tell the angel had noticed his reaction. He felt the ethereal being step closer again. “I mean it my dear, I really do.”

“Angel...” Crowley turned around now, unable to stop himself. His arms remained tight against his torso, still fending off Aziraphale’s words, his endless pity. “You don’t have to.”

The angel frowned. “I don’t have to what?”

Crowley sighed, frustrated. He was going to make him say it, wasn’t he? He floundered for a moment, no words coming out of his moving mouth, and then he sighed again. No escaping it. Just bite the bullet.

“Pretend, for my sake,” he said, and turned sideways so he wasn’t presented with the full force of whatever Aziraphale’s reaction would be. “You don’t have to see me if you don’t want to, I’ll make sure you’re away, I’ll hide, I – I mean, I didn’t expect you to see me this time, but I’ll be more careful, I’ll –”

He was stopped by a hand on his arm, stilling him into silence. Aziraphale had stepped right up to him, now, and was using the point of contact to turn Crowley to face him. They were almost chest-to-chest.

“May I?”

Aziraphale had taken his hand off the demon’s arm and now had both of his own raised slightly, gesturing. Crowley hesitated, then nodded. He’d never been able to deny his angel anything.

The glasses were lifted off delicately and placed down neatly on the nearest available surface. Blue eyes met sulphur ones, and the former smiled gently.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” Aziraphale said, slowly, deliberately. “I don’t want you to hide from me.”

A short, consonant-heavy sound rose up, unbidden, in Crowley’s throat.

The angel took a deep breath, then ploughed on, never wavering in his eye contact with the demon before him.

“I love you, Crowley. I love every part of you. And I don’t want you to hide any of it from me, not anymore. Our own side, you said. And together, you said. I want us to be together, wholly together, without shame, without secrets, without fear. And I know a lot of that has been my fault, that we haven’t been able to do it sooner, but now that that’s done with, now that I’m here... I don’t want there to be anything else stopping us. I don’t want you to feel like we can’t... like you... like I’m...”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to flounder, uncertain of how to express what he wanted to say.

Crowley shook his head, unable to make the words come. Please, angel. Stop. It’s okay, I can take it. I’ve been dealing with this for a while, you don’t need to lie to me. Just stop. I’ll go, I’ll hide, it’s okay.

The demon’s eyes flicked to the safety of the dark lenses, put down just out of easy reach. Aziraphale followed his gaze, and his face crumpled slightly when he realised what Crowley was looking at.

“Oh, my dearest. Please, I don’t want you to feel like that. You shouldn’t have to wear those when it’s just us. Please. I love you, Crowley. Please let me see your eyes.”

The demon had shut them tight as the angel spoke, and now he found that he didn’t want to open them again. He shuddered slightly, trying his hardest to hold back tears.

“But you hate them,” he managed, and was thankful that it sounded more like a whisper than a sob.

There was silence for a moment, and Crowley would have thought that the angel had vanished if he couldn’t feel his proximity. Aziraphale didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t breathe for several seconds.

Then he said, in a voice somehow both soft and hard at the same time, “What?”

Crowley shook his head, eyes still tight shut, refusing to believe even for an instant that the angel could harbour anything other than revulsion at any reminder that he was a demon.

“I’ve seen the way you react to them. Always have.” His voice was small, pathetic, but right now he didn’t care. “It’s like you forget they’re there. And then I take off my sunglasses and you...” Crowley shuddered, and this time it definitely was a sob. “You hate them.”

“Please, my darling, please look at me. That’s not true, not even for a second. Please, please just open your eyes.”

It took him a moment to summon the willpower, the bravery, to do so. But then he did, and realised the angel was close to crying, too.

Aziraphale opened his mouth, his face the picture of honesty and earnestness. He stared into Crowley’s eyes as he spoke, gaze flicking between the golden irises, now helplessly expanded to block out any humanising whites. His own pale blue eyes were flooded with love, and the words were almost secondary to the depth of meaning that one look offered.

“Your eyes are the most beautiful thing about you. How could you ever think that I would hate them?”

Crowley’s mind stopped working.

He became incapable of speech for a solid five minutes, but Aziraphale let him work it out, let him garble nonsense syllables, let him hover between belief and terror, let him slowly, slowly get his brain back in order. The whole time, the angel stood there, so close, ready to fold Crowley into his arms at a second’s notice. The whole time, he watched his beloved demon’s face, gazing at the eyes, lingering on the tattoo, and never once flinching at the unbidden elongated sibilants that escaped the occult being’s forked tongue.

“You...” Crowley whispered finally. “You like them?”

“Of course I do, my dearest. I love them. They’re gorgeous. How on Earth could I hate them?”

His voice betrayed no hint of a lie or an exaggeration. His soft face was kindly but honest, not pitying. He was... Crowley hardly dared believe it. Could he be... telling the truth?

“Because they’re snake eyes,” he said, hoping that was enough explanation. “’M a demon. ’S a reminder.”

Aziraphale shook his head slowly. “Darling, the first thing I knew about you was that you were a snake. That’s how I first saw you. That’s how we met. How could I ever hate something that makes you who you are?”

Crowley stared at him for another few seconds. Then all his resolve crumbled, and he practically fell into the angel’s strong, reliable arms, and allowed himself to be held, tight and safe, and basking in the glow of angelic love.

At some point, they ended up on the sofa, wrapped around one another, Crowley allowing all the pent-up fear and shame to tumble out of him in shaking gasps and tears. Aziraphale wiped his cheeks and played with his hair, holding him and soothing him until he’d let it all out.

At some point, Crowley sat up, and tried for a smile, and Aziraphale leant forwards and kissed him on both eyelids, and told him he was beautiful.

At some point, perhaps a long time later, an angel and a demon sat on that same sofa together. The angel was reading in the fading daylight, and the demon was coiled around him in the form of a large black snake. They were happy and comfortable together, and the sunglasses lay long-forgotten on a table by the door to the outside world.

And at that point, they were happy.

[thelastranger]

Au where Ferris kills Halt, Caitlyn becomes a ranger, and Sean can see ghosts

This is my take on it, but @rangerpippin had a SPECTACULAR take on the idea in the discord so check that out if you haven't already

(It sounds angsty but it is wholesome, I promise)

Au where Ferris manages to kill Halt in the river, but Halt comes back as a ghost and haunts Ferris. Ferris is the only one who can see and hear Halt (that they know of). Halt can't interact with the world but he can talk and float around. He really wishes he could move things, but he'll work with what he's got.

In this universe, Caitlyn fears for her life and flees to Araluen with the help of her boyfriend, Michael. She and Michael meet Crowley and the three of them hit it off instantly. Caitlyn and Pauline become best friends. Caitlyn at first feels bittersweet about being friends with Crowley because he's exactly the type of person who Halt would get along famously with.

Ferris never tried to kill Caitlyn but she felt threatened by him and she couldn't stand to be in the palace with him.

While Caitlyn didn't do as much training as her brothers in the royal court yard, she was expertly trained in archery and had more freedom to sneak around in the woods. Ferris and Halt were trained in swordplay.

As she and Michael are fleeing, they meet Pritchard who helps them across the ocean and teaches Caitlyn everything she needs to know. Michael watches in awe and practices his sword fighting. He hopes that someone will hire him as a knight in Araluen. What he doesn't know is that he will become one of the most respected knights in Araluen and help teach the next generation of knights, including a young ward from Redmont.

Ferris killed Halt before he could start training with Pritchard. A month and a half later, Caitlyn leaves. Ferris doesn't send out large search parties to find her but Halt searches tirelessly, trying to find Caitlyn or even a hint of where she went. This is hindered by the fact he can't really go to many places.

Ghost powers develop slowly and they gain more powers over time. So Halt is initially only able to be around Ferris, but as the years go by he can move throughout the castle, Dun Kilty, Clonmel, and Hibernia. It’s only after a decade that Halt tries to cross the ocean to Araluen.

Halt doesn't appear as a ghost immediately. He spends a few days in the dark and sees some visions, the best including a red headed man laughing with a stunning blonde woman, his friend Michael with the red haired man and someone who looked like... Caitlyn shooting arrows against horrible bear monsters. He’s not sure what to make of these scenes. More importantly, Halt meets a kindly old man before Halt realizes he's a ghost. Halt thinks that he is still alive. They chat and Halt is comforted. As they part, the man expresses his regret that he never got to teach Halt. At this moment Halt realizes that he didn't ask the man his name and the man smiles in a bittersweet way and says "Pritchard." Pritchard isn't a ghost but he's always been able to seem certain ghosts and sort of guide them. Halt realizes that he is a ghost and decides to haunt Ferris.

Ghost Halt generally bugs Ferris and drags him all while commenting on his murderous tendencies and how he doesn't have anyone to support him in the family. Ferris gets so upset during meetings but sometimes Halt genuinely has good ideas so Ferris starts to begrudgingly listen to Halt occasionally. Halt also tries to pull a bunch of prank but it stinks that he can't move anything.

Halt finds it darkly funny that Ferris killed him to become king but Halt is still making decisions.

Eventually the brothers get fed up with each other and they have a screaming match that dissolves into an actual conversation. This is the first real conversation the brothers have had without copious amounts of insults. Ferris deeply regrets his actions and Halt kind of forgives him. To a certain extent though. His brother did kill him after all.

Some people low key think Ferris is crazy after this because he sometimes would be caught talking to the air. Halt finds it hilarious.

Early on in his rule, there was an attempt to get Ferris off the throne. Halt finds out about it and tells Ferris who stops it. When Ferris asks why Halt stopped it, Halt goes "You're the only person who talks to me dummy. And despite the fact that you murdered me, I don't mind it." It may be short and brusque but it's the nicest thing someone's told Ferris in a while and it marks a real turning point in the brothers relationship.

Years go by and Halt still can't interact with anyone besides Ferris and he's never tried to leave the general bounds of Clonmel. Caitlyn never contacts Ferris and both brothers want to know where she is because they are curious and Ferris wants to apologize to her and Michael. They have no idea they have a nephew.

Halt leaves Clonmel for the first time and drifts across the ocean much faster than he expected. Something is drawing him to Araluen. He lands in a part of Araluen, about a few days ride from Redmont, where Crowley just happens to be visiting. Halt recognizes Crowley as the red headed man from his visions. He also feels a connection to the man. He follows Crowley and eventually ends up finding Caitlyn and her family. Caitlyn and Michael can't see him but it seems like Caitlyn's son, Sean, can. Halt is shocked to find out that he has a nephew and saddened that he will never get to meet him. But Sean can see him.

Ghost Halt visits when Sean is 8 and Sean sees a man who kind of looks like his mother in the cabin and he figures that the man is there for the fabled ranger Caitlyn. Caitlyn isn't home right now and Michael is in the house and the man seems kind of overwhelmed with emotion. The strange man doesn't wait for Sean's mama but instead tells Sean to tell his mom to visit her brother in Clonmel. There were things that needed to be said. Halt sees Caitlyn coming back to the house, laughing with Gilan, and knows he has to leave before Sean asks why he isn’t talking to his mother. Halt bids Sean goodbye and floats away when he isn’t looking. Watching from a tree, Halt sees his sister and misses her deeply.

Sean tells Caitlyn this and she is shocked. She hasn't told anyone that she had a brother. Michael knows and that's it. Sean didn't even know he had an uncle. She's suspicious and even more so when Sean says the man kind of looked like her. Caitlyn thinks Ferris is tracking her down and she has no intention of talking to him ever again. She warns Sean not to talk to strangers and tries to put the incident behind her.

Ferris and Halt are disappointed when Caitlyn doesn't come to Clonmel and so a year or two later, Halt goes back to visit.

Sean is feeling conflicted about the new apprentice because Will is cool but he also spends a lot of time with their family and Sean isn't sure if he likes that or not. Halt talks to him about it and Sean feels better.

Ferris and Halt really want Caitlyn to visit them and to bring Sean so Ferris tries to subtly get Araluen to send a ranger or a knight with diplomatic ties to Clonmel. He hopes that Caitlyn wouldn't disobey a royal order. He greatly misjudged Caitlyn's character.

It's the first, but not the last, time Caitlyn has a shouting match with King Duncan. He knows she is from Hibernia but she refuses to go back. In the end, after much fighting and compromises, Michael ends up going back. Caitlyn has a lot of conditions like he has to grow a beard and dye his hair and play up his Araluen accent. He honestly looks ridiculous. She's pretty sure that Ferris wouldn't remember her boyfriend from over a decade ago. And normally, she would be right. But thanks to Halt, Ferris knows who Michael is.

Ferris really wants to befriend Michael enough to get him to bring Sean and Caitlyn over or possibly slip Michael a note to take to Caitlyn, but Halt cautions against it.

Ferris gives Michael a note anyway and Caitlyn finds it. She sees that it's from Ferris and she is about to burn it when she sees a phrase that Halt only said to her. Ferris had no idea what it was. This gives her pause but not enough that she doesn't burn the note.

Ferris and Halt keep trying for several more years. Halt at this point has slightly grown into his ghostly powers or whatever they really are and can move certain objects like an inch at a time. Halt also keeps visiting Sean who has grown into a fine young man who is very interested in the diplomatic arts much to the chagrin of his mother and father. They support him anyway. Plus, he has his father's last name so there's that added protection. He seems like any other Araluen citizens except for there's a twinge of Hibernian in his words.

All four of them ride into Dun Kilty and Sean presents his diplomatic papers and Caitlyn is emanating anger. They go to the throne room and find it devoid of people except for King Ferris. He looks at them and smiles... until Caitlyn comes up and give him a punch to the face. She's tired of hiding and all the constant attempts at futile contact. She wants peace and for Ferris to stop being such an idiot. She honestly hadn't expected him to last so long in power.

Ferris accepts the punch, a bit confused because he assumed that Caitlyn was ready to talk. She really isn't and he starts babbling about how he was so sorry and how he has changed and how Halt had forgiven him until he realizes that there are other people in the room and that Caitlyn is so confused.

Ferris clears his throat and asks if they could clear the room. Caitlyn refuses and says something like so you can kill me without any witnesses? Ferris winces but he kinda deserved that one. "Whatever you have to say can be said to these men as well. By the way, Sean is your nephew you scumbag." Caitlyn figured that Ferris would be a little more shocked but he seems to take it in stride.

Sean, by the way, is freaking out because the mysterious man who visited frequently over the years who called himself Arratay is right there on the throne (Halt isn't in the room yet) but King Ferris, who is apparently his uncle, could not have been the man.

Ferris starts to tell everyone about how Halt is a ghost and Caitlyn scoffs and tries to leave until the door to the throne room opens an inch and Sean sees his old friend walk in, looking exactly like King Ferris. The door scares everyone, but Caitlyn is not convinced. She thinks it's a trick.

Ferris explains the best he can and Sean to the surprise of everyone also jumps in with an explanation. Caitlyn is still skeptical until Halt pushes a piece of paper to Sean and tells him to write down what he says. Halt tells Caitlyn everything that happened and tells her the last words they ever spoke to each other, something Sean would never know.

Caitlyn bursts into tears and scans the room. She swears she can feel Halt when he goes to hug her. Ferris apologizes for killing Halt and forcing her away and she forgives him (but fully reserves the right to roast him mercilessly)

Will and Horace are flabbergasted that there was so much drama with the O'Carrick family and the fact that Sean and apparently Ferris can see ghosts.

Ferris can really only see Halt and for that he is grateful. He doesn't think he could deal with more than one ghost haunting him and roasting him over his fashion choices. That's one of the few things he and Halt don't agree on. Sean, on the other hand, is different. Sean can see Halt clearly and can sometimes see other ghosts fairly clearly but he doesn't know that they are ghosts and often they don't either.

Caitlyn does fall sick with turberculosis several years before meeting up with Ferris for the first time in decades and it almost kills her. Luckily, thanks to the work of Malcolm and several other healers, she was able to pull through. Michael is still hyper concerned whenever she gets so as much as a cold.

Caitlyn in this universe is fiercely protective of herself and her family. She would like to leave almost every part of her past behind except for when she tells Sean about the beauty of Hibernia and his smile lights up his face. Unlike Halt, Caitlyn never snuck into Clonmel to check up on things. She wants to put everything about Hibernia (except for Halt) in a tiny portion of her brain where she never has to think about Ferris again. Caitlyn is very blunt and tells things like it is. She suffers no fools and has a bit of a temper. Almost too competent.

Michael is the milder of the pair. Which, compared to Caitlyn, is not saying much. Despite this, Michael is normally a very mild mannered man who is down for an adventure at any time just as much as he is willing to stay home and rest. Close friends with Sir Rodney and Baron Arald, Michael is first a very willing student at Battleschool and then an enthusiastic teacher. Super devoted to Caitlyn. He is surprisingly petty, but will deny it to his last breath. If Ferris gets a lot of mail that just so happens to insult him in lots of different languages, well, Michael has no idea about that. (His apprentices at battle school are more than willing to write down the worst insults they know in all their languages for their kind instructor)

For the first year or so, Ferris is a horrible king and person. He starts to feel very guilty for killing Halt and for driving Caitlyn away. Halt’s constant comments on these topics help drive these feelings and Ferris changes. He isn’t well loved but people agree that there have been worse kings than him and he does a fair job all things considered. By the time Caitlyn comes back to Clonmel, it’s been twenty five years and he’s been trying to get in touch with her for seventeen years. Ferris just wants reconciliation with his sister and to give Halt some closure. Ferris steadily ignored Halt for the first month since Halt hadn’t gotten a hold of talking yet and Ferris did not tell Caitlyn about how he was seeing Halt’s ghost constantly.

Halt is still the sarcastic, witty, and grumpy man we all know and love. He’s just not a ranger and is a ghost. Halt sticks around Ferris to both roast him constantly (this is a recurring theme) and to guide him because honestly, Ferris needed some guidance. Really wants Caitlyn to come back so he can actually talk to her and for Ferris to get over everything. He wishes that he could live his own life but he makes do with what he has. Pesters Ferris to go into the woods more during the first few years so he can be in nature more.

Sean: Caitlyn and Michael’s son, five years younger than Will. Sean was raised by both a ranger and a knight so while he has a very strict moral code and a strong sense of ethics, he’s willing to break just about any rule or code in order to do good. One of the reasons he became a diplomat (and studied intensively with the couriers) was he wanted to feel more connected to Hibernia where both of his parents are from, but rarely talk about. Preferring to talk things out, Sean can still pack a punch and swing a sword. He's the future king of Clonmel. Feels a connection to Halt even though he doesn't know who he really is. Full time diplomat, part time ghost whisperer.

Caitlyn trains Will and Gilan. The pair lived with the O'Carrick-Reid family. Sean takes the last name Reid and his middle name is O’Carrick. Caitlyn will occasionally give Alyss tips on diplomacy and Alyss is always curious about how the Hibernian ranger knows so much about diplomacy concerning royalty.

Pauline definitely knows about the O’Carrick secret.

(I thought it was only fair that Caitlyn got to be a ranger too in an au)

[eiressofinspirationwrites]

Blue on the Fourth of July

Pairing: Crowley x Aziraphale x American Female Reader (Not necessarily romantic pairings but it is somewhat left open to your imagination)

Word Count: 1570

Description: Just an oddly specific one-shot that popped into my head since it’s the Fourth of July in the United States today and yes, I know it’s really late in the day. I apologize in advance if it makes anyone feel excluded and understand that not everyone may be interested in it. I really tried to write it so that it would be less specific on some traits, but it almost seemed to take on a mind of its own and wouldn’t let me.  Also, to all of my fellow Americans who are/have been celebrating today, please stay safe and enjoy whatever festivities you are having with your loved ones!

“Crowley?” Aziraphale whispered to the demon, who was currently splayed out on the sofa taking a nap in the flat above the book shop.

“What is it, Angel?” Crowley mumbled groggily but he kept his golden eyes shut.

“Have you seen, Y/n, today?” Aziraphale asked, his voice still barely above a whisper.

“No,” Crowley sighed, “and why are you whispering?” “Well, she’s downstairs,” Aziraphale elaborated, “and I don’t want her to hear us because I’m worried about her.” “Why?” Crowley shot up because if his angel was worried about you then he was worried.

