#yet adjustable infrastructure.

[oneduniainternationalcourier]

[dedalvs]

Hi! Hope you're doing well. I was reading a fantasy webcomic with some Deaf characters and was wondering: what adjustments to the language creation processes would a conlanger have to make for creating a sign language? Thanks!

The short answer is relatively few. Sign languages are languages and do all the same things with a different phonology. So long as you understand the phonology of a sign language you can create a sign language.

The long answer is here. That's a thing I wrote up called SLIPA (Sign Language IPA). Due to the fact that the potential for iconicity with gesture is greater than with sound there's a lot more onomatopoeia in a sign language than in a spoken language. To explicate, onomatopoeia in spoken language is a word that imitates the sound of the referent (splash, crash, plunk, boing). In a sign language, it's a sign that imitates the look of the referent (ASL TREE, for example). Since it's possible to be more iconic, sign languages take advantage of that fact. Consequently, you don't find sign languages that DON'T take advantage of it and are purely abstract. There are also things that are hard or impractical in a spoken language that are simple in a sign language simply due to the medium (e.g. full number incorporation in the ASL words for WEEK and MONTH). Finally, there are a lot of "on the fly" verbs that are created that have no obvious analog in a spoken language. It's something like the sentential words of a polysynthetic language combined with imitative sounds in a spoken language to describe a body in motion.

In other words, because there are things you can do in a sign language simply due to the medium that you can't do in a spoken language, sign languages often do those things. It would be strange (i.e. non-human) if they didn't. If you're aiming to create a secret sign language, perhaps you intentionally don't take advantage of those things. It's possible to create a purely abstract sign language, but it would be a fairly obvious construct the way Ithkuil is very obviously not a plausible human language (i.e. it could never have evolved naturally to be the way it is). This might be a fun thing to do for a fictional setting—a totally non-iconic sign language created for secret communication. This is, essentially, what I did with the Atreides sign language in Dune (as opposed to the other sign language I created for the first film that wasn't used). Even that one, though, takes advantage of iconicity in a way that a truly abstract sign language need not. This is because part of the secrecy of the language is the way it's used. Others aren't even supposed to see it—and if they do, they're supposed to dismiss it as hand twitches. You could make an obvious sign language (i.e. it's obvious these characters are signing to each other) but with really, really weird associations—like pointing to your interlocutor means "sky", where eveyrone looking on will think it means "you".

Anyway, just some thoughts. This is an underexplored area of conlanging, but due to the simplicity of video creation and sharing nowadays, it's something that's worth exploring. Back in 2006 when I wrote up SLIPA it wasn't practical to take videos and upload them. It was possible, certainly—we had high speed internet and websites—but we didn't have smartphones, I don't think YouTube existed yet, most frontend UI didn't have video embedding as a feature of its platform, etc. We were lightyears ahead of the internet as we understood it in the 90s, so 2006 would be much more familiar to the people of 2024 than the people of 1994, but smartphones and social media (and its infrastructure) really changed the nature of capturing and sharing video. Conlangers have taken advantage of that in every way EXCEPT creating, documenting, and sharing CSLs (created sign languages).

Like (I don't want to go off on a tangent here) you can have an entire YouTube account that is just a dictionary. ASL already does this. Go on YouTube and type "ASL sign for [whatever]". There are tons of videos that are like 10-15 seconds long that are just demonstrations of a single sign from different angles, all made by Deaf signers. And the videos don't need sound! You don't have to worry about audio quality, microphones, etc. You can actually use YouTube to document an entire sign language. No one's done it yet. Why not?

Anyway, those are my thoughts. Hope this helps.

[paddymoonstruck]

Pairings: Charles Leclerc x Nepo!OC

Summary: here !!!

Next Chapter

Notes: It’s here! Hope you like it. Please feel free to share your thoughts in the comment section. Let me know if you want to be added on the tag list!

In the midst of the bustling crowd, the whispers of the cool wind blew past Sofina’s figure. Her honey brown locks cascades down her back, jostling the perfected curls on her head. She produced a well-mannered smile at the cluster of people beginning to narrow down her walkway as they approached her path. Their collective voices sync achingly in her ears as the volume increased in a rapid pace.

She bowed her head, an attempt to conceal the mischievous smirk plastered on her face. Her fingers adjusted the sunglasses shielding her eyes from the blinding flashes of the cameras pointing at her face.

“See, this is why I don’t particularly like arriving with you.”

Behind her shades, she gave a sidelong glance to her company. She tilted her head up to meet his gaze. His lips thinned, brows furrowed at the earnest as he scratched the back of his neck.

“I don’t see a problem,” She shrugged, a whimsical tone carried in her voice.

Joris looked at her, a scowl decorating his lips. He gave her a once over, deepening the lines on his forehead as he observed the aching differences of their attire.

Sofina graced the paddock in a white oxford button up, cream-colored wool blend high waisted trousers that was secured by a leather belt and a pair of flats and a watch that certainly cost as much as his house. Her whole ensemble mercilessly trampled on the white tee and light washed jeans he’d probably bought in a thrift store.

“We agreed to dress casual,” Joris sighed, shaking his head but the slight simper on his lips betrayed his expression. “You said you’d follow this time.”

“This is casual!” Sofina argued, smirk growing every passing minute of this conversation. She knew it wasn’t.

On Joris’s part, he should’ve known better. Sofina was the daughter of a prominent business magnate. She was a part of a family far beyond their wildest imagination. Exuding the confidence and prestige she naturally had was an aura no common man could possibly learn.

“I look like your driver.” He droned.

“Nonsense, you look dashing!” She assured, nudging his brooding stature. “And besides, my driver is somewhere over . . . there,” Raising her palm, she pointed to their intended destination.

Sofina smiled victoriously as she noticed his quiet relent, hooking her arm around his and proceeding to drag him through the mix of bodies despite his protests. They ignored the media’s shouts for attention as they weaved their way towards the obnoxiously bright red infrastructure that was otherwise known as the Ferrari motorhome.

Upon their arrival in the motorhome, they were immediately greeted by the roaming staff in the lobby.

The first to come near was the French Team Principal of Ferrari, Frederic Vasseur with his usual jolly smile.

“Sofina! What a pleasant surprise!” He gushed, lengthening his hand for her to shake.

The brunette returned his infectious delight, baring a kind smile of her own and taking his hand. “Surely it’s not that much of a shock that I’m here, Fred,” She jokingly tutted.

To which the Frenchman bellowed out a hearty laugh. “Of course not! I just was not expecting you to be so early. Everybody’s just warming up, you see.”

Sofina hummed, looking around the room. It was indeed a latish time for her to be here. In contract to the countless media outlets fussing about outside, Ferrari’s motorhome maintained a tranquil commodious space.

The clank of her shoes echoed through the air as it hit the marbled ground. Strolling further inside, she has yet to spot the one she was looking for.

“Charles is getting ready in his driver’s room,” Fred supplied as if having read her mind. “He will be out shortly. Feel free to have a seat in the lounge.”

Sofina nodded, flashing Fred a grateful smile before he went on to do his job.

She went ahead and sat down on one of the red polyester armchair while Joris settled in a duplicate just across her.

After a several minutes of endlessly replying to company emails and submitting “between life and death” documents to her father, the faint squeaking of sneakers finally broke the cycle.

Sofina instantly glanced up from her torturous tasks to be greeted by a certain emerald eyed, Monegasque.

“Charlie!” She beamed at him, standing up with her arms already reaching for him.

Charles’s dimples pop out from the corners of his mouth at the greeting. He happily granted the excited girl’s request, elongating his arms around her waist.

He chuckled as her antsy limbs encircled his neck, never-minding the constricting grip she has on them. Bending down, he allowed her an easier access that was suppressed by their differences in height.

She gasped as she pulled away, sending Charles into a frenzy at the sudden reaction. He searched her eyes for answers but was only given a cutting glare.

“Have you been eating well?” She interrogated, voice low but filled with nothing but concern. “You look thinner than when I last saw you . . .”

Charles raised an eyebrow, corner of his lips twitching at her exaggerated statement. “We saw each other last week.”

“And?” She asked, genuinely confused by his utterance.

Charles laid his palms on both sides of her face, blaring out her displeasure with the mission to smooth out the distress on her.

“Ow!” She hissed, swatting away his arm as pain seared in her cheek from his the ministrations of his fingertips.

“I’m fine, bébé,” He assured, bitting his lip to prevent the further growth of his smirk. “You know training in the first week is the most crucial. It’s normal to lose weight.”

“By this much?” She scoffed, motioning to his face. His cheeks were hollower, making his cheekbones more prominent and the thinning of his face were generally noticeable.

Charles tried to ward away her worries, placing a soft peck on her cheek before shifting his attention to Joris.

Sofina watched them engage in pleasantries, Joris mentioning how dressed up Sofina was. She merely stifled a laugh at the scandalize look that resurfaced on his features once more at the topic.

“Oh come on,” Charles quipped, eyes traveling from her feet to the top of her head. “She looks fantastic,” He winked, “You look very beautiful,”

Sofina gave him a thumbs up at his specification, amused by his antics.

“What do you need now? More money? A cheque? A car?” She raised a finger up to silence his mirthful face. “My soul?”

His bubbly exterior exploded into a fit of hysterics at the reference she used. Sofina introduced him the hit reality show Keeping Up With The Kardashians when the pandemic started. It was her insistent persuasion that ultimately led them to binge watching every episode until they’ve had to wait for the newest one.

Joris rolled his eyes at the giggling pair, waiting for them to collect themselves. Sofina caught his eyes and began to explain. “It’s Khloe Kardashian.”

Truthfully, he didn’t gain any knowledge from the vague clarification. Nonetheless, he nodded.

“Do you need anything?” Charles faced Sofina.

“Aside from today’s testing results, not really.” She concluded, tapping at her phone to check her duties. “Sorry I wasn’t here for first and second day. I was drowning in paperwork.”

Charles omitted a sound of sympathy. Now that he was paying attention to her face, the dark circles under her eyes were more visible, matching the exhausted sigh that passed her lips.

“Did something happen?” He queried, gliding his fingers through the disarrayed curls from when she was sitting down.

She shook her head. “No, not exactly. But you know— I can handle it.” A buzz blossomed on her chest as the warmth of Charles’s palm radiated on her cheek.

Charles inhaled deeply, adjusting to the shift of the atmosphere. Instead of adding to the heavy pressure, he decided to change the subject.

“The car’s doing great,” He chided, hand falling onto her shoulder. “Ferrari finished on a high on both days. . .”

Sofina managed a smile, bobbing her head at the news she already knew. The information should have brought her more joy than what she was currently feeling but for some reason, a churning sensation struck her in the pit of her stomach.

“. . . Maybe even faster than Redbull?”

The claim got her to look up at Charles. A sheepish simper on his lips. Sofina couldn’t resist the amused huff hold hostage in her throat.

“With all improvements made, it’s a relief you’re more comfortable in the car than last year,” Her affirmation was met with a consensus from Charles and Joris.

Whenever Sofina was consumed by the sudden reminder of her intense duties, this was a place she often ran to. Ran to hide from the ridiculous demands of her supposedly unproblematic life.

With them, the biting tension of having to continuously prove herself didn’t exist in the here. It was without a doubt, easier to be. Especially in the eyes of whom knew her best.

Sofina met Charles’s eye. His emerald spheres dancing with a molten rays of the Bahrain sunlight. She would never tire of staring at them. The absurd amount of beguiling enchantment his eyes hold should be dubbed as illegal. If one were to stop and take a moment to admire he—

“GOOD MORNING, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”

The sonorous voice from the speakers woke Sofina’s consciousness from her trance. She swiftly blinked away the dolly lopsided smile stuck on her face, tearing her gaze away from Charles. She bore the boundless embarrassment in regards the drawn out time she spent gawking at him.

“You— you get out there and uh—” She cleared her throat, avoiding his teasing eyes. “—Do your best—Charles!” She squirmed, a hand shoving at his shoulder as he got into her face, trying to catch her adorably flaming cheeks.

Charles aired out a laugh at the deathly glare she sent his way, admiring the futile attempt to hide her blushing face from him.

“I’ll see you later?” He declared, soft and gentle.

“Of course.” She wheeled her eyes, struggling to keep her smirk in bay as she saw to giddy look in his face.

With one last peck on the cheek and a wave for Joris, he turned and went on his way to the garage.