“Well, she’s looking rather blue,” Aziraphale elaborated, “I think something may have happened.” “Like what?” Crowley asked.

“You really just need to see her,” Aziraphale sighed exasperatedly, “I don’t really know how to explain it.”

Rather than say anything else, Crowley swept down the stairs and into the bookshop where he found you flipping through one of your favorites, but he startled you when he flew into the room so quickly.

“Crowley!” you exclaimed and dropped the book when you jumped, “What’s wrong?”

“Apparently nothing,” Crowley rolled his eyes, “because you look perfectly fine to me. Aziraphale, I thought you said she looked sad or something?”

“She does! Her hair wasn’t that dark blue color when she left yesterday afternoon,” Aziraphale pointed at your hair, which was, in fact, a completely different color than it was the day before.

“I’m not making the connection,” Crowley shook his head as he struggled to make sense of what was going on, “Her hair looks fine. I’m not sure what the issue is here?”

“I think I know what he’s talking about,” you chuckled, “I told him a few months ago that when I decide to change my hair color that I sometimes choose the color based on my mood that particular day.”

“Exactly!” Aziraphale crossed his arms with a victorious grin.

“So, did you choose blue because you’ve been feeling sad lately?” Crowley asked.

“No,” you laughed, “I actually chose it because today is July fourth.”

“I’m not sure that I follow?” Crowley’s eyebrows furrowed together as confusion washed over him.

“Oh, of course!” Aziraphale exclaimed, “It’s Independence Day in the United States!”

“So, you dyed your hair just to celebrate some holiday in another country,” Crowley said as he started to piece things together.

“Well, that was where I was born and raised, Crowley. I’ve only lived in London for a few years now,” you reminded him, “but I didn’t just dye my hair because it’s a holiday.”

“Please do tell,” Crowley encouraged you.

“My best friend and I used to do it every year growing up just so that we could match when we went to watch the fireworks,” you explained, “but after she passed away in a car accident, I’ve kept up the tradition in honor of her. This is actually the first year that I’ve not been able to get home for the fourth to watch the fireworks for her.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Crowley demanded, “We could have gotten you home if we’d known how important it is to you.”

“It’s really not that big of a deal,” you tried to downplay it but Crowley could tell that you were lying, “Besides it’s a little late for that now, don’t you think?”

“Not at all actually,” Aziraphale spoke up, “It’s only noon there in some states and fireworks don’t typically start until after dark. I’d say we have plenty of time to miracle ourselves over and you could even show us around your favorite city.”

“What do you say, Y/n?” Crowley, who had turned to look at Aziraphale while he was speaking, asked when he turned back to you.

“That would be fantastic!” you squealed excitedly, “When do we leave?”

“Right now,” Crowley grinned mischievously as he took your hand in his, “Just picture where you want to go and that’s where we will land.”

“Alright,” you grinned and closed your eyes to choose your destination. A second later the strangest sensation came over you and when it disappeared you opened your eyes to find yourself standing in front of the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History.

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed excitedly as he looked around, “I love museums!”

“Washington D.C.,” Crowley crinkled his nose when he saw where they were, “Why here?”

“I love the museums and all of the architecture!” you bounced up and down, “I’ve never actually been here but I’ve always wanted to!”

“Do you have any idea how many people in this city have sold their souls to hell?” Crowley asked you.

“Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea,” you snorted, “but like I said, I’m here for museums and architecture and I’ve heard that they have a really big fireworks display!”

“Well, as long as you’re happy,” Crowley sighed, “Then, we’re happy. Where to first?”

“Obviously in here!” you waved your hands grandly at the building you had appeared in front of, “They have dinosaurs and I was obsessed with them when I was a kid!”

“I hate to burst your bubble, darling, but dinosaurs never actually-,” Crowley was cut off when the air was knocked out of his lungs by Aziraphale’s elbow being slammed into his gut.

“Why don’t you lead the way, my dear,” Aziraphale suggested with a smile and you didn’t hesitate before skipping ahead excitedly. When you were far enough ahead, Aziraphale hissed at Crowley, “You will not ruin that for her!”

“Sorry,” Crowley apologized, “and just so you know your elbow is rather quite pointy.”

Aziraphale merely gave Crowley an indignant huff before he followed after you. Crowley shook his head before he also followed.

After spending most of the afternoon exploring the National Mall and various other landmarks that were open, you finally suggested finding a place to watch the fireworks from, “I heard that it’s a good idea to find a spot to watch the fireworks from at least 2 hours early and since it’s almost 7 now…”

“Why don’t we find a place near the Washington Monument?” Aziraphale asked, “That seems like a good place.”

“Lead the way,” Crowley held out an arm. After making your way there your trio found a suitable spot from which you would have a great view when the show started.

“Guys,” you frowned, “We forgot to bring a blanket or something to sit on. The grass probably won’t be very comfortable.”

Rather than say anything Crowley simply snapped his fingers and an extremely plush comforter appeared on the grass in front of you.

“Oh!” you squeaked as you sank into the blanket, “This has got to be the softest thing I’ve ever laid on.”

“I would have to agree,” Aziraphale smiled as he laid down beside you, “This is very nice, Crowley.”

“Well, if I’m going to be forced to sit through this overly exuberant display of American patriotism, I would rather be comfortable,” Crowley grumbled as he sprawled out on your other side, trying rather unsuccessfully to downplay the gesture.

Rather than poke fun at him like you normally would, you chose to enjoy the moment and changed the topic. You and your boys spent the next couple of hours splayed out on the blanket, enjoying food from the picnic basket Aziraphale had miracled, and talking about anything that came to mind but when you saw a flash of color in the distance you shot up.

“I think they’re starting!” you yelled excitedly as Crowley and Aziraphale both sat up as well and sure enough a few seconds later the sky lit up with even more explosions of color.

“These are rather beautiful don’t you think, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked after a few minutes of watching the watched the sky with a small smile.

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed absentmindedly, but when Aziraphale leaned back enough to see Crowley’s face, he saw that the demon wasn’t watching the sky at all. His attention was entirely fixed on you.

Aziraphale’s own smile broadened when he saw that Crowley was smiling as he watched your face, which was filled with excitement and wonder.

After the show had been going on for some time, you started to laugh and Crowley asked, “What could possibly be so funny?”

“Our hair colors,” you said between laughs.

“What about them?” Crowley asked indignantly.

“Mine is blue,” you said.

“Obviously,” Crowley nodded.

“Aziraphale’s is so blonde that it might as well be white,” you continued.

“Okay,” Crowley drew out the vowels as he tried to follow your train of thought.

“And yours is red!” you exclaimed.

“And why is that so funny?” Crowley asked.

“I guess it’s not really,” you said wiping the tears from your eyes, “I just thought it was kind of appropriate considering that those are the colors of the American flag and here we are sitting in the nation’s capital on Independence Day, watching fireworks.”

“You’re so easily amused,” Crowley shook his head.

“I know,” you laughed again before slinging your arms around both of your boys and squeezing them tight, “Thank you so much for doing this for me, both of you. It really means a lot.”

“Anything for you, my dear,” Aziraphale smiled warmly.

“Yeah, what he said,” Crowley agreed, “You’ve been through a lot lately. It’s the least we could do.”

“Why, Crowley,” you gasped teasingly, “did you just say something nice?”

“Only for you, darling,” Crowley admitted, “Only for you.”

[piercethemarti]

It’s called punk, baby. Look it up

SO! AO3 won’t let me post anything there, so here I am!

Aziraphale liked the way breaking the rules made him feel...

Word count: 1271

Warnings: none (but my awful writing I’m sorry)

ENJOY

Crowley was amazed by Aziraphale's behaviour during Doomsday. He was proud of his friend finally standing for what he wanted and publically breaking the law. He quite couldn't believe it and, frankly, neither could the angel, who was now on a state of constant euphoria.

Aziraphale couldn't quite believe that he did all that, and that was now on his own for the first time after the almost-apocalypse. He was so relieved he had rebelled, he finally didn't have to hide his friendship with Crowley anymore, and it felt good, to be able to do what it felt right to do. He was walking up and down the back of his shop, ignoring the calls of his friend with an "I'm quite busy at the moment, can I catch up with you later? No, you can't come around as I have to do this thing on my own. Ok, I'll call you later, Darling.". He logged, not without any problems, in the new laptop Crowley gave him, a gift to celebrate the day they have met, that Crowley always liked to remember with gifts and lunches, and engrossed himself in a three-hour-long internet search on the origins of the punk movement and its political stand. After having done that, the angel listened to the music that was labelled as such while reading about it and about the fashion, and at that moment, he decided that a makeover was necessary.

See, Aziraphale was obviously around when the first punks appeared, but it wasn't really his scene, so he simply tuned them out and ignored their presence, which is not a very angelic thing to do.

Finally, after five hours of readings and listenings, he found himself capable of reaching a conclusion; and so he got up, stood in front of his mirror and muttered "if I have to rebel, I will do it with style," and so he made his way to Camden Town, a part of town that he had avoided since the 1960s, to see if he could find something that could suit him. He could've simply snapped his fingers and have it on his persona miraculously, but he didn't feel like God would've like it. He decided that he had to keep it simple, but at the same time he wanted to spice it up a bit, so he went for a pair of blue jeans with holes in them, a red and black striped tee that had holes as well, a black leather jacket full of spikes, pins, studs, and safety pins, and a pair of black Doc Martens to complete the look. "You look so cool, man! I wish my folks would dress up like this," the shop assistant who was helping him, Sarah, secretly wished that Aziraphale was her dad "Thank you, my Darling. Now, do you think I am ready?" she gave Aziraphale her approval and suggested him to dye his hair as well, maybe a bubblegum pink or a pastel blue. Aziraphale wasn't sure but at the same time, he could always miracle his hair as they were before, so he accepted the challenge and went to a nearby hairdresser that cut his hair, dyed it pastel pink, and styled it in a beautiful mullet with the sides shaved. He quite liked the result, so he thanked the barber and hurried home. The new Aziraphale was born.

Once home, Aziraphale put on some new records he got at the Camden market and carefully placed his old clothes in the wardrobe while dancing to David Bowie's Rebel Rebel.

"Angeeeeel! Is that David Bowie?" Crowley had made his way upstairs and was now making his way in the angel's kitchen, looking for something to eat and drink. "Yes, I quite like his music," the angel was now coming out of his room to meet his friend in the kitchen, "Nice to see you here, Crowley," he smiled, while the demon slowly turned to face the angel, only to spit coffee in poor Aziraphale's face. "what happened to you and what are you wearing?" "I... uhh..." the angel didn't know what to say, while Crowley just smirked. "You don't like it, do you?" he was holding his hands in front of his belly while looking at the tip of his Doc Martens. "I do, I do, I do! I like the pink, suits you!" Crowley was gently wiping away the coffee from the angel's face while smiling and running a hand through his friend's face. He had never been more attracted to the other immortal being.

"Oh, th-thank you," Aziraphale was now blushing and didn't know what to do "I see you have already helped yourself to a drink. So, what brings you here?" he continued while making himself a cup of tea and then making his way to sit in the armchair near the couch, where Crowley was now laying. The demon waved his hand in the air while shrugging "I was passing by, and thought that, since I have nothing to do, I could pass by and see if you were in?" the tone was hopeful, Aziraphale nodded. "So...wanna go for a walk or something?" "There's this concert, my new friend Sarah, she's the one that helped me with this- he gestured to his outfit- invited me, it's in Camden. Do you want to come with? We could have some early dinner there as well," Crowley was now VERY attracted by Aziraphale's new behaviour "A punk concert? I'm in." Crowley smirked, he liked this new version of the angel, it was looser, free, breathable. Aziraphale had finally started to chill, and he felt incredibly good.

They got to Camden earlier, so that they could get dinner and then walk around the part of town that both didn't visit enough. At seven, they made their way to the club where the concert was held and, to Aziraphale's delight, he saw people dressed like him. He still felt a bit out of place, but he liked the fact that everyone was saying hello. He also spotted Sarah and introduced her to Crowley, again, she wished that Aziraphale was her dad.

As the concert was going on, Aziraphale took Crowley's hands, and they started dancing, or better, jumping around along the angry bits. They drank and danced and drank, and laughed. They had never felt more alive, and they silently made their way back to Soho. Crowley had his hand swung over the angel's shoulders while Aziraphale was playing with the demon's fingers, who was breaking the silence to tell him about the times he met Sid Vicious and the Sex Pistols in that same club in Camden. Soon enough they were in front of the book shop, and Aziraphale couldn't help but wonder what would happen if he kissed the demon, and so he leaned in and planted his lips on the demon's, a chaste peck, that was deepened by Crowley, who wasn't believing that this was finally happening. Six thousand years of following each other around, sharing looks, exchanging gifts, and hopelessly flirting finally lead to a kiss, that rapidly began a heated make-out session, that lead to Aziraphale panting while opening the door while Crowley was kissing his neck, only to be continued upstairs, in Aziraphale's bookshop, where they drank wine and kissed some more.

"What...why now though," asked Crowley between the kisses "Because I wanted to. It's called punk, baby. Look it up," the angel winked, and continued kissing his best friend. The two stayed up all night, drinking and kissing, only to fall asleep in the early morning hours in Aziraphale's bed, spooning.

[authoressskr]

Odd Doesn’t Begin To Describe It

Characters: Dean Winchester, Gabriel, Sam Winchester. Mentions of: Chuck, Lucifer, Jack Kline, and Michael.     ::     Warnings: Language, Light talk of issues, A bit of flirting     ::     Word Count: 1401

This was written for my 400+ Celebration!! Request your own here!

Prompt:  A: “Do you ever have moments where you’re struck by how odd and terrible your upbringing was?”  B: “Is that why you’re on the floor eating funfetti frosting out of a jar?” for @marichromatic -- Hope I did this well for you, sweetie! <3

Note: Please do NOT repost, copy & paste, post or share my works on any other platform without my EXPRESS PERMISSION.

-+- REBLOGGING is fine and very appreciated! -+-

Dean heard a clatter in the kitchen, prompting him to quickly set his laptop to the side and rush into the kitchen.

“Are you drunk?” Dean asks, righting the chair lying several feet from its proper place and scooting it back under the table.

“Pssssssssh.” Gabriel half raspberries, waving his left hand vaguely in the air at Dean’s question.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.” Dean muttered mostly to himself, crossing his arms over his chest as he took in not only the archangel before him, but the state of his had-been freshly cleaned kitchen. Fighting back a sigh, he opted to clench his teeth instead, watching Gabriel sway minutely in front of the sink before turning to examine the bowl of fruit he kept for Sam by the fridge. “Something on your mind, Gabriel?” Dean raises his voice a little, Gabriel’s hair subtly moving as he shook his head before turning around with his forefinger in the air.

“Acccccctually...there is! How do you and Sammich do it?” Dean’s forehead furrows slightly as his gaze goes from Gabriel’s to the spot on the wall just over his shoulder. Jesus, he wasn’t good with emotional talks.

“Do what, exactly?”

“Deal with this shit-storm you call a life with more shit constantly being flung at you, without powers or hell, even a damn vacation once in awhile?!” Gabriel has moved closer, giving a little grunt as he finishes before snapping himself an extra large cookie.

“Sex, alcohol, shoving it down so it never sees the light of day again.”

“Well, I’ve hit several dozen liquor stores and am enjoying a reaaaally nice buzz right now. And,” He attempts to lean against the kitchen table but it moves, his hand shooting out to steady himself against the wooden betrayal. “I’ve been shoving shit down since I realized how fucked up my family really was.” Those slightly clouded golden orbs rake down Dean’s body as a smirk curled his lips. “Guess that leaves sex, big boy.”

Dean laughed humorlessly, deflecting the very odd switch in Gabriel’s normal flippant, seemingly carefree, Trickster demeanor.

“What happened to you tonight?”

“Ahh, well you see, I got a personal, super secret call up from Daddy.” There isn’t any denying the slightly venomous tone laced around the sarcasm, an armour that Dean knew all too well himself.

“If it makes you feel any better, I think you’re handling it better than Lucifer did.” The look in Gabriel’s eyes shift once again, from the hardened bronze when he spoke about Chuck to a more appraising honey color.

“What did Princess do, hmm?” Dean watches the archangel stumble-slide himself into the nearest chair, never looking away from Dean.

“Locked himself in Sam’s room, while in Cas’s vessel, and was generally being a dick. Wanted Chuck to apologize. Wanted him to admit he needed his help. Mostly wanted someone to blame beside himself.”

“WELL IF THAT DOESN’T SOUND FAMILIAR, FUCK ME SIDEWAYS.” Gabriel yells dramatically, gesturing with both hands now. “Never his fault. Typical Luci.”

“Guess that wasn’t what Chuck wanted to talk to you about.” Dean moves to the fridge, withdrawing the two pies he’d bought. “Now, before you launch into this - remember, I don’t like sharing my pie and don’t expect this from me in the future, capisce?” Gabriel nods, almost buzzing with an eager energy Dean could swear he felt.

“Capisce.” Gabriel agrees, reaching for the fork Dean offered as he slid the pie before the angel.

The first few bites were quietly relished before Gabriel lifted his head from the cherry pie to gaze at the hunter across the table.

“He wanted me to help Jack.” His whisky eyes are piercing now, pining Dean with that otherness that Castiel and Jack just sometimes flashed through briefly. “Wanted me to help find Lucifer and either toss him back in the Cage and remake the Seals or put him down.” Dean wants to tell Gabriel his vote is firmly in column two, but he just gives the smallest of nods as he scoops another forkful into his mouth. “If you recall, it didn’t turn out so well the last time we tangoed.”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, but the porno was a nice touch.”

“Aww, Dean, you care.”

“You knew I wouldn’t say yes to Michael. And you knew we’d keep fighting, no matter the odds.”

“I never said you were exceedingly smart when it comes to your own mortality.”

“Look, what I’m saying is you did it. You bought us some time and you gave us the help we needed when we were looking at a brick wall. Are you still a dick for killing me all those times? Yes. Do I trust you? Not as much as I should, but I know you’d have all our backs.”

“That make me part of Team Free Will?”

“We’ll take a vote later.” Dean gives a soft, almost reassuring smile to the archangel before returning to his pie.

“You know - this would be better flambeed with whiskey.” Dean looks down at his pie, want warring with ‘I don’t know if that’s the smartest thing. Fire plus an overly tipsy angel...’

“Whiskey.” Dean finally agrees with a nod as his dessert blinks out of existence for a few seconds before reappearing with a sharper scent that wafted before him.

::   -   ::   -   :: 

A couple hours later - a giant pan of boozy brownies with caramel rum sauce, bourbon blondie chocolate chip bread, and one too many whiskey ice cream floats...Dean was sitting on the concrete floor, propped up against the bottom cupboards with his eyes blissfully shut as his lips and tongue were trying to locate his straw to finish off the last of his whiskey ice cream float.

And that’s what Sam walks straight into. Gabriel sprawled on his stomach with a plush pillow under his chest as he shoved a spoon into his mouth while Dean searches blindly for his straw.

“Well, at least you didn’t kill each other.” Sam mutters, watching Dean’s emerald eyes flutter open and a lazy smile graces his face as Gabriel waved his spoon up at Sam.

“Sammich, do you ever have moments where you’re struck by how odd and terrible your upbringing was?” Sam wrinkles his forehead.

“Been having some deep intellectual conversations while we’ve been gone, I see.” Sam clears his throat. “Wait - is that why you’re on the floor eating funfetti frosting out of a jar?”

“You should join us Sammmmy.” Dean mutters, drawing out his name.

“Nah, this - this looks like something for you guys. I’m gonna go take a shower.” Just after he leaves, smirking to himself, Gabriel’s too bright golden eyes slide over to Dean.

“Wanna bond some more over torturing your brother?”

“Gabe,” Dean smacks his lips together loudly, enjoying the dregs of his milkshake and the buzz that warmed over him completely. “I don’t think you should be fucking with him too much. Heat of the Moment still makes him jittery.”