The tremulous sigh she released nearly collapsed her lung. Another year of Formula One, and owning most of Ferrari’s sponsorship held a great weight on Sofina’s shoulders. The pillars of her chosen empire were bound to fall with one wrong move. Proving her father right was the last thing she wanted and she’d hate for all of this to be blown in a million pieces because of what her father referred to as her incapability to be a firm leader.

Alas, heavy is the head that wears the crown and so is the heart that weighs it down.

Tag-list: @seairsunset @mindflay3r @tangointhequango @bwormie @eugene-emt-roe @herondalism @comfortzonequeen @weekendlusting @nomie-11 @i-ship-bullshit-2020 @cc13723things @charlesgirl16 @namgification @charizznorizz @missenclod @outerudeth

[workersolidarity]

[ 📹 Scenes from Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in Deir al-Balah, in the central Gaza Strip, where the dead and wounded, including children, were taken following violent Israeli airstrikes targeting residential homes in the Bureij Refugee Camp. ]

🇮🇱⚔️🇵🇸 🚀🏘️💥🚑 🚨

252 DAYS OF GENOCIDE: ZIONIST US PRESIDENT JOE BIDEN CLAIMS HAMAS RESPONSIBLE FOR LACK OF CEASEFIRE DEAL AS ISRAELI PRIME MINISTER SAYS NO DEAL WILL STOP THEIR WAR ON HAMAS, ANOTHER PALESTINIAN CHILD DIES OF STARVATION IN GAZA, GENOCIDE GOES ON ENDLESSLY AS RESIDENTIAL NEIGHBORHOODS CONTINUE TO BE TARGETED

On 252nd day of the Israeli occupation's ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) committed a total of 4 new massacres of Palestinian families, resulting in the deaths of no less than 34 Palestinian civilians, mostly women and children, while another 71 others were wounded over the previous 24-hours.

It should be noted that as a result of the constant Israeli bombardment of Gaza's healthcare system, infrastructure, residential and commercial buildings, local paramedic and civil defense crews are unable to recover countless hundreds, even thousands, of victims who remain trapped under the rubble, or who's bodies remain strewn across the streets of Gaza.

This leaves the official death toll vastly undercounted as Gaza's healthcare officials are unable to accurately tally those killed and maimed in this genocide, which must be kept in mind when considering the scale of the mass murder.

US President Joe Biden, speaking at the Group of Seven Summit being held in Italy, said on Thursday that he does not have confidence that a ceasefire and hostage exchange deal could be reached in the immediate future, blaming Hamas for the failure to reach a deal, and absolving the Israeli occupation of having to make sacrifices in its negotiations with the Palestinian resistance movement.

The US President continued, stating that "I have not lost hope, but it will be difficult."

" Hamas... must take action," Biden added.

Following his comments, Biden later went on to say that Hamas was "by far the biggest obstacle" to reaching a ceasefire agreement.

“I presented a proposal that was approved by the Security Council, the G7, and the Israelis, and the biggest obstacle so far is Hamas, which refuses to sign even though they proposed something similar," President Biden claimed.

Previously, the Hamas resistance movement welcomed the US President's proposal for a ceasefire and hostage exchange deal, telling reporters that the group viewed the deal "positively" before making adjustments to the timetable for the deal and seeking commitments from the Zionist entity and the United States that the Israeli occupation wouldn't continue its operations in Gaza once its hostages were released.

Earlier, US National Security Advisor, Jake Sullivan, told reporters that the Israeli occupation was committed to the ceasefire proposal, arguing that "Israel has supplied this proposal. It has been sitting on the table for some time. Israel has not contradicted or walked that back."

Hamas countered the plan by offering its own amendments, which Sullivan responded to by saying the goal is “to figure out how we work to bridge the remaining gaps and get to a deal.”

Despite the talk by US officials that the occupation is committed to the deal, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has repeatedly stated his intention to continue the war, regardless of any ceasefire or hostage exchange deals, until the Hamas resistance group is "destroyed".

Additionally, US State Department spokesperson, Matthew Miller, claimed to the media on Thursday that the United States has not yet witnessed the Israeli occupation launch a "major military operation in the city of Rafah."

This despite countless videos and witness testimony claiming otherwise as the Israeli occupation forces advanced with its tanks and other armored vehicles, penetrating neighborhoods in the west, east, south and center of Rafah, while occupation warplanes hammered the city's residential buildings and public infrastructure, and while Zionist soldiers detonated entire residential blocks in the center of the city.

In other news, more than 23'000 litres (6'076 gallons) of fuel was allowed to enter the Gaza Strip over the last day in order to operate water wells in the Palestinian enclave.

According to the head of the local Water Authority, Mazen Ghoneim, 23 thousand litres of fuel entered Gaza from Thursday evening to Friday morning, allowing 20 water wells to resume operation, including 5 wells east of Gaza City, 2 water wells in the town of Beit Hanoun, 4 wells in the vicinity of Beit Lahiya, 9 wells in the Jabalia area, and 3 more in the Jabalia Refugee Camp.

In statement issued on Friday by the Water Authority, Ghoneim confirmed that in addition to attempting to provide potable drinking water under catastrophic conditions, the Authority was also seeking to reduce risks associated with sewage flows, to which the Authority allocated part of the fuel quantities to operate three sewage plants in the Birkat Abu Rashid area, in addition to the Sheikh Radwan neighborhood and the Al-Baqqara area of Gaza City.

Meanwhile, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) continued their massacres of Palestinian families by bombing and shelling various residential neighborhoods and public infrastructure across the Gaza Strip on Thursday night and Friday morning, resulting in the deaths of dozens of Palestinians and wounding scores of others.

On Thursday evening, an Israeli occupation drone bombed a gathering of Palestinian civilians on Kashko Street in the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood, southeast of Gaza City, resulting in the death of a citizen and wounding several others.

At the same time, Zionist warplanes bombed the Al-Shujaiya neighborhood, east of Gaza City, killing one civilian and wounding at least four others, while another strike targeting in the vicinity of the Canada Well in the Tal al-Sultan neighborhood, west of the city of Rafah, in the southern Gaza Strip, killed two more civilians and wounded a number of others.

Similarly, in yet another criminal massacre, warplanes belonging to the Israeli occupation army fired two missiles into a house on Al-Nafaq Street in Gaza City, resulting in the deaths of 11 civilians, with three children and three women among those killed, including the deaths of a woman and a child belonging to the Al-Shiekh family. The casualties were transported to Al-Ahli Baptist Hospital in the city.

Israeli warplanes also bombed a residential house belonging to the Al-Bakri family, west of Gaza City, where displaced civilians from the Abu Odeh family were seeking shelter, killing three women and wounding a number of others. Included among the dead was a woman named Hakima who was part of the medical staff at Al-Ahli Baptist Hospital in the city.

A civilian was also killed, and three others injured, as a result of the Israeli occupation's bombing of the Port of Gaza City.

Additionally, the slaughter continued when Israeli gunboats fired heavy machine guns off the coast of Khan Yunis, south of Gaza, killing two fisherman, while Zionist forces penetrating neighborhoods east of Rafah opened fire on civilians in the town of Al-Shouka, murdering two civilians and wounding several others. Occupation helicopters were also witnessed firing machine guns into the western neighborhoods of Rafah.

Elsewhere in the enclave, IOF fighter jets bombed a residential house in the city of Deir al-Balah, in the central Gaza Strip, resulting in the martyredom of one Palestinian and wounding a number of others.

Israeli artillery shelling also pummeled Al-Sika Street, in the east of the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood, southeast of Gaza City, which coincided with occupation artillery shelling in the vicinity of the school complex on Al-Mansoura Street, in the center of the Al-Shujaiya neighborhood, east of the city.

According to local medical staff, at least 20 Palestinian civilians were killed in Zionist raids on several areas of Gaza at dawn on Friday.

In more heartbreaking news, a child was killed after Zionist artillery detatchments, penetrating the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood of Gaza City, fired several shells into residential buildings in the neighborhood, while occupation fighter jets bombed civilian homes in Deir al-Balah, in the central Gaza Strip, wounding a number of people.

Also in central Gaza, Zionist airstrikes targeted a house belonging to the Abu Galambo family in the Bureij Refugee Camp, killing a child and wounding at least 10 others, while occupation warplanes bombed the town of Al-Mughraqa, in addition to the area of the Netzarim Junction, north of the Nuseirat Camp.

Meanwhile, local civil defense crews said they'd recovered the bodies of three martyrs from the Saudi neighborhood, west of Rafah, in the southern Gaza Strip, while a civilian was assassinated by the bombardment of Zionist gunboats that targeted the port area of Khan Yunis, also south of Gaza.

In further news south of Gaza, witnesses told Palestinian media correspondants that the Israeli occupation army also continued its detonations of residential squares in the city of Rafah.

In the Shaboura Refugee Camp, in central Rafah, the Israeli occupation forces detonated and destroyed three entire residential squares, in addition to a fourth residential block in the Brazil neighborhood, east of Rafah.

Yet another atrocity was committed when the Zionist army bombed a house while it's residents were inspecting the damage to their homes resulting from prior bombing and shelling in the Tal al-Sultan neighborhood, west of Rafah, resulting in the deaths of two Palestinian citizens, while Israeli fighter jets carried out further airstrikes and artillery shelling on areas of eastern and central Rafah.

IOF warplanes also bombed a civilian residence in the Al-Fokhari neighborhood, east of Khan Yunis, in the southern Gaza Strip, killing a young man.

North of Gaza, 14 civilians were killed, and others wounded, in two Israeli raids on central and western neighborhoods of Gaza City.

In more tragic news, medical sources from a local hospital announced the death of a Palestinian child as a result of starvation and dehydration, raising the number of deaths caused by malnutrition in the Gaza Strip to 40.

The medical source told Palestinian media outlet WAFA News that a child had died from malnutrition and dehydration, while a lack of medical supplies also contributed to the child's death while at Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in Deir al-Balah, in the central Gaza Strip.

As a result of the Israeli occupation's ongoing war of extermination in the Gaza Strip, the infinitely rising death toll now exceeds 37'266 Palestinians killed, including upwards of 15'000 children and over 10'000 women, while another 85'102 others have been wounded since the start of the current round of Zionist aggression, beginning with the events of October 7th, 2023.

June 14th, 2024.

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#videosource

@WorkerSolidarityNews

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Nuanced Foil Lena AU Pt 3

After Lena's mic drop outside L-Corp, CatCo is aflurry by the time Kara arrives. During the morning's pitch meeting, James wants an official interview as soon as possible. Half the room turns to Kara, but she remains quiet, saved only by Nia volunteering herself as tribute.

"I'll reach out to her team," she offers. "Any particular angle you're looking for?"

James shakes his head. "We'll let her guide us on that-- make that clear to her people and it might get us in the door faster."

"On it."

---

To Kara's surprise, Lena accepts the interview offer with Nia almost immediately, and more than that, agrees to a fully televised interview at CatCo HQ. On the day of, Kara doesn't need to be there-- in fact, she's sure Lena would prefer if she wasn't. But she lurks in a corner of the studio with a handful of other reporters, watching as the finishing make up touches are made and the mic packs are given their final adjustments.

Her heart beats loudly in her chest as the room quiets, and the countdown starts.

"Thank you for being with us tonight, Miss Luthor." Nia's tone is rich and professional, betraying nothing of the relatively friendly conversation they'd shared before the cameras started rolling. "As I'm sure you can imagine, a lot of people have been asking questions following your comments earlier this week."

Lena smiles self-deprecatingly. "Of course-- Has another Luthor lost their mind? More at eleven."

She chuckles at herself, but where others might have seemed disingenuous in doing so, it only serves to make Lena more approachable. Nia's responding grin is a testament to that, with some of her first-big-interview jitters easing off, allowing her to relax just a little.

"But can you blame them? A Luthor speaking out against a Super certainly carries some heavy baggage."

Lena nods. "It does, unfortunately."

"So let's get the big question out of the way, shall we? Are you, Lena Luthor, denouncing Supergirl?"

"No, not at all," Lena delivers, her smile still in place. Historically, Lena's smiles in public interviews are a little too perfect to be real, but tonight the one she wears is warm, gentle, and humanizing.

"Yet you claimed Supergirl was a burden," Nia digs a little.

"I did. I do. Since her first appearance three years ago, National City's infrastructure has been overbudget to the tune of 1.6 billion dollars overall. That's a lot of money that the city simply doesn't have. It's money that its *citizens* don't have."

Nia nods thoughtfully. "But as a scientist, wouldn't you agree that corellation doesn't always equal causation?"

"Sometimes that's the case, and it can absolutely be said that equal or greater damage wouldn't have occurred without Supergirl in the mix. I'm certain studies are currently taking place to determine the true relationship, but really, the whole thing simply sheds light on the greater issue at hand."

"Which is?"

"Tell me, Miss Nal-- if you step out into the street and get hit by a car, what happens?"

Nia's eyes widen slightly. "Go to the hospital, hopefully!"

There's a laugh in her voice, and Lena joins in, waving her off. "Yes, of course! You're fine, maybe a few broken bones. But it's still an ER visit, maybe even an ambulance ride to get there. So who pays for all that?"

"My insurance, I would think. Or theirs."

"Bingo." Lena leans in, suddenly more intense. "Now let's say it wasn't a car that hit you. A hero pulls you out of the way, breaking your wrist in the process. They don't mean to, of course, but accidents happen. It may not even be a result of their speed or strength, just the wrong amount of pressure applied the wrong direction. What happens then?"

Nia blinks. She doesn't respond right away, which gives Lena the opportunity to continue.

"Do heroes have insurance that would cover medical bills? Could you take a hero to court and sue for damages?"

Kara's stomach clenches, and she has to fight every urge she has to not to interrupt, to rescue her protegee from the offensive Lena is suddenly on.

"What if Supergirl is investigating a crime, and believes there is relevant evidence inside your home. Do heroes have the burden of obtaining a warrant before entering your residence? If she gets the house number wrong, and enters an entirely different home by accident, what recourse do those homeowners have to get repaid for property and emotional damages?"

The studio is so quiet, one could hear a pin drop. But where everyone else seems stunned, Nia looks thoughtful.

"Are you saying that heroes shouldn't do what they do to help protect the public?"

Lena eases back in her chair a little bit, shaking her head. "I think it's clear by now that without heroes, National City wouldn't be here. It certainly wouldn't be the same city it is today, at the very least."

"So what are you suggesting?"

"Oversight. Legislation. Regulation." Lena shrugs. "Think about it-- every other position within our judicial system, as flawed as it is, requires demonstrable qualifications. Lawyers have the bar, police officers undergo months of training... to what standards do we hold a hero?"

"It's sounding a little like you're calling for registration," Nia hedges.

Lena lifts her hands. "I understand that's a slippery slope when it comes heroes, or really anyone with special abilities. I won't speak to that. And honestly, I'm not claiming to have all the answers. I'm just asking the questions."

Shifting in her seat, Nia glances at her notepad. "And what would you say to those concerned that you're following in your brother's footsteps? As you say, it can be a slippery slope."

Taking a deep breath, Kara watches Lena consider her answer. For a moment, Lena's gaze unfocuses as she thinks, looking inward, before sharpening with resolve.

"I would say... you're right to be concerned. I certainly was, making the decision to say anything on the matter. In a lot of ways, I don't feel like I have the right to ask these questions. But if not me, then who? Who has the platform or the privilege to ask and actually be heard?"

"So you have responsibility."

Lena smiles again, close-lipped and sweet.

"I'd say we all do, don't you think?"

[godihatethiswebsite]

Desert Oasis

✽ Johnny "Soap" Mactavish x f!reader (The Mummy AU)

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

°•. ✿ .•°.•° ✿ °•.°•. ✿ .•°.•° ✿ °•.°•. ✿ .•°

✽ Part 9 - A meeting with ghosts

This is my longest one yet folks (don't ask, I have a problem). Was going to chop it up and make it into two, but then reasons...

Also it always bothered me that the only bits of Hamunaptra we ever got to see were the couple pillars up top and a handful of creepy caverns below. It's the fucking City of the Dead - resting place for royalty. Forgive me if I fix that oversight.

Some of this I had to look up. Some of this I'm just a nerd ^^;

The first four years of your life were spent in the fields of Buckinghamshire. 

It was an easy existence given your age, only knowing the worries of a toddler, ignorant to anything outside the little sphere your parents raised you in - until your father’s business partners convinced him to take up stakes in northern Africa. With the big archaeological boom in the early 1900’s, it made sense to cash in on the amount of trade flowing in and out of the country. 

If you thought back about it hard enough you could faintly recall the frayed edges of a memory where your father argued with your mother behind closed doors about the change, her not wanting to leave society behind and especially not wanting you to grow up away from all that in the ‘wild, bandit-infested gutters’ of lower Egypt (an awful sentiment she eventually got over after experiencing the bountiful culture firsthand).

You know from the following years that some sort of arrangement had been made that the family would travel back and forth to England often enough that would allow you a ‘proper education’ and keep your name in good standing for your eventual launch into the matching market as a teenager.

You’d been a bit too young at the time to truly understand the move, only knowing that one day everything went from mild and rainy to suddenly everything was far too sweltering and uncomfortable. Your mother plied you with all sorts of cold sweet treats at first until you inevitably adjusted to the foreign climate. But besides leaving your newly beloved cousin behind, it hadn’t really affected you in any sort of considerably extensive way. 

You longed for the meadows of your cousin’s backyard, but found beauty in the tropical fauna that now grew in your estate. There were new rules to abide by - different boundaries and regulations your parents put in place for your safety in unfamiliar territory - but once you’d learned that goats replaced pigs and that you began conversations with 'As-salaam ‘alykum' instead of 'Hello' it had been a smooth transition.

The biggest change came in the form of the towering architecture that was visible in the distance even in the middle of the city. Once you’d taken an interest as a youngling, your father allowed you to venture with him outside the walls of Cairo to see the massive monuments in person.

It was a normal occurrence to glance outside and gaze upon the remnants of Ancient Egypt. Locals hardly batted an eye at the things that dazzled the imaginations of foreign tourists - not unfeeling towards their history, merely conditioned to register it as background noise. All you had to do was travel minutes outside of Cairo proper to come face to face with the marvels that were the colossal pyramids of old. In some areas of the country you couldn’t even walk five feet without stumbling over some ancient piece of civilization or another. Sometimes they were integrated into the newly built infrastructure, others torn down and cataloged to make way for industrial progress.

This was different. These weren’t just any old dusty ruins. 

This was Hamunaptra.

Riding into the courtyard of the long forgotten city, you felt the air get pulled from your lungs as if some higher force desired this to be your final resting place.

Patting the camel’s neck in appreciation of its well fought efforts, your eyes bursting with wonderment couldn’t take the sights in fast enough to really process them. For as ancient and run down as it was, the majority of structures still standing were in impressive condition - the result of millennia hidden from the prying eyes of thieves and foreign kingdoms. The secrets of the New Kingdom were here - preserved intact - and ripe for exploration.

Replacing the pyramids of old, Hamunaptra was a sacred place where only the dead and those who kept them may enter. By all rights and customs, your head would be promptly removed from your shoulders for even daring to set foot on holy ground.

How many figures of vast importance were lying in rest less than ten meters under the topsoil? 

Ahmose I? Amenhotep I, Tuthmose II, Ramesses VII? Nefertiti?

Long have they remained hidden. Countless expeditions with thousands of pounds invested and archaeologists were still no closer to unlocking the secrets of their whereabouts than they were since we’d first learned their names.

You were yanked out of your inner musings by the clopping feet of a large animal that heralded another's arrival, adjusting in your saddle to peer over your shoulder towards the entrance and the figure that crossed over the threshold.

Johnny hadn’t even brought his mount to a full halt before he was suddenly vaulting off his camel, hardly wincing at what must’ve been a jarring impact for his knees as he quickly crossed the distance between and came up next to yours. 

Windswept hair and wardrobe; tanned skin flushed and glistening even under the newly born sun. Ocean blue orbs dazzling with mirth as he reached up with outstretched arms, fingers wiggling seductively beckoning you into his hold.

What was it that was stealing your breath again…?

Swinging a leg over the saddle, you allowed yourself to start sliding far enough down for him to securely grasp onto your waist with meaty well-worked hands, your own landing on his shoulders for a bit of balance. You wrongly assumed he’d place you back on your feet - a blind mistake, caught up in the logistics of getting down and missing the obvious moment his wide grin turned puckish. 

The two of you twirled as he kept you lifted high above his head, squealing in surprise before your own sounds of crowing delight mirrored Johnnys in both volume and excitement.

“Brilliant, lass! Pure brilliant! Left ‘em all in the dust, ye did! Thatta girl!” 

It was hard to tell if the ensuing lightheadedness was the outcome of all the spinning he had you locked into or if it was the result of something else entirely, lowering you down with powerful biceps as he planted an obnoxious kisser right on the side of your face. He was over the top with his fawning, playful in his affection in a way that felt oddly comfortable and left you in girlish giggles. “Gonna be hackin’ that outta their lungs fer weeks and spend even longer nursin’ their bruised egos. Christ, hen, ye should’ve seen yerself go.”

You pulled back from him just enough to give yourself some more breathing room, head tilted up as you responded to his praise with an insinuating remark. “Might’ve had something to do with the sudden bout of speed my camel caught on the back half. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you Johnny?”

“Eh, poor thing was jus’ as excited tae reach the city as ye were is all.” The way he shrugged his shoulders and cocked his head with a devil may care grin couldn’t disguise the way he spoke with all the innocence of a sweet toothed toddler in a cookie jar.

“Causin’ trouble over there, MacTavish?!” Came the teasing call of your cousin as Kyle rounded the corner of the ruins and brought his camel up to graze alongside where the others stood in the shadow of a crumbled wall, getting down with far less hurry than the two of you had. “Gonna give poor dolly there a conniption if you keep that up.”

“Och! Haud yer wheesht, Garrick! Or ah’ll gie ye a skelpit lug fer yer troubles!” 

That may not have been the King’s English, but you’re fairly confident you understood the sentiment just the same. 

It also hadn’t passed your notice that Johnny’s arm was still firmly snaked around your waist, holding you to him with an iron grip you had no care in the world to escape.

Part of you was almost disappointed when your cousin tugged you away from him, afraid for a moment that Johnny wouldn't relinquish his claim and feeling the possessive strength in his arm up until the last possible second when he finally turned you over to Kyle. 

Swept into your cousin’s arms this time and far more delicately than his predecessor, Kyle raised an eyebrow at his friend, head perched on top of yours. “Laying it on a bit thick there, dontcha think?”

Johnny shrugged, making eye contact at where you were glancing over your shoulder at him and offering you a little wink in return. “Jus’ givin’ our girl here some well earned praise s’all.”

That shouldn’t have pleased you as much as it did. His words sent a shiver of something sinful down your spine, distracting you from the hug your cousin had you currently encased in and forcing the blood in your face to travel southward.

You missed the look Kyle gave him in response, gone and replaced with one of concern as he held you at arm’s length and gave you a thorough once over in order to better ascertain your condition. “And you, dolly? Came out unharmed?”

They had witnessed Graves lashing out at you a few minutes ago, your outcry shocking them into action that toppled him off his horse and sent him rolling hard along the packed earth. Thankfully you hadn’t been the intended target. 

You weren’t sure they’d have let him walk away without a red stain in his gut if that had been the case.

“No, he didn’t get me. The only thing he wounded was his pride.”

As if summoned by your thoughts, the man in question slunk his way along the perimeter of the city, giving your posse a wide berth as the three of you simply watched Graves meander along past with a wobble to his gait. 

Still… he kept his head held high with all the arrogance of a man too stubborn to know when he had been humbled. Grasping the reins of his horse and leaning against the animal in a weak attempt to mask his minor limp, he avoided eye contact with your group except to briefly cast you all a scathing glower tinted with defiance. There was a bite to it aimed especially at your Scottish companion, something that held the promise of things to come that Johnny gladly returned until Graves finally averted his gaze and kept on trudging.

You kept tabs on him until he wandered too far out of view, a gentle hand on your back prompting you to start walking as the rest of the rival entourage slowly trailed into the courtyard.

As the sun climbed ever higher in the early morning sky, the atmosphere amongst the gathered crowd steadied. Now that coin was no longer on the table and the winnings had been begrudgingly handed out (though not without a few snarky comments that simmered under a powder keg of explosive personalities) it was all back to business and barking out orders. 

It was clear the Americans had well funded their endeavors. The amount of workers they’d secured to excavate the site was a bit much in your opinion, but considering the mostly empty saddlebags left hanging from their mounts you imagined they hadn’t felt like dallying around longer than necessary. No, these were the types to come in and seize as much as they could with as much haste as possible in a shoddy get rich quick scheme before telling their associates back home how to make out like bandits with their own weight in gold.