“Not like that. Maybe some hot pink hair dye mixed in his shampoo? Or a constant flower crown? Maybe make his underwear change to pink silk panties?” Gabriel raises his eyebrow suggestively at the last line, the gold melding into something warmer. “What’dya say, big boy?”

“I think he’d look awesome with some green hair. Really bring out his eyes. With hot pink highlights.” Dean agrees, pushing himself off the floor as Gabriel rises languidly, stretching the kinks out from the hard floor. Dean moves forward, attempting to go towards the door when Gabriel’s fingers wrapped firmly around his wrist, just above his watch.

“Thanks, Dean-o.” The mask slips away, like it had at least two dozen times in the last few hours, Dean returning his soft, unsure smile with a nod. And if Dean hadn’t been tipsy off his ass, he might have seen it - but also realizing this was Gabriel, he might not have.

But feeling Gabriel’s lips against his cheek caused his skin to flush immediately, his breath coming out in a soft whoosh. “Thanks again, Dean.” Gabriel’s smile holds more of a knowing curl before he bounces from the room, leaving Dean stunned just by the kitchen table, his hand lingering on his cheek where Gabriel had kissed.

“Huh.” Dean breathed before following Gabriel from the room, the alcohol clearing from his mind a little at the encounter. “Huh.” He muttered again, letting his hand drop.

Tagging: @thewhiterabbit42 @nobodys-baby-now @unleashthemidnight @sumara62 @clockworkmorningglory @crowleys-poppet-queen-of-assgard @whinywingedwinchester @chelsea072498 @sakurablossom4 @galaxiesinmymind @stay-frosty-royal-unicorn @keepingcalmisoverratedgoddamnit 

[itsmkjones]

Imagine: finding a hellhound!

Crowley X Reader

Content: Fluff

Snow. Snow. Snow. You tilted your head back, hair resting against a thick scarf. A bleak pale sky burned your eyes, as the invisible sun’s rays bounced aimless through the white cloud layer. White flakes, thick and clumped, spiraled to the earth. Fluffy ice stuck to the knit strands of your beanie and your eyelashes. You stuck out your tongue on whimsy. The field was empty leaving no need for social pretense. Your arms spread out as you spun in place with abandon. Stress melted away, leaving nothing but the blanket of snow and the pounding of music pulsating from your earbuds. Your boot stuck, but you didn’t care, letting your body fall into the thick pile of snow. Air pushed from your lungs, the calm winterscape cutting into the heavy guitar riff as a bud dislodged. You laughed breathlessly smiling into the blaunch void. You nodded in beat to the song, gloved hand wiping the snow from the pliable rubber piece. A whiney growl paused your hand next to your ear.

You propped up on your elbows, yanking the remaining bud from beneath your hat. The soft buzz of sudden silence filled your ears. You shook your head in abashed amusement, a light chuckle on your lips. But as you shifted to reinsert the music, you caught the sound again, clearer. Brow furrowed, you flipped to your knees scanning the snowline. Your music vibrated in your fist. A high pitched whine fell as a whisper in the air. You looked to the scatter of Birch trees. A shadow shifted just before the nearest tree. You lifted your body to a crouch, approaching the source of the sound. As you drew closer, the whine shook as if the source shivered in the cold, but your eyes couldn’t locate anything. Pausing, you closed your eyes to find the sound louder. You lowered to your heels, eyes squeezed together. The whine shifted to a pathetic growl.

“Puppy?” You inquired delicately, praying to anything or one who would listen not to end up a horror show character. “Here, puppy-puppy.”

A faint exclamation left your lips as you realized you had a snack in your pocket. A couple of candy wrappers and a stray M&M settled in your palm as you pulled out the contents of your jacket. Your face fell. You were debating whether to go find some food or try to coax the puppy from its hiding place when a blur knocked your hand aside. The flicker solidified like dye spreading across linen. A puppy appeared before you, fur untextured, matte, like the animal’s shadow ripped from the snow and cloaked it’s body. It blinked, two pools of deep red, the very shade of the pounding in your veins. The puppy padded forward, wisps of onyx smoke played like a ripple of wind in fur. Its blurry head tilted to the side questioningly. Your eyes blinked rapidly attempting to discern the creature before you. The crimson stare blinked back. A minute passed. You stayed frozen, half sprawled in the snow, as the beast sniffed the ground. Its nose touched the M&M. Before you could process its intention, the M&M faded from view.

“Hey!” You leapt forward, shedding a glove. “No! Spit that out! Dogs can’t eat chocolate.”

Your fingers fell against gossamer miasma, groping at the indistinct muzzle. Finally, your fingers found a wet warmth. Rows of needle sharp nubs grated against your fingers as you fished for the candy. You found the disintegrating sphere and snatched from the confines. The skin in contact with the beast’s saliva puffed up, tinged with pink and raw to touch. You flung the sugar away in disgust, wiping your hand on your jeans. The puppy pranced in place, perking up with alert attention as it watched the food disappear.

“No! Puppy, no!” You commanded firmly. “No, chocolate.”

The beast tilted its head.

“You understand?”

The beast stepped forward, head lowering tentatively. Heat caressed your skin as it sniffed you.

“Wanna come home with me?” You asked, gingerly lifting the hand. “I’ve got food.”

The beast straightened, head moving as your hand cautiously reached over its head. You stroked its crown. Much to your delight, the beast pranced in place rubbing against your hand enthusiastically. You grinned scooping up the creature. You tucked it in your jacket. The beast let a low rumble escape from his chest stilling your heart until it curled against your chest. It took a moment, to realize it was a weird and haunting type of purr. You took the beast to your cabin, a brisk ten minute hike away, sharing warmth and companionship.

Crowley, sensibly clad in a sable peacoat and, less sensibly, his usual day suit, materialized to the outskirts of a sleepy mountain village. Night guised his arrival, giving no passerbyer indication to his supernatural means of transportation. He adjusted his collar against the flurry, casting a passing glance over the street before striding towards the wilderness. Snow crunched under foot, breaking the eerie quiet suffocating the area. A second set of tracks marred the natural blanket, paralleling aside Crowley’s in four fold. He came to a stop in the midst of a field. His lips pursed together, a long low whistle hanging in the opening. He waited. When nothing met him, he tried again. Again, expectation went amiss. His companion growled at his side.

“Go on, Juliet. Call for your pup.” He ordered, voice as hushed as the snowfall.

The hellhound at his side threw her head back unleashing an unearthly howl. Her cry died, echoing against the mountainside miles away, yet no response came. Crowley sucked his lower lip between his teeth, eyes dropping. Juliet looked up at him. He tucked his tongue in his cheek, shifting to retrieve a leather cuff.

“Very well.” He clucked. “A spell will have to do.”

A ribbon of red unfurled over the snow. Crowley followed the trail until the forest broke against a cozy cabin. He assessed the structure with a discerning eye; smoke wafted from the chimney, golden light illuminating the window even with the curtains drawn. He walked the path, mounting the porch stairs easily. He sensed a human energy mingling with the low heat of demonic aura. His brow furrowed slightly. Juliet cared not for his incredulity, raising a paw to scratch at the door, catching a whiff of her pup. Crowley raised a hand, with a snap cold turned to dry heat.

A low fire ate away at pinewood, sap eliciting occasional snaps. Crowley raised an eyebrow, surveying the one room cabin. On the far side near the bathroom door was a shotgun style kitchen, squared off with an island counter, a queen bed with typical rustic themed bedsheets was made and pressed against the wall behind him, and near the front window facing the room was a heavy writing desk where a human sat cross-legged, hand resting atop the head of an adolescent hellhound sitting chair side. The hellhound turned from the human, blinking at the newcomers.

You tore your eyes away from the book on the table, feeling the shift in your companion’s mood. “Cerberus? What is i-?”

You followed his gaze nearly jumping from your skin as your eyes fell on a man standing on throw rug in the center of the cabin. Your heart caught in your throat, fingers curling into Cerberus’ thick fur. The town was miles away and this cabin was your retreat, the only lifeline you had was in the form of your cell phone, turned off in your nightstand on the other side of the stranger. You froze as the man took a single step forward.

“Good evening.” His chin made a half arch, head tilting to the side to gain unobstructed view of your person. You swallowed hard, feeling vulnerable in nothing, but an old oversized shirt and fluffy slippers. “That’s an interesting pet you have there.”

You noticed a lilt in his voice. On a breath you replied, “Yes…”

His tongue caught between his teeth as he mused over a secret thought. “Interesting, indeed.”

“You… can see him?” You asked, the information inspiring alarm.

Crowley smirked gently, “I can… but the more pressing question is, ‘how can you?’”

You slipped from your chair moving in front of Cerberus protectively. The pup licked your calf. His saliva rested against your skin like a minor sunburn. You licked your lips, mouth feeling dry.

“Because he’s mine.” It was only a theory, but you claimed it with confidence. “And you can’t take him.”

“How…” Crowley stepped closer, pausing when you flinched, but steeled yourself. “Do you know I want to take him?”

You nodded at the hellhound to his side. “Y-you have that one.”

“You can see her too?” Crowley’s head dipped to indicate Juliet. You nodded. Crowley’s tongue found the space in his cheek. He twisted in place, hands in pocket. “Interesting.”

Juliet dropped into a crouch, lips curling back in a snarl. Her growl reverberated throughout the room. Your knees shook, hand falling to the back of your chair for support. You could feel the vibration of her growl travelling through the wood. She stalked forward, vermillion eyes drinking you in. She lunged forward. You fell to the floor, blocking Cerberus with your body. He put a paw on your shoulder before springing forward. He licked the length of the older hound’s face. Juliet pulled away with a yelp on confusion. Cerberus tilted his head as she circled away from him taking shelter behind Crowley’s legs. Her master merely raised a brow. His eyes flicked over your haphazard state. You quickly pulled the shirt back over your thighs, pressing closer to Cerberus.

“You…” Crowley hesitated trying to find the words. “Domesticated my hellhound.”

“Hellhound?” You echoed numbly.

“What the bloody else would it be?” Crowley snapped pinching the bridge of his nose.

You chewed the inside of your cheek. “Shadow puppy?”

“Sha-” Crowley pulled his hand away in stark indignation. “Shadow puppy? Does this beast look like a-”

He broke off as Cerberus sat back beside you, head lolling to the side inquisitively. You pat his head lovingly.

“He was a puppy a month ago when I found him!” You defended yourself, annoyance rising over fear.

“But you named it Cerberus!”

You ducked your head down, slightly embarassed. You muttered, “All first dogs are named Spot…”

“Fine, just fine!” Crowley turned away rubbing his forehead with his fingertips firmly. “Regardless of this little… misadventure… I need my hellhound back.”

“No!” You scrambled to your feet blocking his view of your puppy. “Cerberus is mine!”

Crowley’s jaw tightened. He lift a hand, flicking at the wrist. Your body flew through the air slamming against the door. Cerberus jumped to his feet. Smoky fur prickling down his spine, his head dropped low, a growl pouring from his throat. He moved slowly facing Crowley. He braced himself in front of you, snarling threatening. A muscle twitched in Crowley’s jaw. He sighed with frustration releasing his hold on you. Your legs were unable support you as you hit the floor. Cerberus ran to you, nuzzling your cheek with a wet nose.

“Why do you even want him?” You asked weakly holding onto Cerberus.

Crowley rolled his eyes, voicing the thoughts he was working though outloud. “My hellhounds are pertinent in retrieving bartered souls and two denim-clad morons are killing them. That leads to a loss of souls being brought in on a timely manner.”

“Why can’t you just go get a different one and let me have Cerberus?”

“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get hellhounds to procreate in the first place?” He snapped. “It’s not as if lighting a lavender scented candle and laying down the silk sheets puts them in the mood.”

“But he’s mine.” You pleaded.

Crowley’s gaze morphed from irritation to consideration. “That he is… And a hound who has a different master presents an undesirable situation.”

“Then you’ll leave?”

“Counteroffer.” He strode across the room dropping into a crouch before you and Cerberus. “He remains yours, but when I call he helps Hell collect its promised souls.”

You studied the man’s fathomless onyx eyes. His gaze dropped when you licked your lips nervously. You could feel your heart pounding high in your throat. “I assume my options are that or… something worse, so… okay. Yes.”

The corner of his lips twitched up. “Smart move, love.” He stood, spinning on his heel, headed back towards Juliet. “Of course, I’ll need to train him before he gets sent out.”

You nodded agreeably, too shocked to speak.

“I’ll be seeing you soon.” His head moved as he spoke, words rolling from his tongue. He lifted a hand and with a snap, he vanished.

[quiescentcastiel]

Little Red Stormcloud

@supernaturalpromptchallenge​ Thanks for doing this, sorry to see it end. January: Emotions | Prompt: Anger Tags: destiel endgame, angst, happy ending, everyone’s lack of self worth, magical realism, 2619, ao3

It starts off as a light, red mist hovering above Dean’s head. In the following days, it swirls and thickens into more of a fog that surrounds him like a shroud, opaque and clingy. Sometimes it overflows from its cloud-like form and trails after Dean like he’s a burning pyre walking. At first it’s clean and fresh, despite not looking so, but over the days the fog slowly goes stale. It begins to fill all enclosed spaces, and soon the bunker looks like an old gentlemen’s club where the cigar smoke hovers below the ceiling, trapped with nothing to accomplish but expansion and suffocation.

He begins to notice it condense above Sam’s head too, casting crimson shadows on his brow. Despite it being smoke and air, the tension these ever persistent tails bring the brothers is palpable. They snap at each other more, driven by the insatiable hunger of the fog that seeps into their head through their ears and is inhaled into their bodies with every breath. It twists inside them, churning up old memories and picking out the thoughts and feelings that makes each one’s blood boil.

It’s barely at the beginning of an argument between the brothers that Cas finally returns to the bunker. He hasn’t been in since the mist first appeared over Dean, and a halo of clean air encircles his whole body. Yet as he slowly descends the stairs, the red fog begins to infiltrate his bubble, sticking to him like static. He takes one look at the little red stormclouds brewing above the Winchesters’ heads and their contorted faces, flushed with the blood and the heat rising within them like magma, before throwing down a file and commanding that they take the case, if to do nothing but get out of the bunker.

Some grumbling ensues, but the lightning threatens to crash around Cas’ head, and both boys decide they’d rather take on the monster. All three pile into the Impala - a final sanctuary free from their scarlet haze. But it never leaves the boys, not even Cas who was in the bunker all but a minute.

The drive is a short one, an hour max, but when they exit the Impala and turn and look, it appears as though the windows have been tinted rose. Dean growls and hopes it doesn’t stain his leather seats. A gentle breeze picks up, and for a moment the clouds that lay over their heads are blown away, dispersing into the atmosphere. However, the second they settle into their dim, cramped motel room, it’s back, following them like an ill omen.

The case too is short. Much to their surprise, some fool has unleashed a chimera on an unsuspecting town, and all the cops seem to be capable of is calling the nearest zoo to ask whether they’re missing a lion and if it had a funny growth on its neck. A quick bit of research as they stew in their motel room reveals that the beast can be killed with lead. But before they can track down the chimera, it kills again. Twice.

By the time they get back to the bunker after defeating the beast, the cloud filling the Impala is so red and dense that it looks like Crowley smoked out inside. It was nobody’s fault, not really, but to the boys, if there’s no such thing as fate then there can be no such thing as death.

They all manage to keep up a heavy, sulking silence through the ride home, but under the crushing weight of the air they find back in the bunker, Dean cracks.

“He shouldn’t’ve died.”

“Yeah, I get-”

“No you don’t. He shouldn’t’ve died, and he wouldn’t’ve if you hadn’t cut in at the last moment.”

Sam pulls a face. “You would’ve died if I hadn’t stepped in.”

“I had it under control.”

“No, you didn’t, Dean. That beast was one swipe away from turning your guts into jello.”

Dean grunts. He knows Sam is right. “But then you would’ve been free to kill the thing instead of letting it get to the deputy.”

“So you wanted to get eaten first?” Sam’s voice is rising. Another ruby red stormcloud, much like the one before, is condensing above his head. “What, did you think you were being noble?”

“No, I thought I was giving you and the man a chance to kill creature and save Cas.”

“It wouldn’t’ve been worth your life.”

Dean’s yelling too now, wearing a hurricane as a crown. “And you get to decide that? You get to make that call? A man died because of your decision.”

“I get it, it sucks, but-”

“We’re supposed to save people, Sam.”

“Yeah, I saved you.”

“Well you should’ve let me die!” he roars. Cherry red oozes from his lips in a state of matter closer to that of blood than that of mist.

“Dean…”

Dean whirls around. “What, Cas?” he snaps.

“I was fine. I wasn’t going to die. I didn’t need saving.”

“You were out cold!”

“I came back though. I know you saw me when the chimera was over you.”

“I didn’t have time to register that!” Dean dismisses. “What happened to you back there anyway? I mean, where are your powers, man? I didn’t think angels could get knocked out, so what’s the deal? Are you an angel or not?”

Cas stills, and Dean flinches when he sees a red drop so dark it’s almost black fall from Cas’ fingertips. It poofs as it reaches the floor, dispersing like a drop of dye in a glass of water. Dean changes tact.  

“Cas, you might be one of us, but that doesn’t mean you have to go making the same mistakes Sam and I do.”

“I wouldn’t have considered saving you a mistake. I never have.”

“Really? You sure about that? You sure it wasn’t just programmed into you the first time, and now you can’t stop, regardless of what you want? Wouldn’t be the first time, Cas.”

Cas’ eyes widen. “I broke my programming to save you. Both Sam and I would do anything for you, the only reason being that we care about you.”

“And yet you let me down! And you leave me,” Dean takes a shuddering breath, “to clean up your messes.”

“As if you’d let us in anyway.” There was something churning in Cas, and perhaps if Dean squinted he would see shadows of wings, emblazoned into the red. “You push me away, Dean; you kick me out of the bunker. You tell me I’m family, call me your brother, but has that ever occurred to you that I don’t feel the same way?”

“Cas?” asks Dean, with a tremor so soft that after all his yelling surprises him.

Sam cuts in, his voice desperate. “Dean, you need to leave.”

“What?”

“This needs to end now. Take a walk. Take a drive, anything. Just… we’ll finish this conversation later.”

Despite the fog clouding his brain and blurring his thoughts, Dean retains enough sense and will power to know that Sam’s right; he needs to go. Now. He’ll deal with this later when he can think straight and hopefully when the adrenaline stops writhing through his body like fire. For now, he tells himself as he grabs his car keys, he just needs to get out of the bunker.

He steps outside and notices that, despite what he’d thought, for the first time since this whole thing started, he doesn’t feel like he’s burning from the inside out. But it’s not over yet.

Dean can’t even stop himself from slamming the door of the Impala. The thick, red fog billows and swirls as he does so, and it’s obvious that even if he wanted to drive away, he wouldn’t be able to see out of his windshield. He rolls down all the windows in the car, having to climb over the front seat to reach the back cranks. There’s something quite pleasant about the tainted air being replaced with the fresh, and it bathes Dean in a coolness. He had noticed, on his way out to the Impala, that while the mist still followed him, there was no longer a cloud hanging over his head. Its absence was encouraging.

Tired of waiting, Dean starts up the engine and pulls out onto the road. The opacity of the fog is low enough that he’ll probably not crash. He speeds up, turning up his music so that it doesn’t get drowned out by the rumble of the engine. Wind whips through the car, sweeping through Dean’s hair and ripping the red mist out of the Impala’s cabin.

The car clears. Neither the seats nor the windshield were stained permanently, much to Dean’s relief. The sky opens up, there’s nothing but an empty road ahead of him, and Freebird rings through the speakers.

He drives further than he means to, and by the time he realizes he needs to get back to the bunker, the sun is already falling from the sky. He’s got some issues to resolve, and he thinks he knows of something in the bunker that can help.