The only one who seemed to actually give a damn about where they were was the older gentleman in a well tailored suit whose image didn't quite seem to gel with the scraggly unkempt mess of salt n pepper hair - their scholar, Klaus Fisker. Danish by the accent; voice as gruff as gravel. You weren’t surprised to see the chain of cigarettes attached to his lips, dropping butts on the ground and lighting another as if he hadn’t had the last one in ages. 

He felt out of place even in his own skin, but you could at least appreciate his attention to detail as he spit out commands in abrasive Arabic from behind an impressive beard, unwilling to let the hired hands do things that could jeopardize the items they were tasked with handling. 

They might be trying to rob this place blind, but at least you were assured their plunder would all make it to the auction blocks in one piece.

They’d set to sprawling out on the north side of the courtyard whilst your group took up camp in the south - enough distance between you lot that the thirty or so of you could play nice for the duration of your visit.

Johnny had moseyed off a few minutes back after assisting your cousin with the task of setting up camp - a luxury you hadn’t previously been afforded in an effort to arrive at your destination before the others. You saw to the camels' needs during that time, making sure they were well fed for their labors and removing their saddles to give them a chance to more comfortably lounge in the shade. 

Once that was done, you took to unpacking the scant items the two of them had previously procured for you, your cousin perched nearby after you’d smacked his hands away from your things to do it yourself.

“Soooo… this is the fabled city, huh?” Kyle leaned against one of the tent posts with his arms crossed, taking stock of all the hired hands clattering about doing this and that. It was obvious the Americans were wasting no time roaming around the site in search of shiny things to pawn back home.

You paid them no mind as you tended to your belongings, already mentally cataloging major structures of importance to explore and document later.

“Well, it’s called a city when in fact it’s actually a large necropolis - a burial site for the pharaohs of the New Kingdom as well as all their worldly treasures. The only living people who were allowed entry were the high priests, their acolytes, and the soldiers tasked with guarding them. Even the slaves they brought in to dig grave sites and haul antiquities were promptly beheaded upon completion so as to be sure the exact location of Hamunaptra was kept an absolute secret. Walk about two hundred paces westward outside the city walls and I’m sure you’ll find an unmarked mass grave where all their remains were dumped.”

“Sounds charming,” came the dry response as he uncorked his waterskin and took a few needed gulps, splashing some on his face for a quick reprieve from the heat, the droplets rolling down his neck to disappear under his linen shirt.

“Well, be glad you’re coming here three thousand years in the future then instead of me digging up your own grave from the past.”

“You’d miss me being your cousin too much, dolly.”

“Perhaps then the Lord could’ve instead seen fit to bless me with one a bit less reprehensible.”

“Oi!”

You couldn’t help your little grin at your own quick wit and his indignation. Unfortunately for him he didn’t get a chance to fire one back, the small banter interrupted by the return of your other companion as he sauntered his way over to stand next to Kyle.

“‘Right.” Johnny clapped his hands together, motioning over his shoulder towards a group of six workers who were starting to haul some equipment further north. “Looks like they’ve started in on clearin’ out the rubble blockin’ that great pylon o’er there. Any idea where ye’ll be wantin’ tae start, lass?”

It caught you off guard to hear yourself being the one addressed, turning your head to find the both of them staring at you expectantly as the voice of leadership. At this point you were so accustomed to them being the ones taking control and calling all the shots that you completely forgot it was you and not them who was the technical expert in this part of the operation. 

They were the ones out of their depths.

It was a realization that was equal parts terrifying and incredibly satisfying after so many days feeling like a chicken strutting around without its head.

You put yourself back in the familiar headspace needed for something like this, standing up and brushing the dirt off your palms as you briefly cased the surrounding points of interest. “I wanna take a look around on the surface first before venturing into the catacombs below. Let’s focus on getting a brief overview of the layout that we can then narrow down for later. Most of these temples and buildings should be untouched and I want to get a glimpse of them first before our ‘friends’ start ransacking everything.”

“Yer the boss, hen.” 

It was said so matter of factly and without any sort of veiled ribbing in his words. This time you were the one in control. And damn if that didn’t make you feel ten feet tall.

It felt good to finally be back in your element after days spent floundering for something sturdy to grasp onto. While you’d been growing ever more comfortable in the situations foisted upon your trio simply through trial by fire, you were finally in a happy medium between the covers of your books and the world beyond. 

It was nice not having to share the space as you made your way deeper into the city with your two self proclaimed bodyguards, unencumbered by gleaning eyes only interested in how much profit they could obtain from pocketable treasures rather than the breadth of history ripe to be storied. You could walk the worn limestone at your leisure, piecing together clues from the golden age of architecture and art. 

The perceived idiocy of it wasn’t entirely lost on you. Here you were in the grandest monument to the wealthiest peoples of both upper and lower Egypt - a discovery that could grant you as much worldly renown and untold riches as was possessed by the very kings concealed below your feet… and all you wanted to do was step through time into a piece of ancient history for the chance to waltz with the ghosts who haunt these hallowed halls.

It wasn’t some giant leap to surmise whose temple stood tall next to the towering height of the statue of Horus, not much alike in its design to the one located miles away in Edfu. Of course that one was built in the Ptolemaic Empire between ten to twelve hundred years beyond this one. Nevertheless, the structure of buildings hadn’t changed much in the ensuing millennia and you’d done enough research on both periods to be able to navigate a temple without much fuss.

You’d needed the boys' assistance to scale up the side of a toppled pillar blocking the entrance, getting a much needed boost from Kyle at the bottom as Johnny hauled you up over the top with a firm grip and steadying hand on your waist. The buildup of drifted sands on the opposite side kept you from needing any further help from them, sliding down the small slope and hesitating at the bottom in front of the main entrance. 

Gods, this was a moment to take in. 

You were almost afraid to look inward; to take that next step into untouched territory that felt more sacred than the importance you had allotted it. The first to do so since it was lost to the shifting desert hidden within a mirage. Everything was so real now there was no mistaking the gravity drawing you in - the weight of all your decisions until now leading you to the steps you weren't sure you were brave enough to take.

But remembering the tales recently come to light of a secret courage you’d discovered you’d always possessed, you allowed curiosity to lead you forward through the doorway of the temple.

…or was that the steadfast hand ghosting over the small of your back? The heat of a corporeal body stood close behind, the soft whisper of ‘go on, m'eudail…’ breathed so delicately against your ear you’d barely heard it murmured?

Who was the last man to walk through this same threshold you found yourself now stepping over? Be he priest or slave? Medjai or king? Perhaps a close relative come to pay homage to Horus before they bid a final farewell before the forever stilled body of their dearest loved one glimpsed its last at the shimmering veil of starlight above.

Your hand was shaking as you brought it to your gaping mouth, enraptured eyes pulled in every direction as you gluttoned yourself on the near perfectly preserved views. The amazed utterances of ‘steamin’ jesus’ and ‘bloody hell’ of the men were mere wisps on the wind compared to the pounding of your heart in your ears.

In your opinion one of the worst misconceptions about the Romans and the Egyptians was that they avoided the usage of color like the plague. Just because time had eroded the polished white marble and beige sandstone did not mean they hadn’t once been just as full of life as the vibrant cultures who created them. It was unfortunate that the elements washed away their former grandeur and such an important part of society's understanding of their craftsmanship.

There was no mistaking as you entered through the courtyard and into the hypostyle hall, surrounded by rows and rows of wide stone columns of staggered heights that supported the sloped roof and allowed the hall to be lit by clerestory windows. Every inch is elaborately decorated with colorful displays of pharaohs and gods and ceremonies for worship and life and funeral arrangements. They were reminiscent of the ones famously carved at the Temple of Karnak, but upon seeing how detailed and dynamic these were up close you realized just how lacking you thought the former truly was.

You weaved between pillars raking your gaze up and down, some motifs familiar while others spoke of things you hadn’t learned in your books. Perhaps they were rituals held only within this necropolis, or maybe the other outside temples had them at one point, but were lost to erosion and vandalism…

All paths lead further into the inner sanctuary - the heart of the temple and what had at the time been considered the home of the gods.

The room was deep and narrow, a beautifully preserved statue of Horus with his sacred boat placed at the end of the hall. The walls were decorated with mythology, weaving the tales of his birth from Isis and Osiris. The murder of his father by his uncle Seth and the ensuing battle between the two gods. His triumph and aftermath of their bloody escapades. The healing of his left eye by Thoth. 

If you closed your eyes you could almost smell the incense left burning at the altar, threadbare tapestry fluttering with the draft held in place by instruments of worship. There would have been chanting as high priests read from sacred texts, prayers for the dead and celebrations for their deity. 

“You wanna tell us what the hell we’re lookin’ at here, dolly?” There wasn’t any mocking in Kyle’s tone, just pure inquisitiveness at the unique carvings on all sides of the chamber.

“I could spend a very long time educating you on the importance of where we are, but I don’t think you’d appreciate it enough to spare the proper breath.” Your eyes hadn’t strayed from the intricate bas reliefs on the wall for a moment as you addressed his remark, the awe of the sight prominent in the breathiness of your vibrato. “What I will tell you is that we are in a place of great importance and that you will never find a more perfect specimen of what life looked like three thousand years ago than you are right now.”

Johnny was oddly quiet as he observed your surroundings, scrutinizing them with an eye that suggested he was giving them far more attention than someone like your cousin afforded them. Curious for a soldier and treasure hunter to take such an interest in the ancient world considering it wasn’t anything of monetary value. 

Kyle was the one who eventually spoke up about moving onto the next site, lingering back in the doorway to the chambers as you stopped in front of the falcon at the end of the sanctuary. Clasping your hands in front of your chest, you bowed your head in reverent respect for the god of the sun and prayed to him for safe passage and good fortune, thanking him for letting you all enter into his domain and promising to do no damage or harm.

Once you’d finished with your silent parting, you were surprised to lift your head and see Johnny doing the same to the right of you, eyes still closed for a few moments longer than yours until he straightened up and glanced your way, a gentle hand on your shoulder turning you towards the exit where your cousin patiently awaited.

You could’ve sworn you felt someone’s eyes on your back, watching as you made your way from the chambers and back out into the heat of the city.

Horus was not the only one you visited. There were temples of worship to most of the major gods; Anubis, Osiris and his wife Isis, Amun-Ra, Hathor, Thoth. You’d even located Ptah amongst the structures despite him having no relation to anything regarding the Egyptian life cycle as the others did. As the god of construction and craftsmanship, perhaps he had been placed there to honor the vast array of noble architecture. Or maybe the occupants of whatever nearby temporary housing complex was erected somewhere outside the city walls created it first to honor their patron deity and bring them good fortune in their hard labors. 

Whatever the reason, you’d stopped inside and paid your respects just the same.

Empty boat pits lined up alongside the major temples. Whether for the gods themselves or the ones buried beneath you couldn't say. You hadn’t expected to find one still intact unless they were buried somewhere. There were surprisingly still traces of their remains at least, Johnny lowering you down gently into the depths as you gathered small fragmented pieces of wood so brittle most of them fell apart as soon as they met the warmth of your hands.

With each new place visited the more overtaken you were with each new find. There were long stretches where you were stuck silent in reverence and others you couldn’t stop going on and on with enthusiastic exuberance, pointing out important symbols and phrasing on the walls, the significance of an animal statue or the items left discarded by the last priests to visit centuries ago.

Truthfully you were glad to have been so lost in the moment that you were incapable of giving even half a care to the well meaning snickering of your cousin as he watched you halt every few paces to gawk at the glory of a bygone civilization laid out in front of you like an open banquet. But really who was he to judge when you’d seen him turn stupid at the sight of a tall glass of expensive amber brandy?

Your infatuation was far more dignified than his liquor cabinet full of rare imported inebriation juice.

But it was all in good fun, carrying on for the majority of the morning bleeding into mid afternoon until your tired legs humbly requested a small reprieve. The boys continued to entertain your chirpings long after returning to camp, smiling at you over their cooked portions of lunch, completely enamored by the way your eyes lit up to match your grin now that you were free to be unabashedly passionate to your heart's content.

The city itself was comparable to an iceberg; for how much there was on top to explore, the real meat of Hamunaptra was underground in the vast unexplored catacombs winding miles long and spanning the full breadth of the walled area above. 