For the first time in probably forever, Dean leaves the door to the bunker open. There’s still light outside, but the air is getting cooler by the second. It floods into the bunker like a great wave, displacing the lingering red fog and forcing it out. Dean saunters down the stairs, the breeze following close behind. It’s fresh, unlike the air he wades into. He finds Sam, but not Cas, in the main room. Sam is reading, or trying to anyway, and Dean notices that despite the bunker’s fogginess, none clouds around Sam’s head.

“Hey,” calls out Dean. Sam looks up.

“Dean, where’ve you been?”

“Out. Here come help me with something.”

Sam frowns. “With what?”

“You remember those giant fans we saw in some back room?”

“I’m pretty sure they were attached to something…”

“Can we unattach them?”

Sam sighs. “I guess.”

Dean claps his hands. “Alright, let’s do it!” He feels a momentary surge of adrenaline, but it fades as he looks around the room. “Uh, where’s Cas?”

“Dunno. He’s here somewhere though.”

“Go get started on those fans. I’ll find him.’

Sam nods and gets up, if a bit reluctantly. He heads downstairs. Dean, on the other hand, makes his way over to the kitchen.

“Cas?” he says gently to the hunched form sitting at the table. Cas pulls his head from his hands and tilts it far enough around to see Dean’s feet in the doorway. It’s then that Dean notices, not the absence of the red cloud in the kitchen, but the presence of emptiness, as if the atmosphere simply doesn’t exist in this space. But that’s foolish; Dean can still breath.  

“Will you help me?” Dean asks.

Cas’ voice is rough but barely a whisper. “Of course.”

He rises slowly from his chair, but Dean waits for him. Their first stop is the bunker control room, where they make sure that all the vents are moving the air towards the main room and up to the open door. After they sort this out, they go looking for Sam. He’s managed to detach both the fans, but he’s having some trouble moving either of them very far.

Cas, using his angel powers, is able to pick one up and carry it away, but it takes both Sam and Dean to move the second anywhere. They haul them out to the main room where they set them up and get them powered up.

The whirring sound begins to increase steadily until no one can be heard without shouting. The force of air the fans push out is strong enough to shift even the chairs, and while there are no books or loose pages lying around, one of the lamps is thrown off its table. The last of the lingering red fog is ejected from the bunker, and clarity is restored.

But not everything has been fixed. Not yet anyway. Dean takes a deep breath, preparing himself to take whatever comes next, and turns to first face Sam.

“Sammy, I-”

“I know.” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “The li- This life is mine, but I can’t do it without you.”

Dean nods. “I know.” He reaches up and pulls his brother down into a firm hug. He does know; it was nothing they hadn’t said to each other before. But when he lets go, they are both smiling. He claps Sam on the shoulder and turns back to face Cas. But Cas isn’t there.

This time, he doesn’t find Cas in the kitchen. Dean searches the bunker, but it’s not until he heads back to his bedroom that he finds Cas, sitting at the foot of his bed.

“Cas?” he asks quietly. Cas stands up, but with only a glance at Dean, he tries to leave.

“Cas, please, I’m sorry,” Dean begs, stepping in front of him, holding his hands out. Cas looks up at him sorrowfully. “About what I said to you. I didn’t know that you didn’t feel-” His voice catches in his throat, and he looks imploringly at Cas. “I don’t believe that you hate me, but if you want to walk out that door and have nothing to do with Sam or I, I won’t stop you.” He lowers his hands.

Cas doesn’t move, but his expression becomes more pained. “Dean, no, that’s not what I meant. Calling me family is the highest honor I could wish from you, and what I feel for you is just as strong, but different.” He tears his eyes away from Dean’s, ashamed. “I’m sorry. You try to include me but-”

“No, you were right. I push you away. I’m just…”

“Afraid?” Cas supplies. Dean turns his head away, looking at the ground, but he gives a quick nod. Gritting his teeth and keeping his promise to take whatever comes next, he turns back to Cas.

“I care about you, Cas. So much it scares me sometimes, like I don’t know what I’m feeling. I want you to stay with me forever, but I know I can’t ask that of you. I can’t expect you to always be there for me, because you’re too… you’re too human. You have you’re own thoughts, your own feelings. You have things to do that don’t involve me, and I know that you’ll have to leave eventually. I guess I just want to make it easier. For both of us. And I can’t-” Dean chokes and looks away, pressing his palms against his eyes. He takes a deep breath, and his hands drop down to his sides. “Cas, I love you.”

Every atom in his body is frozen, waiting for a reply. But none comes.

“Cas, say something. Do you love me?”

Softly, Cas replies, “With all my heart and soul.”

A smile briefly flickers on Dean’s face which he tries to keep, but he can’t help hesitating, unsure.

Cas answers, “Of which I had, when I first set foot on Earth, none, but my body fills more and more every day that I’m with you, until I feel as though it can’t hold me any longer.”

Stillness is held for only a moment before Dean crashes into Cas, unsure of nothing but the two of them right there, right now. He presses his lips to Cas’, warm and willing, finally understanding.

He breaks away, after a while, but only to pull Cas closer into his arms.

Cas’s breath tickles his neck. “I won’t leave you. Not now, not after you’re gone.”

“I know.” And this time, he truly does know.

[cerebusfire17]

The Story of Exile: Alice, Broken of Glass

The old tales told to the youth, The Thousand Year Rebirth, by the elders, who still remember when it first started, remained lingering in the air even after my original passing. It has waged for eons, with only the gods to truly remember the beginnings of such an event. For why this began, the answers are still unknown to most. Many do not even realize that they are trapped in an endless cycle of living over and over again. When some do, they go mad with anguish and sorrow, but it never ends for them... .

During this war, the heroes and villains of new and old are told of legend and led to fight over and over, to gain some sort of lead over their adversaries, not that such a thing existed anymore. Death was meaningless for those that knew, and madness was as rampant whores in their brothels. All battled for supremacy, for power, for the upmost strength in numbers and control of all whom saw the sun fall and rise. Then, there was the one called Raven…

She was stopped by the remaining heirs of the four empires during the last repetition and exiled to the The World to live out her remaining days, in a mortal state, to live a more mundane, normal life rather than face her punishment in full force. Stripped of most of her unusual powers and only given as many years as a mere mortal. She was halted from all the evil she was willing to commit and handed a new life to live.

However, one has to wonder... with a monster such as Raven, how can you stop a person from disrupting everything in their path whilst sustaining themselves?

Silly Alice and her stories...

An experiment is an understatement when it comes to me. I am over a decades work and dedication. A biological droid created from flesh and metal. I am not originally the first of my kind, neither was I the last, but the decision to create me and let me loose on the two worlds proved dangerous and, well, irresponsible on my creator’s part. The machine which is me is 98% organic, whilst the rest must remain mechanical, though for reasons beyond my knowledge. I never did learn of my own blueprints, though the information would be wonderful to have.

Machine might be too strong of a word for my breed. I was the beginning of a new type of “god.” Originally, there were three of us, but I was the only one left to fulfill a dream. My story is of the most importance, and those two shall come later. For now, the focus is upon myself and what I’ve become. Some would call me a cyborg, or a bioroid. The latter sounds much more attractive than the former, so I adopted such, yet in truth I am neither of those things. There is no better word to describe me than “god.” A “god” that is immutable to death, but death can come to it if the right hands administer the blow. Unlike other “gods,” I was indestructible by any means, thanks to the good Dr. Crowley. She gave her own life, unwittingly, to bring me into this world.

And then it took one idiot to take me out in the end...

<><><><><>

Chapter one: Alice Liddell is not Alice Liddell

The story of Alice was just a simple misadventure tale of a little girl in a world where she didn't belong. It was a story of the chaos of society, the confusion of culture, and the abnormal actions of a normal girl. It was a story of a girl that could not belong, would not belong, and was unable to learn in order to belong, and what she did learn was completely useless.  It’s a story, nonetheless. It makes one wonder if Mr. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson had an incredible imagination, or if he were merely too close to the original Alice. The story, however, remained my faithful lullaby.

Of course, to be fair, they never read me anything else. Ever. It was always the same: Alice and Her Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass.  I was forced to listen to this tale every three nights. It's not a long book, but I was a fast sleeper. Even after the book would be finished, my foster mother, Lorina, would read it all over again to me, like I wanted to hear the shit on repeat for the rest of my existing.

They even went so far to change my name to “Alice”, something I wish they'd never done. I don't remember my original name at this point. Some say it is Alice, others say it's something else, but none of them could tell me my real name. It was unfortunate and the beginning of my resignation of my foster parents. There was something about my child name that called to me, to have me remember who I was before. I never recalled what it was like before Lorina and Henry, and eventually I didn’t care to.

I was told when I was young, when my foster parents took me from the facilities, that “Alice” was a name for real people. I hated the name “Alice,” but I kept it because I had no other. “Alice” sounds too much of a girl’s name, and I wasn’t like many of the other children. Their faces were like shadows on the wall with blurred colors and details. I couldn’t picture myself as a child, but for the fact I was wearing a black and blue dress, painting a house near water on a small canvas. Lorina and Henry seemed to take kindly to me when they first saw me. The Doctor seemed to recall my coming with more emotion than the foster parents did, especially when it came to their kindness and devotion.

Yet, they were strict, and they kept to their word of making sure that I, in no way or form, could be perceived as anything but mortal. I would consider them the more human side of me, but the other workers of the project weren’t so keen on their ideas. They considered me nothing but machinery, for the purpose of weaponry, and victory was my only objective. From them, I was only given a serial number and a set of dates to remember as identification. My voice was a manufactured replica of 158 different female voice blended together by a professional sound team in order to make my voice as realistic as possible. The making of my skin was that of Dragon Silk, a synthetic dragonskin material to replicate blood and irritation, much like human skin's thickness. It’s almost identical to Mortal skin with injury and wounds, but it must be woven into several layers beforehand. Much of my blood was not synthetic, as I was what some would call a “cyborg.” Being raised from a young age to believe in such a miniscule detail of life has such a lasting impact, and for it to be true makes dying all the more welcoming.

I didn’t realize the Liddells wished to have me much more than simply a slaughter machine, or else I would have just shooed them away or cut their heads off. When they broke into the lab, one August night if I recall correctly, I was asleep in the chamber they kept me in. I eventually woke up to find the two searching for me. I watched the Liddells scramble through the lab, reading the charts on all the other subjects-- AVALON #1132-E, YUKARI #11175959FW, etc.—and search frantically before the alarms were set to go off. I suppose that they either used some sort of device to cancel the signal to alert the system of trespassers, or maybe because they worked there, they knew all of the codes. I recognized neither of the two and found them to be a threat until they explained that they could aid me in escape, as long as I lived with them as their daughter.

And I accept the offer.

We stayed in hiding for a period of 12 years, and I slowly came to accept the idea that the two scientists wished to keep me forever. The idea did not cause me to hesitate in trusting them, but it was welcoming if it meant that I could leave the confinements of my sheltered world. During that time, they tried to make me more human than what I was; giving me my mortal name, the birthdays, enrollments into schools, even fixating on the very details of my hair to match the original Alice Liddell.  For the first two years of my life with them, they wanted to dye my hair, change my eye color, and blue clothes. I never understood why they wished to make me like that girl whom lived centuries before and miles away in the minds of the elderly. I ended their obsession early and allowed my hair to do what it wanted, I kept my eyes the same shade instead of continually wearing contacts. I preferred black clothing to the blue they were obsessed with. Even though they adopted me to be their child, I eventually grew to resent going with them, even to this very day.

I didn’t enjoy being someone else’s doll. I wished to control myself for the longest of time, to do what I wished, yet the programming in my mind wouldn’t allow me to do so. As long as Lorina and Henry were present, they prompted what I would accomplished, controlled me beyond the resentment. Some would suggest this is gratitude and respect. I disagree. Of all the people, individuals, and things that have raised my ire, Lorina was the only person to never know of it. She would cry, and then I would feel like the bad guy. Henry would simply argue semantics and philosophy every time I wanted to rebel

Those years made me bitter, all the more bitter, and I had every reason to be. Then I found her, my “mother,” the Boxeto.

The Boxeto, you may be wondering, is the first and original bloodline of the Vampiric race and the first queen of the Parliament. She was powerful, beautiful, and from what the scientists of the facilities have done, I was the new Boxeto. The main reason for my creation was to have the most powerful of the Wraiths alive and willing to kill for the Mortals. My personality, which different from that which the workers created for me, was said to possibly be similar the Original, and my hair was considered a defect from so many experimentations and variables involved. To be honest, then only thing I seemed to share with the Boxeto was my height. I was considered her resurrected soul, which created the problem.

The Boxeto never died. Her body laid decayed elsewhere, on the world of Amara, hidden from the rest of the living and the dead. Her ghost roamed the land for decades, often taking over the bodies of her descendents until their deaths. It was one of the many powers held by the Veilios, humanoid like golems that are able to cater and alter history to their liking. There were very few of them left, and the last of them was dead. Well, technically, the last living descendant was a woman by the name of Myranda Crane; I broke the technicality by existing. My creation in her image made me the last of her bloodline.

This beast of a ghost wasn’t anything close to what the mortals described her to be. Her words spun in my mind like whispers in my ear and only I could see her. She would appear before me, curious of what I was and how I came to be. She would ask me questions unlike what the workers queried. Some of the questions pertained to colors I liked, and other times to ask me if I had ever seen the stars away from barred windows. She would talk to me of what the worlds changed over various distances, igniting my mind to wonder. Sometimes, she would bring me books, and others she would recite stories, and I would appear as if I were speaking to myself if anyone were to catch us. This ghost had convinced me to do things I would have no reason to commit to without her words. I wished to venture and roam freely, while the Liddells only wanted me to stay their “Alice.”

Alice and Her Adventures in Wonderland became one of my favorite books after the Boxeto came to me.

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On a usual morning, my pet, whom my foster parents named Dinah. Lorina never allowed me to have any say with any decision without it matching somewhat with that stupid book. Dinah stuck, but the kitten was worth keeping. She would be resting on my chest, waiting for me to wake up from my slumber and get out of bed. Dinah wasn't too terribly small, but she was tinier than most female cats, but I liked her for it. It was one of the things I liked the most about my cat, since I could hide her in a pocket book if I had to. She had a habit of liking to climb on my head and try to sleep. I could speak to her about what she would like to eat, where she would sleep, and sometimes why she couldn’t stop meowing so often. Better to speak to an animal than a couple of crazed mortals, really. I had gotten her about a year after returning to the mortal world, The World. She was found in the street by Lorina and was brought home to me. She was so small—shy and scared, but she liked me. She would occasionally hiss at Lorina, mostly because she didn't like her—and I couldn't find hate for this cat. After a year, she belonged to me. As most usual mornings, she was sleeping with me, nothing out of the ordinary.

My more agreeable ritual would be to lay in bed, long after sleeping, to wake—staring at the ceiling and letting the silence take over. I believe it is one of the most taken for granted movement of sound to exist. The nothingness, can be overwhelming. To me, the quiet, silent mornings were much like my sleep. I did not dream. Why? I didn’t know. I would ask Lorina and Henry, but they would never give me an answer, so I came to speculate that machines can’t dream. So, I would conclude that, if I were to dream, what I woke to: the sun gushing into through the windows, turning the room gold; the sounds of trees whispering to the locust songs; the attention to the stillness of the room consisted of my dreams

Unfortunately, as well as routinely, my foster mother, with nearly silent footsteps, would open the door and wake me up to join her and my foster father at the table for a “hot” breakfast. I didn't understand the meaning of why it was called “hot” until it was explained that it was only “hot” if it was right from the stove or an oven or cooked in a pot, served at a piping temperature. I don't understand how that's different from cooking food for later and that's “cold,” but for the fact that the temperature isn’t freezing or close to it. I’ve seen the Mortals take perfectly “hot” food and place it in the refrigerator, making it colder than “cold” in order to save it for later.  I guess it would make a difference if I knew what they meant by it, but I wasn't too terribly curious to ask a question that could be viewed as silly.

I didn't need the nagging woman, whose intention is to wake me up and have a conversation while I’m half asleep.  Silence was my weapon and I used it to my advantage as much as possible with my foster parents. With my silence, she would enter. Lorina was an older Mortal, about 55 years of age, with blue eyes and yellow hair, and a brain that never shut off (Henry himself boasted a head of red hair and deep green eyes, in contrast to his wife). The much shorter woman would walk in, calling my name softly.  “Good morning, my little Alice! Are we ready for the day?” came from her lips, and she would disappear once I rose from the bed. It would be, after her entrance and exit, I would drag my ass down the stairs, with Dinah tagging along not far behind me, and sit down at the table.

There would be a bowl of oatmeal (Maple and brown sugar, since cinnamon would make me gag. How humans could eat the nasty shit was beyond me.), some orange juice and a pitcher of water at my side of the table. The radio would be playing some old English music—the kind I suppose the “original Alice” would listen to if she had a radio—and Lorina would be singing with it. Henry would be sitting at the table reading the latest politics of the day, his nose snubbed and wrinkled at whatever headlines and topics caught his attention.

Henry, himself, was a mad character, indeed. He never took his gloves off, ever. He would never take off his coat, no matter what. It was a brown suede blazer with inner black velvet pockets where he kept his cigars. The man was shorter than myself, only standing at 1.70m (I myself stand at 1.78m, but the man seemed to tower over me more often than the other way around, now that I look back at past). His demeanor was somewhat similar to my own, but he was Mortal, so he was able to smile, to enjoy, to live. He was one of the few Mortals that I could stand. He hated his own kind almost as much as myself. I suppose you could call it, as they say, respect. He was gentle, quiet and calm, and not much of a talker, as I found through time.

He loved Dinah, that much I do recall clearly.

Dinah would have her bowl of milk and dried tuna, something I did ritualistically since Lorina believed that cats were allergic to fish—something that makes no sense to me—and then she would climb into my foster father's lap. He would gently stroke her back and head and smile while she purred softly. It was one of the only times I would see him smile throughout the days we lived together. It was the only time Lorina would get jealous as well. Sometimes, out of retaliation or simple arrogance, Lorina would be louder than the radio in the kitchen. I could speculate it was to drown out the sound of the cat's vocal love for my foster father. Lorina would walk over and talk about her favorite topics; horses, dancing, meadows, boxing (strangely, boxing was something that she was good at, being all prissy as she was), and what books she was interested in getting. The way she talked over everything put a frown on Henry's face on occasion, but Dinah would continue to distract him regardless of my foster mother's efforts, which caused her to become more of an annoyance than anything else.

It was the typical morning, with every day being exactly the same. The only difference between yesterday and today were their names and my attitudes toward those days. Every day was exactly the same, except for this day—when the smell of soot woke me from my slumber and the sudden rush of heat that hits your body upon waking soaks you without warning.

How unfortunate it was that this morning started with a house fire.

Namely, my house was on fire. When I woke up, it was with a start. Alarms rang in my ears, my sensors being set off by the detection of sulfur and of the smoke, the robotic voice that speaks to me in my “mind” telling me to get up and out of wherever I was, telling me that this was not the time to sleep. For a moment, I didn't realize what was happening. The reboot to my system drowned out all other things, adjusting the settings to the strange dark red hue that had adapted the room to the situation.

Dinah was howling into my face, trying to wake me up, though I'm sure she understood that my actual reaction time was slow, and my operation system would still need time to reach optimal efficacy. I almost knocked her off of the bed from the start. She ended up at the foot of the bed, but managed to recover from the jolt, shaking herself off from the crash to the floor and continuing to mew at me with fear or panic. I looked around and saw red heat everywhere in the room. I could pick up the temperature the heat of the flames just outside my door: 232.8 degrees C. The perfect temperature to burn books, if I recall. It took me only 2.1855 seconds to realize what was happening, yet the timing was inappropriate enough to hit my ire in the wrong way. I almost forgot about Dinah when I jumped from the bed and went to the door that was billowing with smoke. The animal didn't move from where I threw her and she continued to howl at me. I managed to remember her and picked her up. The last thing I wanted was to be in a fire and forget my cat. After this, I looked at the door, irritated. I wasn't stupid enough to touch the door knob, but I was dumb enough to stay standing while the smoke blackened the inside and nearly lost consciousness from it. It was the only entrance I had in and out of the room, and it was sealed off by flames that were starting to eat at the door.

My room wasn't that big. The only things that could be considered furniture inside was a bed, dresser, a light that hung from the now burning wall, a piece of a Looking glass1 mirror that I had kept from Amara that sat on top of the head of my bed, and a telephone on the dresser. Staring at it with a quick glance, I remembered when I was dragged from that world, how I managed to find a random Looking glass, how I took it into my skin and hid it away retaining some of the power that was stolen from me. I only wanted the Looking glass so that nobody could stop me from retaining some of what I needed in order to survive the mortal world. I hadn't realized that it was the only thing that was bound to keep me alive, a tool more useful than just making me a threat.

Strangely enough, the Looking glass was what I needed more than anything at this point, and even with the threat of death right in front of me, I kept in mind what was more important. If the Mortals were to find this glass, if I were to leave it behind in this burning home of mine, there would be chaos beyond my control. With my free hand, I touched the mirror and sucked it into my skin. As a Veilios breed, the Looking glass was more important than simply staying alive.

Dinah tried to hiss at me when I did this. Tried. She never liked the damned glass, and I couldn't blame her, but even she understood what I was doing with it. The idea that I had to become the unheralded protector of this glass seemed unavoidable, no matter which way you could look at it. In a rush of emotion, I remembered that I wasn’t the only one who lived in the house. I hadn’t heard Lorina and Henry, and I realized that they could already be dead. Without thinking, I opened the door, burning my left hand, and gagged on the black smoke that billowed into the room. I fell to my knees, not to gather clean air, but to try and see down the burning hallway.

“Lorina! Henry!” I called out, but all I could hear was the roars of the fire. I learned quickly that fire is a very angry force to be reckoned with. The rage it produced was more than one could bear, and often consumes everything with an unending appetite. It flares with all of its passion, pushing quick, swift heat unto that which will feed its rage. It’s hunger would last until no more fuel is found, and then it blackenz down into a depressing, murderous black smoke. I cannot say that I was immune to the dance of the flames, but to watch it was intriguing, to say the least. Dinah was going limp in my arms, and then I realized that perhaps Mortals are not the only ones who cannot stand the thick soot of the fires.  

The Flames were getting higher and higher, and the red inside of the room overshadowed the glow of my eyes. Everything item in the room reflected as black of the soot pushed through above my head. If you could imagine the darkest storm gathering into a compressed formed square-like shape, the urge to get out of your home would cause you to panic a little as well. I had only one way out. I looked to my window and cringed.

Unlike most humans, I can shift my body into the Veil, turning myself into a ghost form and simply walk through walls and floors as if they weren't there. Mortals have said that this was similar to their Wraith stereotype, a man by the name of Vlad Trepe was said to be able to turn into the breeze himself. The action, though draining, would've been easy to perform, but I had neighbors. It was already bad enough that I had a fire going on, that the neighbors were nosy fuckers that wanted to know every little detail of our lives. It would end up being worse, however, if they saw me just floating with a half dead cat out of the house that just happens to be on fire.

However, that was a 12ft drop, and I'm not the most graceful when it came to falling.

My choices were limited, as was my time, so I chose the window. “These idiots had better still be alive...” the words escaped my lips as I grabbed the telephone that was hooked to my wall and used it to smash the window open (Simply using my hand to knock out the window and then getting questioned as to how and why my hand had no cuts or blood was choice I could avoid easily. I needed to look as human as possible in this day and age), then I looked down. I could just see myself slamming against the concrete—hard. I leapt out, in Hello Kitten pajama pants and a tank top, and hair that looked like it hadn't been combed in three weeks, and fell to the pavement.

The way I fell, I would’ve broken my ankle—the snapping sound that came with the fall almost gave me something to worry about—but since I'm not exactly human, all it felt like was a twist and a pop, and then it sprang back into place. Dinah was finally starting to come around with the clean air, so I let her on the ground and she walked around like she was drunk. She fell a couple times while I looked around to see the fire department on the way. The sirens shouted into the air, but their pitch and tone were distorted. The smoke must have fucked me up in some way. That's good, I thought, not too suspicious. At least nobody will notice me as that much of a freak. Lorina and Henry will... I couldn't continue the sentence. The Liddells, I hadn't seen them, nor heard either of them. That was when I realized that I hadn't seen either of the two since I exited the side of the house.

My first few steps were staggering. I couldn't keep my balance entirely, and my vision was hazed, dizzying, with everything splitting into two's and then three's. I looked down at my arms and hands. They were dark, covered in soot with any spot of pale hidden away. The dark morning sky was illuminated with red from the fire and the smell of the burning house caused others to come out and watch the scene. For a moment, the scene didn't seem real. My vision was cutting in and out while I tried to restore my oxygen reservoir. I was coughing, I remember, while trying to call for my foster parents in between.  I took a few steps more and fell to my knees, trying to keep from coughing. I didn't think that all of that black could affect me as much as a mortal, but it was possibly clogging my sensors and electrical mechanisms. Interference was fucking with my vision, “snowing” out the images.

“Quick! She’s over here!” “We need to get her out of here.” “What do we do?” “Take it outside, we need to get this started.” “What about you?”

In the grass, I fell, laying on the organic blades while I watched my home burn, the siren's still growing louder and the voices in my head changing.

“…it feels like things could crash all around, Yet all one can do is dance. If there is hope, it exists as a spice To flavor and glaze despair Was there ever, to begin with, a genuine chance? As if dying slowly could ever be fair?

For dust is the only touch to last…”

I know that poem, was the last thought that went through my head.

Our home wasn't that big. It had a small front yard, and the back yard was only about three feet back with some crab grass and a broke down lawn mower from the X2480's. Nothing too impressive really. A white, two story house that seemed to survive the huge dilemma of the wars that humans waged well before the coming of the second “world in the sky”. Henry had once told me that the house was older than the mower, dating back in the 19th Record century. Something that was hard to believe, really, but I didn't argue with that idea. It was grungy and distorted compared to the other houses in the neighborhood, even though there were a few others of the same age, but our house always stood out from the crowds of homes, with the white paint chipping from the siding and the shingles that protected the roof.

Strangely, the house was my most distinctive memory. I can describe every inch of that house with a greater extent than my own body. The creaking of the floor on the third square in the hallway downstairs would let Lorina know who was trying to get into the kitchen. The Photography room down in the basement still had a light out and Henry was supposed to go to the store that morning to get a new bulb. I was planning on skipping cleaning Dinah’s cat box for the third day in a row. I would have been very pleased to anger Lorina that morning, just to start a fight between her and Henry. Those were usually the better days. Those were the best days. I recall that I would never have days like that ever again.

When I finally woke up, the firemen were already trying to stop the flames from spreading, despite the flames, embers and the debris that was being cast into the air. Then, the sudden sense of dread filled me. I saw the neighbors, the firemen, the trucks, but I did not see my foster parents. I tried to call out for them, over and over again, waiting and hoping for a reply, but I never got one. The smoke rolled out of the house as black as the brink between morning and night.  

I tried to stand, but I fell, onto my hands and knees, angry. I was angry? How? There should've been no way I could feel anything. Unfortunately, I didn't have much time to think about it. My vision was on the brink of failing in seconds, and there was nothing I could do. The sounds of the sirens began to flow away into nothing, and my eyes began to close while I continued to cough.

I remember that one of the firemen who arrived had grabbed me and took me further from the house. I had forgotten that I was stronger than he was, even with all of the world closing in around me. I reached out to strike at him, whether with nails or claws, I can't remember, and I almost took him down, but he had a friend—another fireman—and they pulled me away from the house. After that, I can't remember.

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“Aleister?”

No, sorry, that’s not my name.

“Aleister?”

I’m sorry?

“Aleister…”

“Alice?” A familiar voice pulled me from whatever thought I had been trapped in. My eyes focused on a body standing in front of me. I looked up to see the face of Henry's mother, Sam, talking to me, and I was immediately depressed. As if just waking up, I found myself wrapped up in a blanket with a cup of hot coffee in-between my hands and Dinah in my lap. My cat was looking up at me instead of napping. Highly unusual...   The sounds of the fire trucks and police vehicles grew louder as my mind woke from the sleep I endured. “What happened Alice?” I couldn't help but stare at this woman in front of me. I was surprised she would even show up after so many years. I hadn’t seen her since Lorina slapped her and threw her out of the house.

Oh. It’s Sam. “... Hello Sam.” I said blankly. I didn't like Sam, not since the day I came home from the laboratories, and she didn't like me at all.  Even as a child, Sam didn't like me. She made it apparent when I would be left at her house to be watched while my foster parents worked. She would beat me every chance that she got.  She did this, until I decided one day to throw her through her living room wall and broke her arm in eight places. That was just one warning, and she's had many more. She would tell Henry to leave Lorina and me, but mainly his wife. She never liked Lorina, which offended me. I never liked Lorina much myself, but I felt as though only I had that right. I began liking Lorina more when I realized I hated Sam. Henry, on the other hand, was a mother’s son, and he loved her, despite the fact that she was short, fat demon with old-woman red hair.

“What happened, Alice?” She grabbed me by my forearms and squeezed, I supposed to put some hurt in and try to get me to open up, or maybe just to scare me. Too bad I wasn't feeling a thing at that point. She lived up to the name of “fiery red-head.” whenever I was considered a child, she would act as if a demon's soul had possession of her. She would throw things and try to catch me if I ran. One day, she had caught me and slapped me across the face because I made a mess. I slapped her back, and now she wears a hearing aid in both ears. Henry yelled at me, of course, but only because I hit his mother. That was logical. That was another warning for her, though she still had yet to listen.

“If you make me spill coffee on Dinah, I'll rip your eyeballs from the sockets,” I stated simply, a tone of voice I oft used with dealing with the woman, and she let me go. She had a very good memory, I found out.

“What have you done with my son, you little monster?” Funny, coming from a 162cm woman and I towered at nearly 6ft tall. ��She wasn't scared of me, though she had been scared before.

“I suppose the woman whose child is missing will always act on the instinct of finding her child alive. How ironic you decide to be a mother today—" The slap that landed on my face reminded me that Sam didn’t listen for long.

“You little bitch! That is my son! His life was perfect before you and that whore came into his life! Where is my son?” She was hysterical, and the neighbors were watching.

“Votre motality est devenu une nuisance Je souhaite que je pourrais comprendre cette merde de plus, mais la mortalité à ce jour n'a pas de sens pour moi. Comment pourraient-ils même être en mesure de comprendre l'autre... I didn't do anything to Henry, Sam, so I suggest that you take your bitchery elsewhere. I don't want to hear it today.”

Lorina, by chance, was french, but Henry was english. He learned, but his mother didn't. Sam lived in the city of the Franks for a few years when she had been my age, and yet she didn't care to learn enough in order to speak to others. Moving to this country, where English was the chosen language, my advantage was slanted. Many of this country didn't like one who spoke another language. They even felt so threatened, they believed that language was a tool for slander against residents whom didn't understand it. Sam was in her element, while I was not. However, I could still speak as freely as I could before. Speaking a language that wasn't common in these lands made me a target, but knowing English was also a benefit for me.

Of course, Sam didn't understand that. She didn't understand anything about me, nor did she care to. I could only wonder if she thought that I was some love child that Lorina had and talked Henry into accepting. I never asked, and I didn't care to. Why did it matter to someone who didn't give a shit about me?

“You did something!” Sam was wagging her fat, flabby, disgusting, nail-polished finger in my face. It smelled of bingo ink and shame. I had thought about biting it, but my sensors rejected that idea, and I decided to wait until she got closer so I could chew her eyeballs out instead. This woman and I hated each other so much, one could only wonder why. Well, a mortal could if they wanted to. “How did the house burn down? It's been standing for centuries, and now suddenly it's burning to the ground, with Henry and his girlfriend missing?”

“You mean Lorina. His wife.” The very fact that after 15 years, she still refused to acknowledge Lorina as Henry's wife, burned me like the fire of my house. “The house was old, Sam. Like you said, it's been standing for centuries. Now, it's dead, and as for Henry and Lorina, I have no idea. I just managed to get out of the house--”

“You set it on fire, you little bitch!” Now she was screaming and I took the time to see that those nosy fuckers down the street were listening to every word.  Of course, it’s the goddamned neighbors… they had to be out here, watching the show whilst listening if Sam was working to make someone feel inferior. She was, of course, a lawyer, after all, but I must admit that I am impressed with the fact that there is something more evil than I. “You are evil,” she yelled at me at some point, “filled with the sin of that Boxeto--”

“Sam!” I stood up, and took a step forward.  That fucking word again: sin. I hated it. Passionately, I hated it more than word “submit”. “If I had a soul, you would have a point, but machines don’t sin.” I took a sip of my coffee. “Also, I’m starting to believe that I hate you, Samantha.”

“You shut up! You’re just as responsible for killing my son just like you did all of those other people! You’re just like every other piece of scum from your stupid planet!”

“Actually, I was born on this world. If you were smart, you would know that. However, since we know you’re not…”

“Tell me what you’ve done to my son, bitch!”

“Well, I’m glad to know you were concerned about my surviving the fire, Sam. At least I know you care.” I took another sip of my coffee, but Sam ended up slapping that out of my hand before I was done. “Damn it. That was really good coffee, too.”

“Stop ignoring me and tell me what you’ve done with my son!”

“I’m trying to ignore you for a reason, but since you want my attention so badly, I’ll let you in on a little secret. The only reason you’re still alive is because of Henry. If Henry can’t be found, or if he’s dead, then that means you’re dead as well.”

“Ha! Like I’m scared of you!”

“You will be.”

“Fuck you!”

“Love you too, Grandma.” I began walking away when Sam grabbed my arm.

She said something else after that. She said that I deserved what the Mortals who followed the Path “Hell”. I deserved the worst; that I must suffer for everything. For all that I've done, in comparison to others who killed for conquest, I never tried to kill anyone because I wanted to. It was more along the lines of this one that stood before me at this moment.  

Mortals are constantly in my way, demanding things from me, expecting me to react to them in the same selfish, irrational intentions as they have for me. Like this woman, the Mortals would demand for my attention when I was annoyed. They would demand my voice when I was sore. They would deman from me their life after giving me more reason to kill them.

They were all fools, and I hated them, but Sam has a special place in my memories. She talked. She talked more than she did think. She, and the rest of her kind, spoke without thinking. They acted without thinking. Their decisions were based on false, twisted, indifferent idolizations that had nothing to do with a reality outside of their own. They barred out reality, replacing it with something that couldn't exist.

“Beasts that cannot follow the program that was given to them by nature are, by nature, selected to die off. This is a time where nature has been shot down and repressed, so those who do not and should not belong in the living at this moment, they were saved by scientists like us. We've defied nature, so that makes us gods. Do you understand this?”

I could recount what Dr. Crowley said about Mortals almost word for word, as familiar as the back of my hand. Dr. Crowley had an animosity towards the mortals that rivaled and triumphed over my own. Dr. Crowley was more accurate than anything else, and the hatred that was carried with this interesting Mortal was enough to earn my trust. I could only wonder what happened to the doctor. It seemed as though the doctor went into hiding right after my fall in the other world. Dr. Crowley would've been disappointed in me if I were to show concern to the very creatures I was created to destroy.

It's odd how I couldn't even recall the doctor's face, or anything else but the words spoken, if not repeated, in my mind several times a day.

At the time, it didn't matter at all.

The second cup of coffee I was able to procure during my scolding from Sam, was still steaming when I threw it on Sam and walked away, with Dinah right behind me. She made me angry, but I promised Henry I wouldn't kill her.

The house, once white with paint chipping, that had been untouched for centuries, was half standing, black soot smothered over the strange formations of what I guessed were wooden beams of the house. The house really was as old as Henry had said, it seemed. From the tops of the beams, where the black had boiled, look like it had been followed with a cauldron of tar that dripped and broke the wood, splintering them off and cracking them to the core. The front of the house, which still had broken apart in chunks that landed all around, was haunting. One half of my home was charred and fallen, whilst the other half of it still stood. The stairs that led right up to my bedroom had remained, regardless of my room no longer existing. In fact almost my entire bedroom had crashed to the foundation and was left as crumbled black slabs left to rot, all but for the door and part of the wall that had been attached to the front of the house. The front door and over to the left where the hallway and the living room used to be was eaten away by the fire, leaving burn wood, and ash.

The table in the kitchen, I saw as I continued to walk around the burnt home, still stood, along with the chairs. The refrigerator was still up, blackened by the smoke as well, the toaster looked as though it had melted away. The furniture in the living room was destroyed, leaving only their skeletons in their place. The piano Henry played was gone, though its black shape had shadowed the wall. The heat of the flames had burned the memory of the piano before destroying it, a brilliant display of the beauty of fire. If anything, I believed it to be the one thing a bioroid could love. Much like a computer, it didn't care what morals were. It didn't care at all. I think that made me slightly jealous, but I remembered my foster parents, and like that my feelings were behind me.

As I continued walking, I noticed something glaring from the ash and debris. The sunlight of the morning made it more noticeable than anything. It was a piece of another Looking glass.

Wait. What? I looked to my hand and the Looking glass I owned was still there, the outline of its shape appearing as a tattoo under my skin. The piece was still with me. The piece in the house wasn’t mine.

No, it wasn’t mine, nor was it a piece of mine. The piece that was buried in the ash pulsed a deep red color, similar to the Boxeto's, but its hum seemed different. I looked around me, wondering who was really going to notice me. Sam was still pissed over the coffee; some of the neighbors were comforting her. The police were taking statements. They hadn't come to me yet, even though I lived there. Cops, never a missing moment...

I blinked; a bloody vision of what surrounded me flashed in my mind, and everything stopped. Time was ticking in my ear as the slow movements of the second hand echoed.  It was one of the few things I inherited from Mother. Control of the environment surrounding me, slowing time for but a moment. My movements became swift and incapable of being seen by mortal eyes. I could move without hesitation or time constraints, though the power was temporary.

Mortals, still moving and aware, couldn't comprehend something that was so fast. To them, I was nothing but a flash of a ghost they couldn't quite grasp. To me, they were slow moving statues, barely able to catch the sounds of my footsteps as I walked past. They were like turtles who attempted to catch a humming bird. My movements were swift to their own, but the danger of them snapping from my, how would you say, “spell” was very likely. The ability didn't grant me a lot of time, and the need to hurry was essential  so I wasn't caught.

I walked forward past all who would've saw me. I passed under and through the caution police tape that was placed after the fire died down enough where it was safe to approach, and then I took the glass. Then something snapped. Time was altered, and this Looking glass was nothing like my own. It was a recording.

In a flash, the house was back to the way it was. It had built itself around me in colors of blues and reds, the walls were colored glass and the windows were as blue as the sky. I could walk through the house if I wanted to, but I couldn’t. For a moment, I was lost in the technocolored, artificial home that was once mine. Was this how it was, I remember asking myself. My home was this? Is this all it was? The emptiness in seeing this recording was strange. I could find what this emotion was, but I suspected nostalgia, or perhaps grief in knowing that my home was so boring.

The recording then showed that Lorina was getting breakfast ready, her outline was almost glass. She moved much more graciously than in real life, I supposed as an effort to give her some credit of not being a complete klutz. It was wrong. Lorina was clumsy, that’s how I remembered her.  Henry must have been in the bedroom, or even the downstairs bathroom, getting ready for the day. In a moment, she was happy, her song was echoing with some distortion from the recording. It was one of her favorite songs that she would sing from her radio. I couldn’t remember what the words were, even though I had heard it so many times before.

She stopped dancing, turned toward the hallway,  and then moved quickly to the back door. I couldn’t make out what's really going on, but I knew something has her. She was trying to stay away from it, but it grabbed her by the back of her hair and slammed her onto the ground. The recording didn't capture the assailant? Why wouldn't it do that, unless the person who left this behind wanted me to find it, to see it? Henry, another piece of glass that didn’t capture the personality, only a shadow, arrives but he falls for some reason, but he isn't dead. Yet. Other things happen to make Lorina cry out in agony, but I won't say. It's not necessary to the story. She stopped moving eventually, laying as lifeless as her husband. Whatever had attacked them, this thing,  takes her and Henry into the living room, and the recording changed.