It was by mere happenstance that you stumbled upon a way down into the area beneath - quite literally. You’d felt your foot slip with a rather ungraceful startled squawk of surprise, your stomach dropping as a piece of the stone path crumbled out from under you and tried to drag you down along with it. It was only due to the quick reaction of Kyle’s hand latching onto your bicep and dragging you backwards to hold securely against his chest that you hadn’t had an untimely discovery of just how far down that rabbit hole goes.

Once you’d calmed your racing heart from the unexpected fright, you’d been ushered back away from the opening as the two of them prodded the entrance for any more structural weaknesses that might cause it to further collapse. Besides a small chunk that had already looked iffy, they deemed it safe enough to stand near as Johnny got on his hands and knees to peer into the blackness.

“Jus’ a blank void. Cannae see shite down there.” He rolled back onto the balls of his feet, resting his forearms on his knees as he turned his gaze upwards again to where you and your cousin stood. “Dunnae think this is the place tae go down, Garrick. Might have tae try somewhere further south.”

The problem was that the actual entrance to the catacombs was currently occupied by the Americans. They’d hadn’t been unwelcoming so far, but none of you necessarily wanted to test that considering the real prizes were waiting down there. And even though you were fairly confident your boys could take on more than you thought they could, you didn’t want to press your luck or ruffle any feathers - especially when said birds were equipped with firearms.

But for all you knew, there was only one way in.

The two of them debated in the background as you took a gander around the area, trying to put together why that hole was even there in the first place. The structural integrity up until now had been solid, having walked a decent chunk of the grounds in the past few hours since you’d arrived. For there to be a sinkhole when it was so impor–

Something catching at the corner of your eye had you swiveling your head, a sparkle in the sands pulling your feet in its direction while your companions remained oblivious. Tucking your skirts under your legs as you kneeled, you wiped away the sand to reveal what looked like polished hammered metal, silver glinting in the sunlight as you brushed away more and more from its surface. 

You started to gather you had a pretty good idea what this thing was doing over here.

A large round disk - heavy too as you tugged at the newly revealed edge in an attempt to tip it upright with little success. Too stubborn to ask for help, it was only once you got back onto your feet that you were able to haul it up into a position it could be balanced on its own. 

You chortled quietly to yourself as you figured out exactly how it was you were going to accomplish your task, feeling good in your cleverness and turning to see your companions still at odds with each other on the direction you all should take next. The discussion appeared to be getting rather heated from what you could tell, the two of them standing toe to toe as arms gradually became more and more animated.

It entertained you just how unaware they were of anything outside their own minor argument, watching in growing amusement as they failed to notice you and your find that would ultimately put an end to their incessant babble if they only stopped to pay attention. 

But you were burning the daylight required for this and frankly you didn't have the patience to wait for them to finish.

“Oh booooys…” You called over with a sing songy lilt, watching as they came to the sudden realization you were no longer next to them and mildly panicking before their eyes fell upon you a few meters away, leaning the large mirrored object against your legs and knocking your foot against the winged falcon at the bottom. “Would you be ever so kind enough to cease your incessant yapping and come give me a hand with this?”

While Kyle got to work securing a hefty length of rope to a nearby obelisk, you’d located another one of those mirrors a few feet away, dragging it over to position it opposite the first and tilting it in a way that the sunlight would catch on the other as well. Thankfully you had made this discovery with a few hours of daylight left to spare. Otherwise your ancient party trick would’ve had to wait until tomorrow to be shown.

Once again Johnny had wandered off unannounced, leaving you and your cousin standing around waiting for minutes longer than you would've liked only to reappear holding a pack of smokes in one hand and a bundle of cloth in the other.

Hands perched on your hips, you found yourself mildly annoyed at his little disappearing act when he was supposed to be helping out here. These mirrors hadn’t exactly been light. “That’s the second time today you’ve trotted off to nowhere without prior warning.”

Tossing the cigarettes to your cousin who gave a grateful nod, Johnny stopped a few feet away to watch you clean the dirt off the reflective surface. “Apologies, lass. Had tae take a leak.”

Ugh. Men.

You scrunched your nose up at the vulgar thought. “I did not need to know that, thank you very much.” 

Johnny shrugged, unbothered. “Ye asked.” 

The slight offense was forgotten as he held the bundle out to you, your ruffled expression dropping to one of doe eyed curiosity. 

“What’s this?” You asked even as you took it from his hands and started unravelling the cloth.

“Didnae jus’ empty mah bladder while ah was away. Took a stroll o’er tae see our American friends fer a wee chat. Bartered fer Garrick’s cigs and ah…” Johnny rubbed at the back of his neck, gesturing with his free hand at the parcel. “Ah dinnae ken how helpful it’ll be, but ah thought it couldnae hurt tae ‘ave ye be well prepped jus’ in case.”

By the time he finished speaking, you’d been staring at the items in your hands for a few seconds, dumbstruck at the professional quality of the archaeological tools you’d unwrapped. You’d had a set with you in your original belongings, but it had been old, worn down, and incomplete. Now they were mere toys for the fishies at the bottom of the Nile.

Blinking up at him, your tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of your mouth, keeping you from speaking until you forced yourself to swallow. “Thank you… truly.”

He didn’t say anything in response, just a subtle nod and a quirk of his lips before he turned and strode over to Kyle to finish helping sort things out. You watched his back and shoulder muscles untense, a swagger in his step that gave you the impression of a man content with his own workings. You couldn’t help but bite your lip with a small smile, a giggle under your breath as you examined the gift again before rolling it back up and securing it with the provided buckle.

Kyle went ahead underground, rappelling down the rope and leaving you and Johnny on the surface to eventually follow behind once it was deemed safe enough. The shadows swallowed your cousin like a hungry maw, quickly out of sight from your spot peering down despite the light being bounced into the chasmic pit. It was a few moments before he reached the bottom, the sudden jostled thudding of his boots the only indication he’d landed roughly on the ground.

“It’s bloody dark down here!” You snorted at Kyle’s muffled proclamation, Johnny joining in with his own chuckle a heartbeat later.

“Ye’ll be alright, lad! We’ll come rescue ya from the boogeyman in a jiff!”

Your cousin muttered something too faint for you to hear from above, but you had a pretty good idea as to the contents of it.

Once he got the green light from Kyle, Johnny gave the rope a quick tug to confirm it was no longer attached and began reeling the length back up so that you could go next, Johnny following up at the rear.

“Ye certainly seem tae ‘ave found yer footin’.” Having recovered from the earlier lapse in his usual personality, he was back to sounding his normal self.

You felt good about the compliment, far more at ease than you had been given the past few days. It was nice to have your countenance acknowledged as something positive for a change. 

“That’s what happens when you take a fish out of a river and toss it up a tree. It starts gasping for air and questioning its worth until it returns to its home in the water.” Stepping away from the pillar you were leaning against, you met him halfway as he approached you with the length of rope. “Survivability and exploration are part of your repertoire. This is mine.”

Johnny stepped in front of you, taking up far more of your space than was proper or necessary for him to secure the slip knot around your hips. Fronts barely brushing up against each other, round buds hardening at the teased contact. Eyes kept locked in place by the enchantment only he seemed to wield over you. Deft hands worked to tie the rope, taking special care for your safety as he gave them a harsh tug to ensure they stayed put while the two of you shared the same breath. The unexpected movement sent you stumbling into his chest, face warming at the contact mirroring the spike of heat in his eyes.

“Good tae finally see ya, m'eudail...” Fervid pools of oceanic blue scorched your insides raw until you were sure white hot flames were licking up your throat and parching your mouth dry. The twinkle in his eyes telling you he knew exactly the effect he held over you.

You’d barely managed to eke out, “...thank you for seeing me.”

There was a sort of pleased rumble in his chest before he took a step back, smothering the pyre he’d lit in your bones and tilting you off access to the point of almost stumbling forward without his presence to keep you standing. He laughed at your reaction, motioning with his hand towards the gaping pit at your feet.

“Go on then, lass. Let’s see wha’ the desert’s been hidin’.”

It wasn’t the most graceful entrance you’d ever made in your life, but eventually once you’d lessened the death grip you held on the rope and allowed gravity to assist in your descent it hadn’t taken much to get you at the bottom. Kyle had been there to keep you from landing in a haphazard heap, unlatching you from the knots so that Johnny could have a turn. 

You’d halted him from moving as you peered into the shadows, hardly able to make out anything beyond vague shapes and blindly reaching out in the very dim light. Damn thing had to be nearb–

Hands met polished metal just as expected, brushing away the cobwebs and tilting the mirrored surface to catch on the beam filtered down from up top. You smiled over at your cousin, positioning it just - “And then there was…”

Suddenly the entire chamber was awash in stolen sunlight, illuminating the room without the need for candle or torch and leaving you with a smug satisfaction at the impressed look on his face. “...light.”

“Well I’ll be… MacTavish! Get your ass down here and have a look!”

Johnny wasted no time in jumping off the edge at the urging. It had startled you to see him drop so quickly, his prior experience in the act evident with the casual confidence he rappelled down the line. Practically puffed up like a peacock once he’d straightened and saw you gawking at him, tossing you a wink that had Kyle rolling his eyes and giving you a small shove onward as the three of you began to explore your new surroundings.

“Well this is certainly what we signed up for, wasn't it?”

“A whole surface full of colorful architecture and you’re most thrilled by an embalming room?” You shot over your shoulder at him from where you examined the small animal heads on a few nearby jars.

“Embalming?” Came the quizzical response from your cousin, retracting his hand from whatever container he’d been poking at on one of the nearby shelves.

It hadn’t taken much sleuthing on your part to deduct that conclusion. The tables arranged in rows throughout the chamber, large earthen pots along the walls smelling of faint rot, rolls of fragile linen stacked on shelves. The scent of palm wine and salt masked under all the muskiness.

“For the afterlife, dearest cousin.” There was a small smile on your face as you spoke to him with mild patronization. “This was the preparation room.” 

Pointing over at one of the stone tables closest towards him, you could almost make out the dark splotches of bloodstain hidden under the thick layer of dust.

“If you’d have died three thousand years ago and were wealthy enough to afford it, a chief embalmer wearing a mask of Anubis would have laid your corpse atop that table, gutted you like a pig, scooped out your insides, scrambled your brain with a hot poker, and then placed your internal organs inside one of these,” you held up an empty canopic jar you’d been inspecting that would’ve held a liver, “before smothering you in natron for forty days until you were a dried out husk of a man ready to be wrapped up in linen and packed away in a pretty colored box.”

“Mummies, Garrick.” Johnny gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder, softening the sting with a gentler one as he brushed past. “Good ol’ mummies.”

“It’s a wonder your mum ever let you study this shit in the first place...” Kyle remarked as he glanced down at the same spot you’d been looking, sidestepping the table as if there was fresh viscera still dampening the stone.

“I won’t tell her what was in those books if you don’t,” you added with a little dark humor before placing the container back where you’d found it, gaze raking over the rest of it as you moved through the room and out into the hallways beyond. 

Away from the clever structure of the mirrors there was at last a need for torchfire, your two companions holding one alight each as they took up the front and rear of your little group, sandwiching you between with Kyle taking up the lead. The air was stale down here, a constant itch at the back of your throat that travelled into your lungs with every breath. The corridors were sloped at the sides, thick cobwebs dangling like vines covering almost every inch of their surface. You made sure to keep your footsteps in the middle of the path, not wanting to accidentally back up into one and getting them all over your skin.

It impressed you how the pair of them communicated, speaking reminiscent how they might’ve clearing a battlefield rather than exploring ancient caverns. They parroted directions back and forth to each other, somehow keeping track of where you were long after you’d been able to keep up with the twisting path ahead. You passed by small antechambers filled with various supplies, assuming wherever you’d popped in was less a part of the tombs themselves and more the storage areas for the priests.

Eventually the walls started looking a little less run down and a little more smooth, empty metal brackets for holding wooden torches poking out of the stone. Whoever put this place together seemed to have taken a little more care in this section.

You found yourself pausing in front of another entryway, staring down a dark corridor with sconces lining either side. For all intents and purposes it wasn't anything remarkable; it didn’t stand out really from any of the others you’d passed by this point. It was just the first to look like someone had taken more care with the cut of the stone.

“Spy somethin’, lass?” 

You were vaguely aware of Kyle halting up ahead, backtracking as you reached out for Johnny’s torch that he willingly passed over.

“I just want to take a quick look down this one…” Your feet were already moving even as you spoke, lighting the sconces you passed with the weight of something in your chest tugging you forward. The walls were bare save for the oil lamps, but there was a subtle slope to the floor that led you downward and piqued something in the back of your mind.

About fifteen or so meters later, you found yourself standing inside an antechamber that was sparsely lined around the perimeter with only a few tables full of valuable artifacts. 

“More storage?” asked Johnny, skimming over the objects laid out on a table shaped like a…

…wait.

That wasn’t a table. It was a curved bed frame made up of the elongated bodies of two lionesses. 

Suddenly, everything clicked. 

You scrutinized the objects more closely, the cogs turning rapidly in your head as your eyes widened further with every new find. A painted wooden chest. A stool overflowing with sandals. Shabti dolls tossed haphazardly onto a thin lumpy mattress.

You bolted through the open doorway to your right, the other two shouting after you as you came to a halt inside the next room, torch clattering to the floor at the sight you took in. 

It wasn’t as grand as the pictures you’d seen of others like it elsewhere - certainly not possessing the same majesty or opulence as that of King Tut or Ramses IV. The room itself was small by comparison, not surprising considering the size of the annex you just exited and its meager furnishings. There hadn't been as much thought or care in the scenery depicted on the walls. But there was still a subtle elegance to its design that hinted at someone more important and incorporated all the way down to the large stone sarcophagus in the middle of the room.

“Fuckin’ hell!” Johnny might as well have not said anything for all the good it did reaching your ears, drowned out as white noise as all your attention was pinpoint fixated on the large box in the center.

You couldn't believe it. You could not believe it. Forget every moment that ever came before this because there was no way in hell it could ever live up to the overwhelming well of emotions bubbling up to the surface threatening to overflow from your tear ducts.

Was this how Howard Carter felt the first time he laid eyes on the burial chamber of Tutankhamun? Did he have to remind himself to manually breathe so as not to pass out? Did he yell and rejoice or just stand there in abject shock the way you did now? Was this figure nobility or just of high station? 

Whose golden death mask laid in wait inside the coffin housing it?

On newborn foal limbs you slowly approached the stone sarcophagus, ignoring the babble going on between the others and the questions being lobbed your way. Your vision was blurry enough from unshed tears that you were having a hard time making heads or tails of the hieroglyphics adorning the box, eyes frantic for the cartouche that would reveal everything.

You at last found the oval, tracing over every symbol until your brain supplied you with the accurate translation.

“Hatshepsut.”

This was Hatshepsut.

Wife of Thutmose II. Fifth Pharaoh of the Eighteenth Dynasty. Egypt's second queen regent.

Six inches in front of you.

Johnny stepped up beside you, making his own assessments from the various artwork sprawled across every corner of the room. “Gonna take a gander that’s someone important?”

That was a massive understatement. “Ruler of Egypt for twenty two years, one of the most prolific builders in all of history, responsible for the Temples at Karnak, Pakhet, and the masterpiece that is the Djeser-Djeseru. Peace and prosperity flourished under her rule and she was lauded for re-establishing vital trade routes previously lost to war and conflict.”

It was the first time since entering the chamber that you looked somewhere other than the coffin, meeting his gaze with the still wide eyed one of your own. “Yes, Johnny. She’s important.”

“But we already found her husband, yeah? So why wasn’t she buried with him in the Valley of the Kings?” Honestly you were going to have to give your cousin more credit for all the things he picked up on through the sheer osmosis of growing up in your vicinity.

“There were rumors that her stepson Thutmose III held resentment for her after the two of them became co-regent towards the end of his father’s reign. Politically he would have been afraid of being seen as the lesser candidate to succeed his father’s throne considering his young age. There’s documentation of how he tried to belittle Hatshepsut’s accomplishments throughout his life and many believe he was the one to deface and try to destroy most records of her from the history books.” 

The destruction of her statues, the erasure of her name from chiseled walls; there was a great deal of work that went into trying to keep her from being remembered. “He must've honored her enough as a ruler to bury her with dignity, but not enough to place her somewhere she would be found.”

Here amongst the other hidden kings of old.

“Makes you wonder who else is buried down here…” Kyle motioned over to another doorway on the eastern wall of the chamber, already inching towards it in curiosity. “Think we’ll find another one through here?”

“Unless there was a sudden fashion for corpses getting dipped in pure gold a few millennia back I doubt you’ll come upon one in the treasury room.” 

“No.” The way his eyes lit up was positively cartoonish, shaking his head with a cautious hurry to his steps almost as if he suspected you were pulling his leg, only to pause in the doorway not unlike you had when you’d first entered the burial chamber. The moan that left his lips was practically lewd as he supported his weight against the frame, taking in whatever he’d discovered out of view that had him practically buckling at the knees. “Christ, I'm about to be rich…”

Johnny rolled his eyes in exaggerated exasperation, the jovial smirk on his face betraying his fake ire at your cousin's inflated antics.

“Pump yer cock tae the trove some other time. Best be crackin’ on if we wanna keep makin’ progress before sundown.” Softer to you he added, “We’ll come back again, lass. There’s still plenty more explorin’ tae be had down ‘ere, aye?”

You knew you couldn’t linger here forever. And whether you’d return to this place or not she would have plenty of visitors soon enough. Now that you’d proven Hamunaptra’s existence there'd be historians and archaeologists flooding to the site in droves to get a glimpse of this lost piece of history and those inside it.

She wouldn't have to be alone anymore.

Resting your forehead against the cold stone lid of the sarcophagus, you imagined the person lying reposed within; the life she would have lived and the people who’d come to care for her even long past expiration. Closing your eyes, you allowed yourself to connect with the spirit on the other side, whispering words of gratitude and comfort to the soul at rest. “We didn’t forget. The world still knows your name, and we are all the more better for you having existed. May you forever find peace in the Field of Reeds, Pharaoh.”

It was only then that you allowed yourself to be led out of the room, casting one last glance over your shoulder to the figure sleeping peacefully in a tomb fit for a queen.

It was hard to shake off the emotions of witnessing the final resting place of such a great and powerful woman, constantly straying back to it as the three of you continued forward with your current venture. At this point you weren’t sure what discovery could possibly be better than rediscovering the body of a three thousand year old pharaoh, but far be it for you to call it a day when the other pair seemed so eager to continue.

Heads whipped upwards and the three of you froze, the sudden sound of dozens of chittering things scurrying overhead, torches raised to illuminate the ceiling in search of the source only to come up empty. You couldn't tell if that was a relief or if that only added to your paranoia.

“Must be movin’ inside the walls...” Johnny’s murmurings didn't do much to ease your nerves, not exactly a fan of creepy things with multiple tiny legs crawling around where you couldn't see. Hair stood on end and goosebumps ran the length of your spine, scooting just a tad bit closer to the Scotsman as you carried on with your journey.

The tunnels narrowed to an almost claustrophobic size, the lot of you having to duck your heads to avoid hitting them on the carved rock. Cobwebs dangled in front of your face, having to constantly bat them away to keep from accidentally inhaling them into your mouths. The passage went on and on without any sign of any other rooms, apparently having taken a wrong turn somewhere further back that led away from the royal wing and onto wherever the hell you’d ended up now.

“Maybe we should turn back?” You suggested at one point, only to be shot down by the others.

“Don’t worry, dolly.” Kyle placed a placating hand on your arm, a warm smile helping to ease the worries of your mind. “We’re not gonna get lost. Got the way out right up here.” He tapped on the side of his head for emphasis, apparently confident in his abilities to get you back to the embalming room safely.

“And when he inevitably screws it all up then ye have me who actually remembers.” The cough you spluttered wasn’t enough to hide the chuckle from Johnny’s words, laughing in earnest as your cousin walked up to him and tried to wrestle him into an easy headlock. It warmed your heart to see them so spirited and boyish with one another, a gentle reminder that there were still kind souls within that hadn’t been completely hardened by a life of brutality.

It took a few more turns until you finally arrived at an area big enough for you all to stand in at your full height. It was a bit surprising when you realized the carved bottom half of a human was completely obstructing the way forward, a thick stone platform embedded in the floor from where the statue must’ve fallen through from the world above.

Kyle recognized it the same time you did, bringing his torch up to inspect the dark coloration of the stone that matched the upper portion in the courtyard. “Huh. The legs of Anubis. Well it looks like we’ve found where the rest of the statue went.”

“Was wondering why the Bembridge scholars said it was a full body sculpture...” You were fully aware of the contents supposedly held inside the base, recalling the conversation you’d had with Johnny on the boat a few days back when he’d wrongfully accused you of only being out here for the money. 

“Well, here you go, mister treasure hunter.” The hem of your skirt flared out as you turned on your heels to face Johnny, one hand on your hip with the other pointing behind and a grin on your tilted head. “You wanted something for your troubles? Here’s your chance - the Book of Amun-Ra. Should be a secret compartment somewhere in there if you want to take a whack at it.”

He flashed his canines at you, a sweaty arm brushing up against yours as he walked up to the base and started reaching for the bag slung over his shoulder. “Dunnae mind if ah do.”

The droning of garbled voices from somewhere nearby gave you all pause, already on edge from the mysterious bug encounter earlier and the overall eerie quality of the catacombs. The atmosphere in the group shifted as Kyle motioned for you to press up against the statue. Handing over his torch the same time Johnny set his on the ground, both reached into their respective holsters and withdrew their firearms, hammers pulled back and pistols at the ready.

The droning grew louder and louder, breaths steadying in anticipation of whatevers approach. Johnny giving Kyle a quick nod of unspoken agreement as the two darted out from behind the statue–

Ten loaded pistols aimed right at each other's faces from both sides as the two groups found themselves engaged in a standoff. The hired workers squirmed antsily behind the American’s, you holding out your own torch as if it would do anything against a loaded gun.

Roze was the first to cut the tension, a wobbly frustration to her voice. “Sweet Jesus, you tryin’ to turn us into mummies too, gents?”

Guns lowered slowly to their owner's sides as everyone breathed a sigh of relief, all of you apparently on the same wavelength that this place was starting to mess with your heads.

“Maybe don’t make a habit of sneakin’ up on people and you won't get shot,” Kyle snarked back with a quiet huff.

A greasy pit dropped in the middle of your stomach upon noticing Graves amongst their team, mood turning sour as he opened his mouth with that stupid patronizing tone of his. “Well maybe if you boys learned to keep your noses out of where they don't belong you too might find yourselves living a little longer.”

“Hey,” came the confused voice of Hutch from the back, stepping forward from the group as he gestured towards the bundle of tools wrapped in your arms, “hey, that’s my toolkit!”

Johnny didn’t let him any closer than that, raising his pistols again which immediately prompted the other trigger happy morons to do the same. “Think yer mistaken there, lad. That there’s hers.”

Hutch was smart enough to retreat back to his spot, taking one look at your Scottish friend and rethinking his life choices. “Must be... my mistake...”

“Enough of this!” shouted one of the others, Oz motioning with his head to move out of their way. “This here’s our territory. Go run along and look somewhere else.”

“Claimed it first, mate.” The toothy smile on your cousin’s face was a mask for the slithering creature under his skin preparing to strike, given away only by the deadness in his eyes. “Might want to reconsider your next move if you don’t want to join these poor sods here in the afterlife.”

Graves was more than happy to take the bait, a mocking sneer hidden behind an amused chuckle. “Would ya look at that. Pretty boy Garrick here thinks he still has the guts to go toe to toe even after high tailing it away from that fight in Turkey.”

“Ye shut yer mouth, Graves!” Johnny barked straight venom, raising his voice as the muscle in Kyle’s jaw jumped, grip only tightening on his loaded firearm. 

“Woah there!” Graves continued to antagonize from behind spiked teeth. “Down, boy! Someone outta put a leash around your neck and remind you of your place.”

The tension in the room was growing exponentially at a rate you weren’t sure could be interrupted anymore, mind scrambling for anything to diffuse the situation before someone pulled a trigger that couldn’t be undone. Twenty five of them against three– two of you. Those weren’t odds you were willing to chance.

It was by sheer luck you heard the shifting of sand under your feet, daring a glance down at the floor to watch a pebble disappear through a crack and revealing a chamber below. If the statue of Anubis was wedged deep into the floor… then maybe…

The next thing you did was possibly the stupidest move of your entire life.