As the Looking glass' memory fades away, I can see the fire start from where Lorina was cooking breakfast. Now it makes sense. While the recording faded away from me, I found that I had ended up back on the street, looking at the front of the house instead of the side where the kitchen once stood, time went back to normal. I was standing there with nothing but sand in my hand. It wasn't meant to be kept. It was a message. I looked at the house again, curious. They were alive, possibly, but I didn't know where they were, or who would want both of them, unless for some sadistic rituals. Yet, there was, I shall admit, an aching at this site. It was similar, almost exact to the time when they were taken the first time. Why someone would take them?

“Alice Liddell?” I heard my name and looked around. Another fireman came up to me, this one was a bit taller, and he had his mask over his face. Soot covered his yellow suit and his oxygen tank was low. Apparently, this one had just gotten out of the fire, but wasn't about to get treated like the others. There were still about four or five shooting water at the house, trying to tame the small flames that had reached other houses near mine, but it seemed futile. It seemed the fires would continue forever. Strange. “Miss Liddell?” He caught my attention again, and this time I looked at him.

“What?” I realized I hadn't scared him, so I stopped scowling. He stood tall, watching me carefully. Just what the fuck is he looking at? The thought was strong but quickly forgotten.

“Uh, we looked all over, but there are some areas that we can't get into. Do you know if there was anyone else in the house?” The voice was muffled by his mask over his face, but he didn't seem to bother him. He spoke loud enough for me to grasp his words.

“Only my foster parents. I can't find them, and I don't know where they are.” My voice was drifting into a whisper. The fireman had leaned in to try to make out my words, a bit closer than what I would appreciate. His eyes, bright and vivid through the mask, held a dull amethyst color I'd never seen before... There was something about them, but I wouldn't remember that until—

“She's over there!” I could hear Sam telling the officers that just now arrived to the scene. “I'm telling you, I know that bitch set the house on fire!” Oh, how I couldn't wait for the confirmation to tear that old hag's face from her skull. Can you tell that I have a sparkling personality? I didn't look over at her or the police, but I stared at the fireman. He didn't move his face away from mine, and there was something there that was bugging me about him. For one, he was taller than me, and two, he wasn’t looking at me. He was watching me.

I could see his eyes through the mask, nothing else. He watched me with those eyes, in way I can never shake even now. The plexiglass distorted their color, leaving only the edge that made them stick out so much. With the vision of a dog, I looked into those eyes and wondered what was making them stick out in my mind to notice them. He, however, turned away after he realized my own fascination with his eyes, walking away.

The fuck was that about?

“Miss Liddell?” It was one of the officers speaking to me now. He was taller than me as well, almost the same height as the fireman, if not more. I had to actually look up at him in order to connect to his eyes.  The man seemed familiar to me for some reason. I met him somewhere long ago, but at the moment I couldn't recall the face. “We need to have you come to the police station, if you wouldn't mind?” At first, when he looked at my face, it seemed that I was a stranger to him, but seconds later, his eyes widened with a fear I finally recognized, and my memory marked him as one of the humans whose family was murdered by my hands.

His wife worked for the facility and she was dead before she could react. Her words pissed me off the wrong way, though I don’t remember what exactly she said, I knew it angered me. I sliced her open with a weapon, a scythe, tearing her lower half apart and leaving her for dead. I was pulled away. He and another rushed to help her. I wondered how a man who used to work in the facilities made it as a cop. Many of the employees were murdered off either by myself or by the mortals to cover up the experimentation. It's been six years since, and I could only wonder if he remembered me as well as I remembered him now. It's not hard remembering your victims, living or dead, but it's harder to fully recall why you remember them when you don't really have a conscience.

“I do mind. Maybe you should be more interested to see if my parents are alive instead of listening to a crazed bitch that's blaming me for a death that hasn't been determined? That would be much appreciated, wouldn't you agree?” He scowled at me, nearly growling. I didn't mind going in for questions, but I didn't like him. He was smug, and he was taller than me. However, he did roll his eyes when Sam started to scream again. Apparently, she was heard loud and clear. Apparently, he found her just as annoying as I have. He looked back at her and waved his hand.

“Thank you, Ma'am. I appreciate your efforts.” He turned and softly whispered “fucking crazy lady” as he looked back at me. Huh, maybe this guy isn’t so bad after all.

“You would be bitter like me as well if that woman was your grandmother, agreed?” I said this despite Sam’s yelling.

“Where are you from?”

“How the fuck is that important?” I found my patience running thin. I didn't care to tell him about the wonderful vineyards of Dreux or the massacre of the Protestants, or any of that shit! “How about you worry more about finding the Liddells instead of asking me questions that have nothing to do with my house burning down.”

“Because I’m an investigator, and a cop, and it’s my job to ask questions.” His eyes narrowed at me, and I finally yielded.

“I’m from Dreux, as is my foster mother. The whore over there, as well as her son, are English. Now, will you please try to find my foster parents?”

“You’re from the Frank Lands, but you’re Amarian…”

Shit! “Kind of, but not really.”

“‘Kind of, but not really?’ doesn’t sound very convincing, Ms. …?”

“Liddell. My name is Liddell. You just said my name.”

“Okay, well Miss Liddell, as standard practice, you know that you have to be detained until the Crusade investigates your story, right?”

“No, they don’t.”

“They don’t?” He was looking more annoyed with me by the minute.

“No! They don’t, and I shouldn’t have to be detained for anything! My house just burned down, my family is missing, and you’re wanting to keep me like an animal! I haven’t even done anything wrong! Why do I have to be locked up because of something I’m not responsible for?”

“Well, Miss Liddell, you really don't have a choice in the matter. It's my job to find out what happened, and we'll be taking you down to the station. Now.” Oh, he remembered all right... there are always those tell-tale looks that lets you know just how much a person finds you in their mind, and that one had hatred with a dash of nostalgia. The way he looked at me now was with the glare of anguish, of torture. Of course! He was furious to see me, alive and well, while his wife was burning in an inferno forever, according to the mortal's beliefs anyway. I quite savored that thought. I was the reason for his pain, his hatred. I would forever be remembered by those whom lost a loved one to me. There were less things satisfying compared to such as that. I suppose you can blame the programming or myself, but I would rather believe it was my intentions, not that of a program.

His notepad was back in his pocket, as was his pen. I hadn’t noticed those items when they were out, but then again, he had never used them when he started speaking to me. “Come on. We need to go.”

“You can fucking wait!” I howled, then looked to the house. “I want to see if my parents are alive or not!” Then, he snorted,

“You mean, you care?” His words didn't bother me as much as I thought they should, but I tried my best to ignore them regardless. I didn't want the neighbors to freak out from seeing me reuniting this man with his wife, especially since I wanted Sam's blood more than his. “Fine, if it will make you happy.”

“I’ll never be happy.”

<><><><><>

No bodies were found in the fire. Nothing. The idea that I killed my foster parents had dissipated with the evidence, or rather a lack of bodies, but now the question of where my foster family had gone to when the fire started was brought up, and they were still looking at me for answers... And I was so looking forward to torturing Sam, too....

The Mortals had a policy on this planet: Investigate by any means, but the Crusade gets the ultimate say-so as judge, jury, and, too often enough, executioner. Between the two worlds, Amara was the smartest. They would simply kill any and all Mortals whom entered their wilderness world without hesitation. On this world, however, the Mortals “valued” life, and depending on how you define “value” is how valuable you could be to the Crusade. The Mortals, through their short lifespans, have developed a strange sense of “value” when it comes to life: They’re more upset by an animal dying than they are their own kind, though to be fair, Amara’s population was nowhere close to a percentage of the Mortals.

Dr. Crowley would oft speak about the misgivings and experimentations the Mortals would put our kind through. The Doctor was a half-breed, and had to go through many of those same experiments, just to avoid not being killed. The only way an Amarian is spared is if they show no, as the Mortals called it, “supernatural power” or animosity towards the Mortals. Some even had to pledge their allegiance against their own people in order to stay alive. Some of those whom had to do this were simply used for whatever the Mortals desired and then shot regardless. The Doctor must have been an exceptional liar, for the animosity remained and was carried on through me.

And now, there was a moron slamming his hands in front of me, trying to intimidate me for an answer I didn’t have.

“So, where are the Liddells?” One of the cops from the fire asked for the 178 time. He was flicking a pen back and forth between his fingers, exactly 287 times per minute within the past 4 minutes, and staring at me with a smug smile. He was a smoker, with yellow stained teeth and a cup of coffee next to him. The way he held his pen between his first two fingers were a giveaway as well. We were in a typical interrogation room for at least 4 hours, answering and asking the same things back and forth over and over. The idea that the room was empty was a lie; four chairs at a long table and a mirror the size of the room for the cops to watch us through. I could hear two heartbeats from beyond the mirror, and I knew possibly his chief and another officer, possibly the one I had spoken to earlier from the fire, had to be inside. “We know that they weren't in the house,” he continued, “so, what did you do with the bodies?”

“I didn't do anything with any bodies,” I said slowly, for the whatever-numbered time, trying to drive the words into his skull that I hadn't done the crime he was gunning for. His dark red hair fluttered over his blue eyes. They were different than Mother's. Not a crystal blue, but more of a deeper sky color. They were nice to staring into.

“So, why don't I believe you?” He was an Amarian that renounced his lineage to live with the Mortals. I suppose he knew more about who I was than any of the Mortals, but his eyes did not show that. He didn’t recognize me, which I thought was strange. What I didn’t like about him, was the fact that he was purposely trying to have me admit to something just to look good in front of his Mortal friends. I would have to remind him what happens to traitors…

“Vous êtes un crétin.”

“Excuse me? How about you learn some English or some shit?” How tastefully ironic that this individual hadn’t realized that within the third hour of this “questioning” that he and I slipped back into the Amarian language and were arguing that way. The Mortals behind the mirror didn’t understand what we had been saying since then, and were possibly frustrated with our discussion.  This one had been so frustrated with me, that I would not lie to make him look better in front of his stupid coworkers, that he had gone back to a tongue that he vowed to never speak again as long as he lived.

“Que diriez-vous d'apprendre à parler une autre langue vous baise porc. “

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Basically, I'm allowed to speak whatever I wish. It's not my fault you never took the time to learn something inviting.” I looked him up and down, and I couldn't help but wonder how big his dick was. Thoughts like this occasionally come to my attention when I smell children on an adult, and this man had to have a massive penis in order to have children. You could always tell someone has children because of the putrid smell of milk that lingers on their clothing and their skin. It’s like they bathed in it and let it dry. Perhaps my nostril was more sensitive because of programming, or you could argue from a natural standpoint that my nose caught everything.

I just so happened to also catch that my reflection was wrong; instead of me, sitting in a chair in my pajamas with my arms crossed, looking pissed that I was here, Mother was in the chair, staring at me the entire time. She had that look of murder on her face. She raised one of her hands from the table and pointed to the cop speaking to me. Then, she held up two fingers, and then five.

Are we suddenly bored, Mother? I asked to her, but she didn’t answer. She simply kept staring at me, smiling.

“What the fuck makes you think you can do what you want? ...Hello! I'm the cop, you're the suspect. What makes you think you're going to do whatever you want while I'm here, you little shit?” He slammed his hands onto the table, red hair flailing all over.  It was pretty long, with a stupid rattail tied up in the back. He was older than the other cop, but just as stupid and slow. I took a guess that one of his children were two, and the other five, just as Mother told me.

“So, would you prefer me to murder you, or one of your two children first? The two year old would be the most fun, though I find the older ones are such a treat! I can wait for an answer, if you wish.” Mother seemed to smile more as she watched the cop, the traitor in front of me, register in his mind that I had just threatened to murder his children. He went from shaking hands to shaking fists in a matter of 15 seconds. Another 5 seconds later, a chair had moved by his will to block the door, keeping anyone whom wanted in, out.

I suppose you could guarantee that an answer like that would warrant someone to get punched in the face. I suppose you could also guarantee that when one becomes enraged they would also flip a table on top of you and try to ram you with it. The cop, however, flipped the table over on top of me first, which I was not expecting.  I had become accustomed to how the Mortals fight, which would normally involve jumping head first into the fray without strategy or thought in how to defeat an enemy, and it had been a long time since I had to fight my own kind. He pulled me out from under the table and punched me several times in the face, he threw me across the room, grabbed me again and pinned me against the wall, with his hands were around my throat, choking my oxygen intake. His face was close to mine, seething and growling like a rabid wolf.

I felt him grab the crown of my head by the hair and slammed my head against the concrete wall over and over again until I was sure there was blood on the wall. “You want to threaten my kids? You want to go after my babies? It ain't no issue with me, or my superiors, if I beat the shit out of you and leave you for dead!”  He was screaming this at me, with a face as red as his hair. His blue eyes had begun to glow bright, telling me he didn’t care if he were to be slaughtered by man after this. The justification of violence and breaking a vow came with protecting his offspring.

I had to flail my arm around to grasp a few strands of my hair.  I had a few, not many, but they would worked. The hairs stood straight between my fingers, as sharp as knives, and I shoved them into the officer's forearm. He hadn't noticed at first, even while the others through the glass could be heard screaming behind the mirror.

“Quick! Get in there!” “He's going to kill her! Stop him!”

He could hear them as well, but that's not what stopped him. He loosened his grip of me as his arm started to lose feeling and the hairs sunk into his skin. Dark splotches grew all over his arm and body. It turned his veins a dark blue and his skin like scales, his jugular was pounding in his neck where I could see without trying to look. Black smog was rising from his body, telling me his muscle tissue and organs were decaying from the inside. All of his veins began popping from his skin, and blood started to splatter onto the wall from his arm. He finally let me go and tried to pull the hairs out of his arm, falling to his knees and screaming for mercy. Coughing and gasping for air, I could only look at him, watching him trying to reach for something only his mind could see. He cried out to whatever it was he thought was above his head, begging for forgiveness. What he needed forgiveness for, I wasn't sure. As his black, boiled blood pooled around him, he stared at me, but not in anger. I couldn’t name the sensation before me accurately at the time, but later on, I would recall his face when the time arrived once again.

I thought there would be some words for me in the end, but no. Not a word. It was the first time I didn't feel any satisfaction from watching an Amarian die in front of me. He didn't have the kind of soul I found delicious at all. His kind would only make me malfunction in some way, like a stomach illness to a Mortal. Besides, it wasn't going to be long before the idiot bled out like the pig he was.

After that, it was a blur of more cops running into the room, with nightsticks that were ready for a beating. They knocked me to the ground completely and struck me over and over until they were sure I couldn't move. They dragged me from the room to a cell that was a couple floors below the ground, with rows and rows of men, women, and whatever in between you could think of, all caged in their cells like zoo animals.

I was tossed in the eighth one down to the left by myself and left there, allowed to hear the doors clang and the lock snap close. Voices of the Mortals echoed throughout the holding cell, some of them talking about ripping my head off—Even though I didn't even start the shit, but it's not like it matters to them—and others were talking about the issue the cop who interrogated me was having. He would be dead before they got him to a hospital. I was bleeding, badly, but not enough to need medical attention. My blood had trailed through the holding cell room, all the way back to that single room. I could only imagine what would happen next. I dragged myself to other end of the cell and allowed the blood to fall to the ground in a large puddle. It would dry, but that wasn't what I was worried of.

With all the strangeness that was happening, I should have assumed the Boxeto would arrive; Mother would come find me. She had previously spoken to me, so it was only proper to make her day a little easier by leaving a “gate” for her to enter this world. She would need the blood to arrive, since this ghost didn't have the ability to create her own body, mine would have to do, whether I wished for it or not.

I passed out after that.

The Humans didn't really say or do much to me after that. They tried to say that I set the house on fire to cover up evidence for the murders of the Liddells, but that was more stupid than me just trying to kill them in the fire. The incident with the officer didn't help either. The fact that I used my hair to poison him gave the mortals a reason to hold me. Amarian people could be held as terrorists of the state, and I was no exception. I was held in the jail cell for a few days. I had to fight to keep Dinah with me, but I got my way.  One of the officers were nice enough to give her milk every morning, but it turned her crazy if she drank too much. I would have to take the bowl from her on occasion if she got too hyper and ran into the bars of the cell.

It wasn't like the bars could keep her in anyway. They were close enough together for a mortals—or myself—to be trapped inside, but my cat was small and slender and could escape from the bars whenever she wished. She would simply come back to me when she was done doing whatever it was she found entertaining, and then by night, she was asleep in my arms.

They said they had to hold me over night at first, then they found evidence, so it would be another night, and then testing had to be done, so another night was necessary, even though I already knew they were full of shit. I wasn't about to argue. I really had no place to go. I had no cohorts, other than Lorina and Henry, or friends, or even family. There was no one for me, and not a body to be found. The point of living with the Liddells was to simply live with them. I didn't have a life, other than the one they gave me. So, without them, I had no objectives, and the new objective became a mission to try to find them. I have to find them, so I can continue my original purpose.

However, that wasn't the case in a scenario I was stuck in. I wasn't about to object to staying, especially since I had no other place to call home.  That, and I didn't have money to feed my cat, and they were doing it for me, so there was another reason to stay. I thought of my objective through those three days I stayed in the cell, thinking. If I didn't have the Mortals to care for me, what the fuck was I supposed to do? It was during those three days that I realized that “Do what you want” was the only objective to follow at this point.

This was a first for me. No orders, no directions, absolutely nothing controlled me. I was now a variable, able to do what I wished to do without need of command or prompts. This was...  

I suppose the Mortals enjoyed this “freedom”, as they called it, more than I would. I found it damaging. A computer is only useful as the user. Though some of me was organic, my mind was still of a computer, and without a user, my only objective that I could continue was making sure that my cat would live. Until Mother showed herself to me, I had nothing. Why hadn't she arrived to me yet?

I felt restless, pacing in my cage like an animal, hands behind my back voluntarily. The fact that I hadn't been given any sort of command in so long was irritating.

Irrational. Irrational. Irrational.

Irrational. Irrational. Irrational.

Irrational? What? No, not now! I really don’t need this right now!  I needed an update, as the repetition of words and abstract thoughts ran through my mind. Mind. Mind. Mind. Mind. Mind.

Mind.

Maybe, I thought, I should stop pacing to fix the glitch. It must have come from the smoke in the house. It was the only reason why I couldn't—

“Hey! Why don't you sit down Sweetie?” One of the thugs said to me, laughing to one of the weaker ones whom stayed in the cell with him. I was the only one not paired with anyone. I supposed the Mortals were smart enough not to try and give me another victim. This one, on the other hand, was asking for it.

“Maybe you shouldn't fuck with her,” I could hear one of them say to the first. “I heard she almost killed a cop with a bunch of knives she hid in her hair.

Knives? The cop didn’t die? How insulting... I decided that I wanted to kill the small one for that.

“Shut up! Look at her! She’s a fucking twig!” said the large one.

“She looks like one of those weirdo aliens from that other world. Look at her hair and eyes!” Another spoke up, fear in his voice.

“All she needs is a stiff dick, and she’ll be just fine! Hey, baby! You need a dick, don’t you? Isn’t that why you look so pissed right now?” The large ones face was right between the bars as he stared at me. He looked like a fool, but I wasn't in the mood and decided ahead of time that I would vomit if I touched that disgusting looking male. He was bald. He had bad teeth. He was fat. He didn't look like he bathed regularly—not like I could say much after a few days in this cell—and he was getting on my nerves just with his voice. “Hey! Why don't you show me your tits?”

“Pourquoi n'avez-vous pas sucer ma bite douze pouces d'imaginaire, vous indigne fils de pute?”