You walked out in front of ten loaded guns.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen. Please.” One by one you began lowering the barrels, the shaking in your hand the only thing giving away the nerves underneath so eloquently masked by the English charm of your disarming smile, the perfect picture of ladylike decency in a room full of missing manners.

Ignoring the heated looks your companions sent your way in favor of focusing on the unruly Americans, even Roze seemed to fluster from such a rapid change in atmosphere. “There’s no need for such excitement. You’re all men of intellect here. Surely you wouldn’t let yourselves be overcome by a bit of schoolyard slander.” 

They all glanced between each other in conflicted confusion, not sure what was happening but unable to summon the emotional intelligence to deal with the situation. The secret to breaking a man - fluffing their egos while simultaneously giving them a dressing down. 

“Now,” you continued, satisfied when their postures relaxed and their weapons were no longer facing each other, “since we all learned how to share when we were younger, I don’t see anything wrong with letting you fine folk get to work on this statue here.” You finally met the stern gazes of your companions, secretly pleading with your eyes for them to go along with what it was you were saying. “There are other places to dig…”

A few tense moments passed before Johnny lowered his pistols and offered you his hand, sending one more scathing look at the others before leading you from the room with Kyle at the rear.

“Happy digging! And best of luck!” You shouted with a good natured wave to the other group, flashing them one more smile before being tugged out of view around the next corner. It wasn't until you were far enough out of earshot that he relented his tight grip.

Your back met the wall behind you, startling a gasp from your lips as Johnny suddenly crowded you against it with a simmering expression and a finger in your face. “Donnae ever do that again, lass! Do ye have any idea what would’ve happened if one of those triggers slipped?!”

His anger had never been directed your way before, just as intense as every other emotion he’d always expressed. Johnny didn’t know how to do things by halves and that was evident in the way he processed feelings as well. It tore at your chest, the rage in his eyes burning holes in your heart that left you aching and blind to see it for what it really was. 

The cool confidence you’d pretended to exude earlier fell away under his harsh judgment, the girl underneath who’d been terrified for her friend's safety and only wanted to help revealed underneath. You tried to shrink back from his gaze as far as the space would allow - which in reality was practically nothing. The stinging behind your eyes, the flood of emotions rising to the surface from the earlier threat of confrontation combined with this unanticipated lambasting left you shaking.

You tried to explain. “T-There’s a chamber underneath that room. If we can find a way down then we can try to bust our way up from the bottom. W-We can steal the treasure right out from under their noses.”

“I dunnae care what yer reasonin’! That was naive and foolhardy and ye know damn well better than tae put yerself in harm’s way like that! Ye could’ve been shot! You could’ve–!” He cut himself off with an infuriated growl, hands slamming into the wall beside your head as his own bowed forward. For a moment you thought Johnny would continue with his admonishing tirade, huffing out a breath like an enraged bull as fingers dug into the stone.

You held as still as you could, unable to turn away from the penetrative orbs searching through your soul. Something must’ve shone in your watery eyes that brought him out of the ‘what ifs’ and back into the here and now, stare softening into weariness as he leaned the last bit forward to rest his head on top of yours with lidded eyes.

You didn’t know what to make of it as you stood trapped between him and the wall, listening to his soothing baritone as he began murmuring something soft in his native tongue. You weren’t sure if he was speaking to himself or to you, but it had the effect either way of settling most of your nerves like you would a frightened animal. Gentle lips pressed a kiss to the top of your head, pulling back to look you in the eyes with a grounding weight before quietly uttering, “C'mon, lass. Let’s go find ye that room.”

Where Johnny was a flintlock, Kyle was a smoldering ember.

He said nothing as Johnny led you all through twisting catacombs, following some unknown path he’d mapped out in his head that he assured should lead you all to the level below. The silence from your cousin was deafening, hurting just as much as Johnny’s earlier explosion but cutting far deeper. The fact that he hadn’t spoken up when you were being manhandled only confirmed to you how pissed he must be.

Keeping your voice low despite the close quarters ensuring the conversation wouldn't be private anyways, you finally summoned enough courage to address the man following behind you.

“Are you just going to keep being mad at me?”

“I’m not mad.”

The breath you exhaled was loud as you halted your movement, forcing Kyle to come to a quick stop so as not to run into your back. “You could at least have the decency not to lie to me.”

“Not lying. We need to keep moving…” It wasn’t ‘dolly’ he said at the end there. It was your real name.

That’s how you knew you fucked up.

Turning on your heel, you instantly hated the unphased expression he wore, wishing he would just snap at you the way Johnny did so that you could get it over with already. But no. That wasn’t Kyle’s style. He let his anger fester under his skin and rot away at his internal organs until you could see the decay in his eyes.

You were gonna have to push him. 

Thankfully your other companion had sensed the impending conflict and kept moving farther down the hall to grant the two of you a bit of space. “Over two decades of hanging around each other and you think I don’t know just how much you want to throttle me for what I did back there?”

“You’re a grown woman who can make her own decisions.”

“And as we’ve already established it was a stupid one and I deserve to get a scolding.”

“Johnny did just fine with his version.”

“You’re not Johnny.”

“The accent give that away?” 

Damn it, this was getting you nowhere.  “What gave it away was that he has enough emotional intelligence to get his rage out instead of letting it systematically destroy him.”

A vein twitched in Kyle's forehead, the only tell you’d hit a nerve. Perfect.

“If I had a problem I’d say something about it.”

“If that was the case then you wouldn’t have spent all these years burying your problems at the bottom of a bottle!”

That hadn’t at all been the sentence you'd meant to say, immediately regretting the spewed out words as soon as they left your lips. Kyle's eyes narrowed down to slits, his jaw clenching and muscles bulging in his arms where hands formed into tight fists. God, this was not the time nor place for this conversation.

“How I choose to spend my time is none of your business!”

Hurt mixed with outrage as you took a step toward him and shouted right back in his face, rare tempers flying on both sides. “It is when I have to sit and watch my cousin waste away every night in a bar because he refuses to open up to the only family he has left!”

His scoff was mean, but the red bleeding into his dark brown eyes wasn't from anger. “You think I'm gonna subject the person I love most to every terrible thing I've ever done? The horrors I've had to witness? You think I'm gonna willingly tell you just how much of a fucking monster your cousin has become?!”

“Yes, you asshole! Because I fucking forgive you!”

There was stillness in the corridor. Chests heaved with shallow breaths; words hung suspended between you. Droplets fell to the parched earth beneath your feet as you shed tears enough for the both of you.

Too long had you watched your cousin suffer under the weight of his own choices. 

No more…

“Just because I didn't have to fight in it doesn’t mean I went untouched by the war! None of us did!” Arms spread wide as you bore your own grieving soul in hopes he’d finally let you see his. 

“We were the ones keeping things afloat while the men in our lives left to serve king and country. We were the ones bent over the toilet violently shaking and throwing up every time the postman came, never knowing if the next letter we received was going to begin with the words ‘we deeply regret to inform you’. We were the ones who had to deal with the aftermath of our soldiers returning home from distant fields - changed, violent, distant men. I saw the boys I danced with take their own lives because they couldn’t stand the nightmares that plagued them even years later and hundreds of miles away from the trenches!” 

You would never know what it looked like to see a man with his intestines pouring out of his gut or a decapitated body from where a canon blew it clean off. You would never have to look a man in his eyes as you became responsible for the way the light slowly left them. But that did not mean you didn't know suffering in your own valid way.

“So I don’t care what you had to do over there to come back home to me. I don’t care that there’s blood on your hands that will never wash away. Tell me you strangled a man with those bare hands. Tell me you relished in committing heinous acts of torture. Tell me you stayed in the military far past your original enlistment date just because you realized you found something you were both good at and fucking enjoyed. I don’t fucking care! It was war, Kyle! And whatever it was you had to do was done in order to stop the other monsters - the real ones who didn’t feel remorse for the countless lives they've destroyed - from reaching our shores and doing far worse to people like me than you did to them. You think you don’t deserve to be here for what you’ve done? You think you’re beyond forgiveness? Well guess what? I forgive you! Be a monster for all I care! Just fucking let me in!”

It was the first time your cousin cried since the death of your parents, standing there like a marble statue as it poured over his face like rivers. You could tell he grappled with the vulnerability of your words - the permission being granted to share his pain and trauma with an understanding soul.

You reached out for Kyle the same time he did, crashing together in an embrace that left you even more raw and torn open than before. His iron grip on the back of your head and banded around your waist kept you locked against him, hair dampening with tears matching the ones you were leaving on his shirt, face buried in his chest with your arms clamped around his broad torso.

You’d tried to have this talk with him in the years prior, but each attempt ended in failure either with him shutting you out from the start or you were just too scared to dredge up feelings in the first place. You promised yourself never again would you stand by while the people most important to you suffered - whether by their own actions or any outside force, including you.

“Supposed to be brave for you, dolly…” The strained voice came muffled against your scalp.

“And I was a stupid little girl who didn’t want to see her two favorite people in the whole world end up with bullet holes in their heads. We’ve both made mistakes. No more pushing me away because of them, got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He squeezed you extra tight, pressing a firm kiss to the side of your head before finally relinquishing his grip to smooth away the tear tracks from your cheeks. You returned the favor in kind, your fingers lacing with his as the two of you turned to glimpse the last of your trio waiting patiently at the opposite end of the hallway.

Johnny hadn’t said anything the entire time the two of you were duking it out. He merely stood watch as a silent sentinel, his added presence a not uncomfortable witness to the long overdue confession. His gaze lifted from the floor at your approach, heavy with understanding and weighted with something glistening of his own. It wasn’t until you got close enough that it was replaced by a familiar sparkle that spoke well before his mouth did, pushing off from the wall he’d been leaning against and coming to stand directly in your way.

“So… ah’m one of yer favorites now, eh?”

The loud groan of annoyance from Kyle was echoed by the exasperated sigh from you. The playful shove you gave him had you grateful for his constant ability to so easily lighten a heavy mood, feeling like everything would eventually - in time - be alright again.

“Shut up, Johnny.”

Something you hadn’t anticipated in your ‘brilliant plan’ was the fact that the ceiling above would be so damn high, the tools the boys brought with just barely out of reach even for their six foot something statures. The idea was briefly put on hold as they went off to search any nearby rooms for something that could support their weight, returning a short while later dragging a couple decorative jackal statues on small platforms. 

You didn’t want to know whose tomb they’d raided for those, hoping you weren’t offending the dead too terribly badly.

“The statue of Anubis should only be a few feet above us now. So long as we’ve landed in the right area we should come up right between his legs.”

Dirt rained down on the group, the loud clunk of mining tools a steady beat chipping away at the sand and stone above. It was a real effort to keep your eyes on the ceiling so as not to be constantly admiring the flexing of a certain Scotsman’s beefy biceps and corded hairy forearms every time he swung his heavy hammer.

Johnny paused in his endeavors for a quick breather, glancing in your direction and accidentally catching you in one of your rare moments of weakness. Tossing you a quick wink with a knowing smirk, he rolled out the stiffness in his joints from craning his neck before resuming the task at hand. 

Meanwhile you had to act like you weren’t ready to spontaneously combust from the mortification of having been found practically drooling.

“Ye sure we’re gonna find this secret compartment this way?” Johnny coughed as a dusting of sand accidentally fell into his mouth.

To be honest: you weren’t. But at the very least it gave you a chance rather than letting the others be the only ones having a go at snatching it.

“Don’t worry, MacTavish,” chimed in your cousin, grunting with the exertion of swinging his pickaxe. “We’ll get to it before those beastly Americans do and then we’ll have even more riches to rub in Grave’s ugly mug.”

The pair took out their aggressions for the next few minutes, pausing only briefly here and there, driven by the need to reach the golden book before the team up top. The item in question hadn’t been the reason you’d started this expedition - that honor still belonged to the discoveries you’d made thus far - but you couldn’t deny there was a certain allure to it now, whether because of the knowledge it might contain or some sense of competition evoked in you by the two men banging away at the ceiling. 

A loud rumbling drew your eyes upward, the boys halting their movements with quizzical brows as they glanced between each other and the spot they’d been carving away at, hesitant to take another swing. The noise went on for a few moments longer, sounding far bigger than it had any reason to before disappearing a few seconds later.

Even still, everyone remained on edge. “The whole thing isn’t gonna collapse down on top of us… right?”

“Nah. Ah’m sure it’s jus’–”

Johnny didn’t get to finish that sentence before the sound came back with a thundering vengeance, clamorous enough to make you flinch back and reverse your steps in the opposite direction of the now growing crack opening up in the ceiling.