“What the fuck kind of language is that? What, you speak retard or something?” He laughed at me. He was laughing either because he was stupid or he was trying to work my last nerve. The latter was working just fine on its own. “I said, ‘Show me your tits,’ you stupid cunt!” I suppose emphasizing his words by talking like a sloth is a bit much, but the fact that he was able to think that hard proves he’s aware enough for me. His ignorance should be apparent, but there are naïve people reading this story, and I'd rather not disappoint them. “Do you understand that? Why don't you learn some fucking English, you stupid bitch? I said, ‘Show me your tits,’ not stare at me like your deaf! Maybe your mommy and daddy need to teach you how to put out for a man?”

With my left hand raised, the bars were quick to crush his skull between the pressure of them pressing together, and his brains and blood poured out, over his chest and stomach, and splattered to the ground. His cellmates, terrified, backed to the walls of the cell, trying to stay out of my vision. I should've killed the other ones for opening their mouths, but decided not to. There really wasn't a point of getting more charges. I didn't feel like eating his soul either. There was something about Mortals, or anyone actually, telling me to learn their English that pissed me off. I could speak better English in French than the morons who demanded I do the opposite. The fools...

He was only fortunate that I couldn't use the power I had before. He got it easier than the cop...

“Hello!” I raised my head and realized I hadn’t moved at all. When I looked back over at the opposite cell, I saw that it was all a dream, and the men were still yelling stupid banter and crude remarks at me. Huh… Usually, I follow my dreams more than this. Amazing how vivid a daydream can be.

Dream was the right word, but I hadn’t been aware of this until much later.

<><><><><>

“Eighty-one hours remaining. Please update system, or shutdown will be initiated.”

I believe the fourth day broke me, making me feel something I can't comprehend. I stayed on the floor, sure that Mother wasn't coming. Maybe she wanted me to simply get out myself, but I didn't have the desire to now. I had decided that the objective would come to me, it was the only rational thing I could think.

It was the only rational thing I could think.

It was the only rational thing I could think.

“Fuck! I need that update.” I didn’t remember the last time I had needed one, but I knew if it were not taken soon, I would have to shut down. I didn't have the vial needed to finish the update. The vial, you may be asking, is something I'm not entirely sure about. Lorina and Henry would give me this to ensure that my data wasn't outdated, running behind. She used to call it “Meds.” It was a serum that I would take at the facilities, and Henry was able to replicate it easily. If I could get ahold of that, I would have not a single problem!

The only problem I did have currently was that policeman. Namely, it was the one from the fire, whose wife I just happened to decapitate. Oh, the irony.

He made sure that I was watched constantly as he awaited for the Crusade to arrive. He was a man of his duty, that was clear from the beginning, but I found something about him disturbing. I could have sworn, from the time I had met him to now, that I knew the man from somewhere. His dark hair and blue eyes weren’t so familiar to me, but his face was. The way he walked, how he carried himself, the way he spoke to me—all of this brought nostalgia I couldn’t recognize immediately. There were still only a few days before the Crusade would arrive for me, but the closer that time came, the more I believed that I knew that man. Even the officer seemed nervous about the Crusade coming for me. The fact that his eyes never wanted to leave me was unsettling, but the only form of comfort I knew at the time.

The World had always been my home, and I had only been to Amara once, mainly to kill the empires' families and destroy anything that lived, and other such similar tasks. There was never a reason to learn, to discover, to understand what heritage meant. How much difference could there be between the Immortals and myself, I did not know. I did remember that I shared most of the differences between Amara and myself was knowing what exactly I was.

“How are you holding up?” He had asked me at some point, standing in front of my cell door, but not so close as most would be. He was smart enough to know that, if I could reach him, I would break his neck and escape in some way. He was possibly the smartest officer there, now that I think about it.

“You care?” I was too drained to put any effort into being a bitch. The prompt for the update was clouding my personality algorithms.

“I care enough to watch you die. Monsters like you deserve the worst.”

“Do you believe you’re less of a monster than I?”

“No, but at least I can admit I am one.”

“Can you, now? Imagine that: A Mortal whom can separate himself from reality, only to lie to himself.”

“I’m not a liar, you are!” He kicked my cage, triggering me to giggle just a little.

“That’s two lies in two minutes. Are you trying to beat a record, or are you trying to impress me?”

“Oh, you like jokes? How funny would it be if I just shot your ass right now? I could get away with it, and nobody would give a fuck about it!”

“Oh? How excited you must be to know this.”

“Don’t you care at all?” He knelt down next to the door, holding onto the bar, looking at me as I sat on the floor with my back against the wall. “You think nobody recognizes you? I do. I know that you’re a monster because of all the victims and survivors who were maimed by your selfish need to kill. You killed people’s mothers, fathers, children, friends—my wife! I stood there and watched you rip her apart, how you killed her and took her soul into yourself. I watched you laugh after looking at her blood on your hands. You laughed because she was such an easy kill. You laughed, like it was the best thing to happen to you that day, and then you looked at me. You stopped laughing and you told me to remember you for as long as I could, because I would never see you again. Do you remember that?”

“Eh. In some fashion, yes, but then again, I’ve killed so many, it’s hard to keep track of the whining husbands who can’t live without their women.”

“Hey!” He slammed a hand against the bars, the sound echo

.

Azlagor

My foster mother favored dark auburn hair and dim green eyes as my look, making me match and displayed the reasonable assumption that I had inherited my foster father's genes. Henry didn't like it though. He said that he loved me like his own (his own “what” I still have yet to find information on), he thought that my white hair was more attractive and my crimson eyes beautiful, something he would remind me of, time and time again. Lorina's argument would be that allowing what I really looked like to show was as dangerous as announcing all of the murders I've committed, and Henry agreed. I was forced to keep displaying this hair, this false self that they grew to accept.

Hair was a good indicator of Amarian decent. Amarians didn’t need to dye their hair exaggerated colors like the Mortals did; we were born with a variety of bright and cheery colors. Many Amarian females would dye their hair dark colors, but the brighter your hair, the harder it was to dye the hair. I was fortunate, for the Boxeto’s blood allowed me to change my appearance to whatever I desired, though the default was pale white and red.

I hadn’t thought about how I looked to the Mortals since I had been placed in the jail. It didn’t matter much to me whether they knew or not. They knew I was Amarian, so my fate was sealed. It felt as though all Lorina and Henry had tried to accomplish had been wasted with my exposure.

Lorina had just cut my hair days prior to all of this. My hair had been long enough to reach past my back and she chopped most of it off. The front of my hair was long enough to touch past my shoulders, but the rest was cut back to the base of the skull, in a v-shape on either side. She said it would make my shoulders look more “feminine.” Fuck you, Lorina.

“Seventy-nine hours remaining. Please update system or shutdown will be initiated.”

“GO BACK TO SLEEP...”

“What the fuck was that?” I asked out loud. The voice I heard wasn’t one that was familiar, it was different. “Go back to sleep?” was the least strange thing to happen to me in this story. It wasn’t long before images would play in my head, images that I didn’t recognize, that would haunt me the rest of my days.

I remembered that Henry would love to sit and ask me questions most people wouldn't think to ask. He was a scientist as heart, and he wasn't ashamed to show it. At a younger age, he would read me books of science, books that had much to do with history, books on people who changed the world. We could talk about anything, and his patience matched mine when it came to our mutual enemy: stupidity and ignorance. He'd always made an effort to make sure that I knew the histories of the mortals and the Amarian folk. The one thing he never did was read to me “Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. I never understood why for the longest time, especially since Lorina wanted that done. He stopped, after the facility sent their men to get me. He'd changed after they took me, it seemed. He didn't joke the way he would when I was a child, and he rarely smiled unless we were talking about how stupid other Mortals were. That was his joy. He hated humans, too. Maybe that's why we got along so well.

“So, we’re just going to bring the wrong one here, and then we’re going to wake her up? Is that really a good idea? Don’t you think you’ve fucked up shit enough here?” “I love you, too, Kit.” “I’m being serious!”

I remembered how my foster parents brought Dinah home from the shelter. I only liked her because she was a black cat, and figured that she would match my mood better than with someone else. I remembered how they would tuck me into bed even after I repeatedly told them that I was going to slit their throats in their sleep if they didn't stop, but they never stopped.  I remembered how Lorina and Henry almost got their divorce because of Sam, but remained together because of me. I remembered when they would take me to various places, whether I wanted to go or not, just so I could see something new. I remembered many things about my life with the Liddells.

However, every time I would attempt to escape to the land of memories and acquired skills, that fucking cop would come by. He would terrorize (or attempted to, anyway) me into confessing my guilt, that I was going to get the worst thing to come to me. That the police force would finally bring a villain, such as I, to justice...

“Fifty-two hours remaining. Please update system, or shutdown will be initiated.”

<><><><><>

Trent R. Everson, was his name. I found out after the second night in jail. His dark hair reminded me of the ravens I hated so much, but his eyes were blue like Mother's. He was a gentle looking man, when he wasn't glaring in my general direction. The very fact he made me use the word “glaring” in order to make a description in a true story is more than enough justification for me to loathe a person until, and after, they are dead.

Any other time, when he wasn't focused on “glaring” at me, he laughed a lot, and spoke like he read books, much like how Lorina talked. The reminder of my foster mother, I assume, was the reason he became so... how do you say, useful, later on in the tale I am giving. That’s not the right word. It was more like he reminded me of my mother, and that became something needed.

He seemed educated, knew the law and shared his knowledge with his coworkers. He even looked good in uniform, surprisingly. It was strange that his first interaction with me seemed to affect my sensors. He set something off that made me want to rip his throat out, but the desire was snubbed out when he was in the room. He was a total dick to me, and I enjoyed watching him from a distance, when he didn’t notice me existing behind a set of iron bars.

“Confessions are easy,” he would say to me as he walked next to my cell, almost taunting me.

Why-W-Why the fuck are you around near me? Isn’t there some protocol with you pigs-you pigs? I wanted to kill him, but then I thought of Henry. Even as le policier would stalk my cell like an animal, my foster father’s words had reminded me: Never kill mortals who do nothing but talk; one might need a living witness. That was all this one was capable of. He would talk, try to rile me into a rage, get me to say something that could give him a chance to take out whatever frustrations he had pent up over the years. I don't believe any of his other comrades even knew of our little past together. If they did, they would keep him away from me.

Not that there weren’t any others who had suffered from my atrocities. It just so happened that this person who threatened me, I had worries about him. Something about his demeanor told me that his threats were real.

Luckily for me, humans were very gullible for the whole “damsel in distress” scenario. With this man, this officer's crazed ramblings and temperament, many of his fellow cops thought I was simply a helpless Amarian girl, afraid and shocked about the fire—while this officer was a dick, taking his vengeance out on an innocent just because “she resembles the Raven!” You could hear the mishaps and arguments between the officers all the way down the cell block, the halls echoed the rising anger and vicious opinions being hashed out like knives!

It was wonderful. His partner and others called him crazy, saying “She's already scrawny enough, and you're going to starve her?” “She isn't Raven, you're crazy.” “Raven's dead! Why can't you get that through your thick head?!” This poor, crazed-by-revenge cop held his own, however, countering the fact that I was considered a Half-breed. Half-breeds were to be held until the Crusade arrived for me, and that was the only reason for my detention, or until further notice. His comrades could not argue against this point. Unfortunately, Mr. Everson continued to say very crazy, paranoid things, which did not help him in any way.

“The Raven will pay for what she's done to all of us!” I could hear him say one day while arguing about the suspension of the other officer I happened to maim. He acted like I tried to kill the idiot, even though I hadn't wanted to fuck him up that badly, but beggers can't beg when they're dead. It was nice, however, to hear that old, careful name echo through the cells and listen to the gasps and awes of those stuck in there with me as well.

“Forty-eight hours remaining. Please update system or shutdown will be initiated.”

“Raven” as the code name of the project that created me, and I used it easily as a name so that those whom I threatened could identify me with and bow to my graces. Or they could simply rot and die by my hands, the decision was theirs, and none of my concern in the end. It made all the more of my actions feel right, to be something that gives me power. Ravens, in some mythology, as with the Morrigan, were the messengers of death, of war, of bloodshed. The stories of ravens were something I could live with under the guise of the proudest of nobility, but the actual creatures are something of disgust.  

Of course, I didn't like ravens, because birds... scare me.

Yes, I know, it's a ridiculous fear, but I don't like birds. Their shit is poisonous, and they make strange sounds and do nothing but eat bread and seeds and peck people. They're fucking disgusting!

My creators once said that the Boxeto was afraid of birds as well, but she would use them to her advantage when it came to controlling the masses and instilling fear into her enemies. I never bothered asking how she did that, and I really thought they were full of shit. Whether or not she used birds wasn't something I was interested it. Using a slingshot on one, that was something I favored. Even if my paradoxical mother used the ravens, or whatever disgusting creature, that didn't mean that I could do the same. Not like I would try it anyway, though my curiosity was known to get the better of me, but the idea of utilizing a filthy bird to do my bidding didn't sound as interesting as it could've been.

But I did favor crows more than any other birds. There were legends of the Crow Father, my grandfather if correct. He carried knowledge at the price of life. I’ve always wanted to meet him. I can assume that crows are sentimental in that fashion. Ravens, no, not at all.

Mr. Everson, though appearing to look about my age, was actually in his late 40's. The actual math could've been off, but I killed his wife when I was barely in my 8th cycle (early 20's for the Mortals reading), making him twice my age. He was the son of a teacher and the man who fathered him was unknown to me at the time, but the significance of the information would have been excellent. By the age of 30, he began working in the facilities, where I surmise that he and his wife met. I remember attacking her with a weapon, a scythe to be more specific. She had done something anger me. I

It turned out that he was about to get promoted in the next few days, as I learned while I  , but he didn't look that excited. His days were filled with a loathing for me that quite simply shook me greater than what I would expect. He held a violence like no mortal I had ever come close to. He knew me well enough to hate me, but the hate that he carried was stronger than what I must have done to him. The rage that boiled over inside of him would be directed at me, but there were times where that anger would subside. He could forget about me almost as easily as he could let all that anger take him over.

He would oft look at a photo that was on his desk, possibly of his happier days with his late wife. Sometimes, he would start to sniffle, other times he would wipe his face. He would do this as if it were a ritual, every time he was left on duty. The photo wouldn't sit on the table, where his coworkers would see, but in a drawer. It seemed he carried two-two-t-t-two of the same photo. When his coworkers would show themselves, he hid the frame inside of the left drawer of his desk, but he would pulled out another from him right pocket, sneaking peeks while his partners' backs were turned, or in between shift changes. It-I-I-I-I-I-It stayed in his pocket m-most of the time, and when he would hear someone approach, it was gone again. However, when uninterrupted, he would stare for minutes, for hours.

Not only was he a dick, but he was also an emotional kind of guy. Good times.

He'd stare at it until he realized I was watching him, then he'd leave in a huff out the door. Sometimes, he would curse and yell to get me riled up enough to do something, but that would never work. This would happen I'd say 3, 4, maybe even 5 times a day. With this happening, he would become more and more deranged on his quest to prove that I was The Raven. Once, he threw a chair to the wall. I believe that was the second day, when he decided to ask me a stupid question, though it turned out to be not very stupid at all.

“Do you even know what it's like to be human, you fucking machine?”

I hadn't been that amused in a long time.

“Thirty-six hours remaining. Please update system, or shutdown will be initiated.”

“You’re not worth looking at.” “What are you, then?” “Looking at you.” “Why, if I’m not worth looking at?” “Because you already belong to me, so everyone else needs to look away.” “That was kind of weak.” “It still got you to smile.”

It wasn't until the fourth night stay—the day before his promotion—that I started to get irritated with the whole ordeal. I didn't mind having a place to stay, but this was getting ridiculous. I had an idea what food tasted like, but the shit they finally gave me was something that made my stomach turn. The bed was like a wall, though that shouldn't bother me, but I had a cat who happened to be picky. So, with that, I was forced to sit on the floor at night to stop her yowling and she slept in my lap. In my lap. In my lap. Lap. Lap. Lap.

Argh! Fucking lag! I need that serum. I knew I wasn't going to get it in this place. My track was becoming unstable, and I was starting to lose touch with what I was thinking, I was losing control of myself—of my own control. If this shit kept up, I wasn't going to be able to function properly, if at all, and that would ultimately cause a complete shutdown. No reboot, no hibernation. It would end with complete corruption of my files and I, a device, would no longer function any longer.

“You really believe that you'll just stop functioning, just like that?” the voice in my head, so familiar and so very, very much unwanted, entered. I could only grind my teeth at those words. “Silly girl, death is for mortals, and also immortals... What makes you think you would be so lucky?”

“Fucking whore,” I said this loud enough for the cop to hear. He promptly told me to “shut my noise box” and then went back to his work of staring at his stupid photo. I growled quietly, smacking my head against the concrete and my ass to the floor. Dinah, the opportunist as she was, ran through the bars and hopped into my lap like an adult hiding inside of the warmth of their bed. She curled up quickly and was purring in no time.

I was almost half tempted to just pet her, but she looked at me as if to say “Don't fucking touch me. I'm having my moment” as she often would act. She hated to be touched unless it was when she wanted to be touched. I can't tell you how many times Henry has thrown her from one room to another because she left a permanent scar somewhere on his body. The last time she scratched him, he threw her down the stairs and she landed in the laundry bin Lorina just happened to be carrying in the right place at the right time.

I broke his-his-his arm. Arm. Arm. I broke h-h-h-h-h-h-h-hhhhhis arm for that. It was a fair trade, I would think. Maybe I was similar to the Alice of stories, or even the real Alice Liddell from XX4000 years previous. I didn't really “love” my cat, but I would kill anyone who tried to hurt her. Henry was only lucky that he was the breadwinner-- “Congratulations!” said the host, “You are the grand prize winner of—and a constant companion that Lorina couldn't have been. That was possibly the only reason his arm was the victim instead of his neck. This cat was important to me in some fashion. She was just as particular and near-feral when it came to what attention she received, at what time in her schedule she would be open to receive said affection, and who was permitted to give the attention that day. I suppose she was just like me, but more of a spoilt brat. The wont of this cat seems to have created an attachment in me. That attachment was challenged when she decided to bite my hand because I wasn't petting her. “Fucking brat,” I said looking down at her. Her-her-her-her-herrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-her- I looked down at her.

Fuck! This is getting worse! I thought to myself.  Wait. What was getting worse? Was something worse than what it was before? My eyes looked around the room—no, this is a cell. This isn't a room, I realized. Why was I in a cell? Why was I here? Fire...  Fire. My home was on fire. Lorina and Henry are...  

“Look who is talking to themselves again!” She was already getting on my nerves, and she hadn't even showed herself to me yet. Why was she taking so long... ?

“Twenty minutes to shutdown.” The voice of the motherboard reminded me of how long I would have before I was going to be gone.

It wasn't long after he started his shift, Mr. Everson had fallen asleep. I can't exactly remember when, but I was following the sound of his snoring with a rhythm in my head, to the point where I was counting, trying to keep some of my sanity. Going insane in the mind of a computer isn't as the same as the mortals, I would suspect. Much like a télévision, static would envelope my memories and my processors, leaving me nothing but a snow-like static to reference back to. I would be-e-be-eeee-eee-be brain damaged—brain-brain dam-am-damaged. Most mortals don't know they're crazy, but I-I-iiiii-I would know, and there-t-t-t-ttt-there was nothing to stop it.

“Ahh!” A sharp spike hit my neck, like a needle.

“No, no no... .” her voice carried into my ear, outside of my own head. Was she here? “you're not allowed to sleep. I still need you.” Something spread through my neck and produced a burning sensation. A fire was rushing into my skin, a sensation that defeated my house's demise as easily as a demon to a mortal. I tried to move, but I couldn't. “It's time to wake up.”

“Update complete. Restoration activated. Memory is 99.9998%  on backup. Generator cells are at 99.999% efficacy. Motion sensors are at 99% efficacy. Cooling reactor core stabilized. Restorations cells are active. Gene regeneration is active. Dragonskin chromosome isolation cells are active. Aleister GLYPH is active. AVALON Chimera at 27% and rising. System is up to date and operational.”

“Why did you release her?” “Because.” “Because? Because why? Do you understand what this will do?” “She will wake up with her own reality.” “She will kill us! Do you understand this?”

“I understand that the Palindrome must be completed, whether you want this or not. Accept your fate, as I already have.”

My eyes shot open, finding myself still in the cell, and the malfunctions no longer acting out. Was I asleep? “Did..? How did she do that?” I looked around myself and found that I was alone in the cell. The cop was sound asleep, and Dinah was still in my lap purring. Was that all a dream? Mother couldn’t have done that. She has to be summoned first, doesn’t she?

I thought my kitten was sound asleep, but her eyes shot open, and suddenly looked to the window that was high above our head and mewed strangely, like a mixture between a groan and a growl. It was loud and deep and guttural, and it was enough to wake Everson up from his sleep. At first he was just groggy, trying to shake the sound from his ears, or maybe incorporate the mews into his dreams. After about five minutes of this, the officer jump up from the desk, looking around as if he were scared shitless for a moment. After all was still, he disregarded the noise and told me to start controlling my animal or she would be confiscated. And then I smelled it again...

The sulfur had come back. I only noticed the smell when she was close to arrival. She was waiting for me.

Surprisingly, the blood wasn't old enough to not allow her to come here. I was mistaken in thinking that. The blood, the few droplets they were, started to seep up like a reverse stream, concentrating into a black ball made of tar. It dripped into the places of where her feet would be, where her arms and shoulders would be, where her hair fell in globs of the black substance. Her skeleton formed with a dark substance, tissue and blood forming and scorching the cell, heating it like the fire from my home.

The tar-covered skull cried out silently as the skin began to melt from the eye sockets, followed by eyeballs that shot blue and overpowered my own shining eyes. Her face formed in the falling tar, while the blood finished itself off from the floor; her body ripped from the cement, boney hands reaching out to slam against the wall, leaving claw marks in the concrete as she climbed from the floor. By the time the last of the tar had been dropped on the sludge-like form, the coloring of hair, the paling of her skin, the glow of crimson in her eyes had formed and shaped nicely, until she was before me. The Boxeto had finally shown herself. If there were anyone to witness the two of us together, they would say we were twins.

No. Let me clarify this better. The Boxeto, if you were not already aware, was one of the first Wraiths to turn to the Dunpire without completely losing her mind. The Wraiths would turn if they were to drink the dead blood of the Mergcan, a poison punishment back in the Parliament days. The Parliament, for those of you whom have been living under a rock, was the former ruling members of Amara before the Massacre of Rhomada, long before the current royal family ended up taking over. Boxeto had been the queen and lead Cousilman of the Parliament for over 300 generations. Her wisdom had been known as legendary, and her beauty predated cognition. She was a force to be feared. Then, her husband murdered her, or so it’s been theorized.

On the night of her annual ball for the people she ruled, the Boxeto had been given her “wine,” or “prisoners blood,” if you wanted to be technical. Traditionally, this would call for the blood of a Mortal dedicated to wrongdoings, and the queen would drink the blood as fuel to bring prosperity to her people. Instead, it was the blood of a dead Mergcan. She didn’t smell the salt water, for she had drank so much beforehand.

Her glass had fallen to the floor and her body had changed. Her long hair, once white like mine, turned black, reflecting a dark red back with light, and her eyes went from gold to the blue it is today. She ended up slaughtering many of her former members, subjects, family members, and anyone whom happened to be living at that time. The only ones to survive that night were the King and his sister. After that, the Boxeto and the King disappeared together, never to be heard from for many more years.

She came back recently, with the intentions to kill the current White Lady, whom was a child back then, along with the rest of the members of the empires. She managed to resurrect herself in another body, and then revealed herself later, only to fail in murdering anyone other than a very few civilians.  Sending me to finish her job show our differences, for where she enjoyed to terrorize only her targets, everyone was my target, especially if they were in my way. People oblivious to me: Gone. People running in fear of me: Distracting and gone. Anyone who challenged me: Fucking dead, or waiting to be dead. I didn’t like the fact that there were people whom were still alive. Especially Axeron.

The one thing the Boxeto and I did have in common was our mirror image of one another. It was like looking into a mirror, but the reflection was wrong. She was me, and I was not her. Yet, we were almost the same. We hated each other, but that caused us to work very well together. I did not know when nor why I started to call this thing “Mother,” but it never bothered me until this moment in the cell. I didn’t like her face at all before, but now, it was irritating to look at.

“Mother....” I had addressed her as such since the first time I'd “met” her. Before she was just a voice, a thing that move objects around when no one was looking. Sometimes I would get blamed for things, other times, I wouldn’t and everyone else would just be confused. When I did finally see her for the first time, her face didn’t bother me at all. As I got older, it was weird. When I figured out that she needed a new body, it became unsettling.

“Now, is that anyway to talk to me? It's been nearly 6 years Raven... Oh! That's right... your name is Alice, now isn't it?” Her eyes told me she didn’t like the name, as if it were my problem.

It’s always been Alice… “I like 'Alice'.” I said simply. I actually did like the name Alice, but that was the only thing I liked. The Boxeto smiled wider, as if amused.

<><><><><>

I was still a child when she began whispering secrets into my ears. I would hear her from time to time, knowing that words were coming from the walls, from the lights, from the floors, from people who weren't even aware of my presences. She would whisper things to drive me insane, and she was good at it. There was once a man who stood in the hallways, working the security cameras. She had frightened me into believing that he was going to install thousands of cameras all over my chamber walls, so he could watch me at all times. He was found with two screwdrivers in his eyes in an elevator. He was scheduled to be on my floor that day. After that, her whispers never went away.

Her voice wasn't like mine at all. We didn't sound the same. Her desires were in contrast to mine, though we shared the same distaste for the Mortals. Our only real connection was that we were both mad. We bonded well in that connection.

Like mother, like daughter, oui?

We would continue this way until the royal families decided to end my campaign of madness and her reign over my mind. She hadn't spoken to me since that day 6 years ago. Why she decided to show herself now, when I actually wanted her here (not really wanting her, but I wasn't going to say no), was beyond my understanding. It was almost mother-like for her to finally arrive, to give me the update I needed, to save me from my own psychological demise.

She must've wanted something from me if she was here. Right?

“Why are you here?” I asked after thinking about it. I'd forgotten that I hated her until I saw her again. She pissed me off, just looking at me with those eyes. I saw Dinah in the Boxeto's lap, purring as the goddess was petting her in the exact same manner I had. Her long black nails scratched up and down my cat's neck in a soft, slow motion, beckoning Dinah to stretch out her neck and accept more. My cat loved Mother. The Boxeto was her favorite person; she loved this ghost more than me. Traitor...

“You and I are too much alike...” She said that sadly, and I raised a brow.

“That bothers you now?”

“...No, just some nostalgia playing in my mind. When you're older, you'll understand...”

She’s lost her mind was the first thought that came to mind for me. She tilted her head to the side and started making a “tsk” sound two or three times.

“That's not very nice, now is it?” I forgot she could hear my thoughts.

“You haven't answered my question, Mother.” my hands weren't formed into fists as of yet, but they were close. I found her games annoying at best. It was hard enough dealing with a woman I was created from staring me in the face with her stupid smile, petting my cat right in front of me, but it was worse when she started talking out loud.

“Oh, is someone jealous?” She started petting Dinah more lovingly, something I wouldn't do, and the cat liked it. “You should already know the answer to that, my dear Raven.” She lifted Dinah up in the air and smiled up at her, the cat still purring happily. “Aww! You’re such a pretty kitty!” Dinah meowed and was brought back down into the ghost’s lap.

“No, I don't,” I said crudely. Maybe I was too rude, but it's not like either of us knew what manners were.

“Well, isn’t someone being rude!”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“You can’t say ‘Hi Mom, how are you?’ How hard is that?”

“You tried to swallow my soul and take my body, what do you expect me to do about that?”

“So? That’s not a reason to hold a grudge. You nitpick just like your father.”

“I don’t have a father!”

“Oh, yes, you do, and it is like listening to a remastered broken record every time I talk to you.”

“Who the hell are you talking to?” the cop was calling from the desk, and the two of us fell silent.

“I’m talking to myself.”

“Well, keep it down! Some of us need sleep.”

“Okay, thank you.” He was still asleep, but more cooperative. The inmates in the other cells hadn’t said a word. They were silent, for whatever reason.

“Oh. So, you can be polite to a cop because he’s cute, but when it comes to your mother—"

“You’re not my real mom.” I whispered.

“—there’s no love lost in hurting her feelings.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” my whispering was starting to get louder.

I could only wonder if I was being as irritating to her as she was to me, purposely taunting another in front of you before losing yourself in the thought of tearing their heart from their chest. It would explain why others wanted to kill me so badly, if I had been just as cryptic as she was acting. No, I don't like puzzles, and I'm very blunt when it comes to ordering someone to do as I desired, and I was especially creative in describing the way I would torture a person. I'm sure the Boxeto just liked to fuck with me for the sake of humor, and she was good at it.

“Do you ever have dreams of when you were a child?” She asked me. She was genuinely curious, which was unusual for her. In fact, she had never asked me a question like that. It was so personal that I was thrown off mentally.

“You mean, do I remember my childhood. Somewhat; I’ve never really paid any mind to it. Why?”

“Do you remember your real name, before the Liddells took you in?”

“Does it really matter if I did or not?”

“No, but I’m curious.”

“Why do you care if I know or not?”

“Oh, I don’t care if you know at all. I’m more concerned with whether or not you care.”

“Are you here to help me out of this fucking cell, or are we just playing head games? Why are you here?”

“Ha! You see! I told you that you’re just like your father. You can’t even keep calm in a discussion without throwing out some vulgar language.”

“I’ve always talked like this!”

“So did your father.”

“Whatever. What do you want from me?”

“The Trials of the Royal family is about to begin. They are to murder all of their enemies of their persons and estates, and if they do not complete this, they lose their charge. Guess who’s still a living enemy of the Royal family?”

“Why do they bother to do that?”

“So they won’t have to deal with rivalry later, or better yet, assassinations. They can be quite dangerous, honestly.”

“So, why does that have to do with me?”

“They need to try to kill you.”

“Okay, but I’m not going to that.” She was smiling. “I’m not going to that. Why would I go to something where I’m supposed to be killed? That makes no sense.” She was still smiling. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“You’re going. You don’t have a choice.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Well, I have a daughter to talks to me like she’s a sailor…”

“You’re so childish.”

“How you have forget the laws of Amara...” She spoke so slowly, her own eyes turning from blue to red, as mine was now. She was up to something, and I didn't like it. “You have to return for the trials.”

“Fuck you, I'm not going...” I wasn't sure exactly what the trials were, but I had heard of them. It was a game of the royal families, to prove their worth to the thrones by systematically killing off all of their enemies in a hunting fashion. Anyone else who could kill the enemy before the family toke the place of whatever region they desired. “Do you just want me to die? Would it be easier to have other people kill me so you can have a body again?”

“You don't have a choice. You must also realize, it’s easier to take a soul when the subject is living. A corpse is like going in dry without a soul to keep it alive.”

“That was a gross example.”

“The point is, I’d rather have that body of yours without taking ten years to revitalize it to my liking. A body like yours lasts best when the own still lives inside of it. Taking it when you’re dead would prove uncomfortable.”

“Lucky me. So, if that’s the case, why do you want me to go?”

“Because you don’t have a choice.”

“Fuck you, how's that for a choice?” Her crimson stare flared for a second as she shifted her eyes to me, her smile left her face, and it was the first time I could truly see a resemblance between us. I looked just like her when she didn't smile. Since I never smiled once in my life (Except with Dinah on occasion) that was the only thing I could go with. The way she sat with that look on her face, the way she held her head, the way she stared in anger...  

For a moment, we were exactly alike, but then she smiled and her eyes went back to blue, and I immediately lost all traces of myself in that moment.

“And your mortals? You know that's why they were taken?” The smugness in her voice shocked me. My mortals?...

“What?” Now she was laughing, great... “Why would they take them? Lorina and Henry have nothing to do with any of this.”

“See, now you know... Why else are you still just sitting here? I just happened to be watching and wondering why you haven't made a move, so I thought a, how do you say... heads up, was in order.”

“That’s ridiculous! They shouldn’t have taken them in the first place. I haven’t been a threat to that family for years.” I didn’t entirely believe what she was saying, that the Royal families took my family just to get me back to their world. I didn’t want to believe they were that stupid, and I wouldn’t want to say that the Boxeto has never lied to me. In this circumstance, she had no reason to lie.

“Yes, well, if they cared about time, it would be an issue.” she said with words picked ever so delicately to piss me off.

“Is this the only reason why you stopped my shutdown? You want me to take another swing at the empires?”

“You know how to do the job, though not as efficiently as I would hope.”

“So, what, now I'm in debt to fulfill your obligations?” I was irritated. She only saved my mind so I could become her tool again. I thought this, but she reacted differently than what I expected.

She shook her head and said, “Not at all! You’re simply doing what you should have gotten done in the first place. If you can’t do that, then you’ll be dead. Simple.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Hey, what are you yelling? I thought I told you to keep it down!” The cop was awake again. I could hear his footsteps coming closer

One of her black nails of her fingers shot out a good three inches, and then she stuck it into my cat's neck. “I'll be nice, though, just for this once.” She ignored what I said, continuing on with whatever thought she had going on in her mind, “I don't want to spoil you that much, you know.” Dinah's eyes shone from yellow to green and finally to crimson, the same as mine. “You're going to need an ally for this, and one other whom you can trust. Unfortunately, it's not going to be me.”

“...How overjoyed I am for that. Why don’t you answer my question? What if I refuse?” Dinah jumped from the Boxeto and walked over to me, and her tiny, cute cat features twisted into the smile of a Cheshire cat. When I looked back up, the Boxeto was gone.

“I could answer that question, but I have for you, several times actually. However...” I heard the voice in my head and looked down. Dinah, who was still smiling like the Cheshire, hopped through the bars and stared right at Everson. He couldn't see me from where I was sitting, but I knew he could see Dinah. She howled, but not like a cat. She was howling the Dirge of Cerberus, the Boxeto's pet. Oh, fuck me.

“Hey! Why don't you learn to control that cat of yours?” He shouted from down the hall. Dinah's eyes flared with flames and her mouth open to form a fireball. Part of the floor that had been stained by my blood fell started to break apart like an earthquake. The cells that surrounded us fell into the ground, with prisoners shouting for mercy from whatever death awaited them. Everson managed to fall to his hands and knees instead of in the hole, somehow finding a place that wasn't infected.

“If you aren't going to move on your own, I'll just have to motivate you a little, my dear sweet Little one.”

“Fuck!” I rushed to the bar, grasping the metal tightly with my hands, and looked to try and find Everson. “Get the fuck out of the way, Human!” He could only stare at me, amazed.

“It is you! I fucking knew!” He drew his weapon, still on one hand and knees and acting as if that was going to do anything to me “You’re doing this!”

“That's not what--”

“Shut up! You're doing it! You fucking cu--” It was about then that he noticed Dinah growing a giant flame. I've learned over time that emotions don't make humans the most rational beings, and I suppose that when you're facing the murderer of your mate, you don't tend to notice a house cat building a fireball to shoot at your face. The officer started to stagger a bit, actually taking a step back.

Dinah let out a banshee's howl and shot the fireball at Everson. Fuck, was all I could gather in my mind. I don't know why I did it, but I did it, though I regret it now more than anything else I've done since my creation: somehow, I slowed down time. The effect, however, took place without the use of a Looking glass.

I had sped up fast enough for time to appear slower. I passed through the bars without issue, turning my body into a rushing mist of sand and blood, forming back again when I was past the metal, and I moved forward past the fireball. I watched it drag from my cat's throat towards the officer. With my right hand I grabbed the man from it's path and pulled him to the side, throwing him against the wall to my left. As soon as his back hit the wall, time had resumed its tick-tock method and everything was back to normal, except my cat was promoted into a demi-god that obeyed the Boxeto's every whim and I just saved a human. I saved a human, of all things, by throwing him out of the path of danger and taking the damage myself..

He'd been knocked out from the throw, so there was no worries about him trying to shoot me. I was on the ground, with burnt clothing and singed hair. It didn’t hurt too badly, not as much as I thought it would. I decided that if my kitten were to be a demi-god, she would have to be stronger than that. Then, after I thought the worse was over, the floor collapsed. Dinah, the cop, and I were all falling down into the darkness and beyond. The hole seemed empty for a foundation, and I knew, as well fell into a place of impossibility, that we were going to Amara.

I could only wonder if this is how the real Alice fell when she went down the rabbit hole...

History Lesson #15: Record of Dr. Crowley on the process of selecting staff for the RAVEN project.

30th of March, XX325; Log #1175-D: Lorina Whelpner Liddell and Henry Liddell.

Lorina Whelpner was the top developer in hormonal cloning and development of algorithm reconstruction, while Henry Liddell was the VIP Head Scientist of the Artificial Intelligence and Development of Biorobotics and Android Statistics and Reproduction. Ms. Whelpner was hand selected by myself, and approved by Professor Joulie, for her expertise in the development in turning organic materials into streaming and adaptable data. The process was created many years ago, but it was considered a dead end project when it was found that the data transferred from the organic materials were quick to corrupt in a non-organic computer. Ms. Whelpner had found an adaptable method to create the organic data and shift it's properties into the same DNA of copper, tricking inorganic machinery to read and accept the data without crashing or corruption. This will come as of some use with the Avalon treating.

Mr. Liddell was selected because of his studies in creating emotional and rational responses/reactions in A.I., creating the desire and dream of machines gaining  identity and consciousness. Works with the A.I. is a delicate procedure and malfunctions were often, but Mr. Liddell had managed to find a way to avoid this interference with this issue by creating a fail-safe glyph to disrupt an “manual over-rush shutdown”, a method of a machine's protection programming that prevents the wires from frying themselves from an emotional overload. Mr. Liddell was able to work around this overload by distributing the glyph like a nervous system. This glyph would protect the A.I. From destroying itself out of an emotional read over 10 32j by initiating a temporary hibernation state.

The talents of both of these renowned scientists were especially essential to my work of creating the Raven. If I could convince Professor Joulie to allow them into the Facilities and work, we might be able start the project immediately. It will take some convincing to entice the Liddells to join in the project, regardless of their ideas.

15th of July, XX325

I was surprised that the professor would agree with my decision to allow the couple to join in the works. I've known them since I was a child; the fact that my advisement of personnel with such a close connection to myself is, as the English would say, intriguing. Here, I believed the professor would decide against such a close relationship.

Since both of the Liddells were in the higher stages of Security, they were part of the select group called to start the project to create a living, organic bioroid—An android that is able to grow and develop just as a human, with organic material that can process foods and drinks equivalent to a living organism. It took 14 years to work on this secret organization, and during this time Lorina and Henry had found that they had a similar interest. This went against the organizaions interest in work and violated the policies of relations with other employees. Even though they had a relationship outside of the facility's reach, it was to be cut off at the door as soon as they entered. Even saying “Hello” while walking down the halls of the building was a danger of compromise.

18th of August, XX325

Professor Joulie has stated that the RAVEN project would begin with experiments within the next year, with the suggestion by the Liddells that the droid should be activated on 4th of March. Their obsession with that stupid tale is interfering with the project, I’m supposed to interject the idea that this thing would be their “new daughter,” without any resignation about it. I have spoken to both of them, over a night of dinner and wine, but convincing them that their idea was a mistake was near impossible.

I can only assume that the professor knows best about what we should do in this situation. I’ll speak with him tomorrow.

19th of December, XX328 (fractured log)

Professor Joulie is disappointed with the failure of the RAVEN droid.  He decided that an organic archetype is necessary to control and create the Droid. “A bioroid will only be approachable if we find a suitable body.”

The idea was unnerving. Heritage was a disadvantage for this, however. The professor would have to find a victim for such a thing, and yet it's existence is right under his nose. How sad this shall end, if Professor Joulie found out that I had the answer all along.

--End of Log--

1Looking Glass, the: A sacred ritualistic artifact of the Veilios, often used for tearing the “Veil”