Kyle’s eyes were the size of dinner plates, violently smacking his friend’s arm as dirt rained down on top of them and something started to violently burst through. “Back up, back up!”

They dove off their platforms just in the nick of time, barely avoiding a deadly catastrophe while you stood stunned pressed against the far wall of the chamber as an enormous stone box broke through with a resounding CRACK and crashed to the floor in a heap, taking up almost the full width of the room.

“Steamin’ Jesus…” Johnny groaned out from the dirt, bringing himself to his feet and assisting Kyle in doing the same from where the two of them had rolled out of the way to keep from being pancaked.

Once the dust kicked up had settled, you slowly approached the box, recognizing it for what it was and glancing up at the sizeable hole from where it’d fallen through. “A sarcophagus… buried at the feet of Anubis…”

“The hell they do something like that for?” Kyle was still gawking at the exposed stone on the ceiling, partially to check if anything else was about to topple down with it.

You could only imagine the reasoning behind doing something like this. After all, the ancient Egyptians weren’t exactly known for this kind of unorthodox burial. 

“I honestly don’t know. I can only assume that this person was either someone of great importance, or alternatively…” and you were really banking on it being the former, “they did something entirely unforgivable.”

The whole thing was covered in a thick layer of dust and sand, settled after millennia of being buried and obscuring any and all writings. Using your hands only seemed to smear it, forcing you to pull out your new archaeological equipment as you began brushing away the film coating every inch of its surface, searching for any kind of markings that could be used as an identifier for the figure inside. 

But there was nothing written along the sides as one might see on the tombs of pharaohs and high priests. Why give a man the honor of resting at the feet of a god for all eternity only to tell us nothing about him?

Whistling for your attention, Johnny pointed to a small section he cleared away at the top of the box with his hands, visible indents still obscured by tiny grains of sand. You moved your brush over the area, sweeping away the dirt gathered in the cracks keeping you from reading any of the rather roughly carved hieroglyphics. You’d expected to find a cartouche at the very least, but this… this was not that.

“He… that shall not be named.”

But… but that didn’t make any sense. If they weren’t going to tell us who he was then why even bother giving him a title in the first place? Who was this man to be hated so much that the high priests reduced his very existence down to unspeakability?

Something wasn’t right here.

Your arm bumped against a raised texture just below the symbols, glinting metal embedded in the sarcophagus that once cleaned out revealed an eight pointed star with a scarab at the center.

Kyle ran his fingers over the serrated edges, glancing over at Johnny as the two of them tried to work the problem. “Feels sturdy; built into the container, not just slapped on top. Some sort of locking mechanism?”

“Could be. The hell kinda key looks like that, though?”

An enraged voice shouts from the recesses of your mind, flashes of glinting metal threatening your neck and impatient eyes belonging to a man you encountered not three days past: "THE KEY!"

That's when it hit you. The robed men, the attack on the boat, the key, the eight sided container burning a hole in your mind.

The box.

You scrambled for the bag you carried with you, digging around in one of the exterior pouches before emerging with the little metal box that started this whole adventure in the first place.

“Thought that’s empty.” Kyle looked at it with a tilted head and a raised brow, wondering if you’ve by chance gone off your rocker in your current frenzied state.

“It is,” you confirmed, flipping the item around in search of that tiny pressure plate, “but that’s not the point, dear cousin. The point is… Aha!”

The box sprung open with a click, the top unfurling into a recognizable shape as your two companions eyes flashed in understanding.

“...that I have a better memory than you.” You gave him a cheeky grin overflowing with smugness as you tipped the box upside down, placing it against the symbol where it slotted in perfectly into the eight pointed star. 

Johnny squeezed you against his side in a one armed hug, an enthusiastic kiss to your temple that had you giggling. “Lookit our clever lass, aye Garrick.”

Kyle didn’t get a chance to respond. 

Agonized screaming filled the air, blood curdling and twisted and gripping into your very core. It was a primal sound of torture, cutting into your soul and filling you with abyssal dread that left you feeling white as a ghost. 

The boys made haste in rushing out the open doorway, you trailing along behind them as Kyle held an arm out to block you from potential danger. You weren’t prepared for the sight of a man you didn’t recognize flailing about and crashing down the corridor, nails clawing into his bald scalp leaving rivulets of blood soaking his skin. 

His brutal screams of everlasting torture rang out like a cathedral bell as he ran headlong past you, unseeing or uncaring as he flailed violently, repeatedly bashing his head against the wall and leaving a red gory mess in his wake. 

Johnny almost moved to stop him until the stranger suddenly collapsed in a heap on the floor, back cracking and arching off the ground in an almost inhuman way as his fingernails dug deep scratches into the earth. Eyes bugging out of his head, mouth open in a garbled choked off scream, limbs twitching and spasming until - eventually - they moved no more.

You were getting far too used to seeing corpses…

No one fought Johnny when he made the executive decision of being done for the day, the sweet taste of discovery turned to rot in your mouth at the unexpected turn the evening had taken. 

You'd seen men struck down right in front of you that night on the ferry, blood staining the carpet of your stay rooms and the polished wood of the upper deck. But they had been bad men doing horrible things and deserved not one ounce of pity for their fates. This however had been on the other end of the spectrum. That man hadn’t suffered for any crimes he’d committed - he'd merely suffered. And that to you was more disturbing than watching the man who tried to cause you harm take a bullet between the eyes.

Your trio emerged from the darkness of the catacombs up into star speckled nightfall. Kyle stayed behind to fill the other team in on the details of what just transpired with one of their workers while Johnny escorted you back to the opposite side of the courtyard. 

He sat you down on the laid out rugs in front of the blackened firewood, striking the kindling with a match as the dry pieces of timber quickly set ablaze. Digging into one of the nearby bags, Johnny carefully draped a blanket over your shoulders before quietly taking a spot at your side.

“Thank you...” The voice that came out from your lips was smaller than you might’ve liked, very telling of your current delicate psychological condition. Even with the added heat it wasn’t enough to take the chill off your bones.

It took you a few breaths to bring up the question you didn’t really want to know the answer to. “What do you suppose killed him?”

The arm that had been around you earlier for your cleverness returned now for your comfort. “Dunnae ken, lass. Must’ve been somethin’ wit’ his head the way he was holdin’ it screamin’ like that. Seizure maybe?”

It was at that point that Kyle rounded the other side of the tents, an unlit cigarette already wedged between his teeth as he struck a match and raised it to the tip, tossing it somewhere in the sand before joining the two of you on the rugs.

“Got confirmation that the man was indeed one of theirs. Going back to retrieve the body now. Poor buggers just can’t seem to catch a break.” Kyle muttered with a tired groan as he sunk into the blankets next to you, leaning back on his elbow and exhaling a billow of smoke skyward.

Seemed like there was an awful lot of that going around since this whole trip started. “More bad news?”

“Only if you were one of the blokes that went and got himself melted today.”

Johnny scoffed, tossing another piece of kindling on the flames. “Yer bum’s oot the windae.”

“Swear to god, mate. It’s true. You can go ask them yourself.” He motioned over to the north where the other party had taken up camp. “Lost three of their workers opening up that compartment we almost had our own hands in. Soon as the lid was popped, poof!”

You flinched away from his animated arm gestures miming an explosion, the mental image that brought to mind combined with the screams of the deceased man from earlier making you shrink inward on yourself and pull the woven blanket tighter around you as if the thin barrier would protect you from the outside world.

“Hydrochloride then,” your Scottish companion muttered, a soothing hand beginning to rub large circles on your back at your obviously perturbed expression. It helped even if only a little bit.

Your cousin made a small hum in agreement at Johnny's conclusion before taking another drag. It was painfully obvious you were out of the loop concerning that information, wondering what it was they apparently knew regarding the matter that you didn’t.

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that term…” You trailed off, looking between the two of them for some sort of explanation.

Kyle piped up with the answer. “Salt acid, dolly. Pressurized salt acid. Would’ve dissolved the flesh right off their bones. Bit old fashioned, but we’ve seen it used before.”

Part of you wasn’t surprised - either at their familiarity with the substance or the fact that the statue of Anubis had apparently been booby trapped. It made sense that the guardians of the city would’ve had a host of implemented deterrents they used to ward off plunderers. The fact that you hadn’t considered that as a possibility earlier weighed heavy on your heart with guilt.

Christ, if either of them had been the ones to pry open the compartment instead…

Your depressing ruminations were interrupted by the horses whinnying in the background, the boys turning their heads towards the sound with focused eyes as if sensing something that you weren’t. 

You almost made fun of them for being so antsy. After all, it was only a bunch of animals talking amongst themselves. Just as you were about to open your mouth with a quick remark, you heard the disturbance again - only to realize the shuffling of hooves was coming from the opposite direction of where the other team's horses were currently grazing along the hillside. 

So then who…?

Movement pulled your gaze back to your companions, furrowing your own brows as the boys began grabbing for their nearby rifles in a hurry. “Wha–?”

“Stay here, lass.” Came the harshly barked order, wasting no more breath on you as they turned in tandem and sprinted off in the direction of the commotion, expecting you to remain obedient.

You weren’t an idiot. You knew if they were headed into something guns blazing then you stood no chance against whatever it was they might face. You trusted your boys enough to stay right where you were, scooting backwards on your butt to further conceal yourself in the shadows of one of the tents. Curling your legs up to your chest, you could only sit and wait for whatever outcome might befall.

The first echoing gunshots rang out in the courtyard, multiplying quickly as gunsmoke drifted upwards into view from your position. Distant screams and grunts and foreign battle cries told you everything you needed to know about the situation your friends now found themselves in; flashbacks to the only other fight you’d ever witnessed as your imagination supplied you with pictures of damp crimson earth and bullet ridden corpses. You’d have covered your ears to muffle the cacophonous sounds if you weren’t trying to remain on alert in case the fighting veered any closer.

The camels grew restless and frightened by the loud echoing bangs, yanking on their ropes in blind panic as their distressed bleats joined the horses whinnying. You tried in vain to calm the spooked animals without moving towards them, but they were all but deaf to the gentle hushes and calming words sent their way. It wasn’t until the one tugged hard enough with a reverberating snap to free itself from its confines that you bolted upright from your hiding spot with a sharp curse, following along after the panicked beast as it started to run in the wrong direction of safety.

It was easily outrunning you, charging away at speeds your tiny human legs could not compete with until you were forced to abandon your mission of bringing it back. Its path led you right towards the fighting, something you realized far too late until you had to dodge out of the way of a horse galloping past, nearly tripping over yourself to turn back in the direction you just came from. It was your turn to panic as you were finally met with the sight of your aggressors - men in familiar black robes directly blocked your intended path back to the far end of the courtyard, frantically searching for another way through when a gunshot rang out in your vicinity, startling a high pitched shout from your lips as you cowered away in terror.

It gripped you with the force of a thick iron chain, wrapping around your torso and snaking its way up around your delicate neck. Your airflow was constricted, the metal slipping inside between shocked parted lips to paralyze your windpipe and slither down to form a dense weight deep in your gut. 

It was pure pandemonium as lit torches were tossed onto thin linen canopies, men who’d been hiding within running out shrieking in pain as fire licked across their blistering skin. Those closest to the exit tried to flee in alarm only to be halted by reinforcements trampling through the gates and turning them away. Those who could defend themselves were doing so, casualties on both sides as the Americans fought back against the foreign adversaries, cheering as each shot knocked an enemy clean off its saddle. But there were too few of you in comparison to the number of intruders spilling down into the city.

All around you, faces of the men you’d encountered throughout the day contorted in agony as they were cut down like rotted trees, blood coating the blades of their enemies and bubbling up from the gruesome gaping wounds in their chests. You heard their cries to mothers and wives they would never see again; their prayers to gods that would not arrive to save them. It broke your heart to turn away from outstretched hands, looking to you as if you were their savior when in reality you’d never felt more useless in your entire life.

It took someone nearly bowling you over for your brain to finally drag itself out of freeze mode, the deep rooted need for survival powering your legs to seek cover elsewhere. 

In all the chaos you could not find either of your boys, hoping they were not amongst the bodies you rushed past as you swerved between tents towards a crumbled obelisk, hefting yourself over the side to crouch down hopefully out of view. Your hands trembled and your head felt dizzy, breaths shallow and ragged as you fought back nausea from the taste of copper soaking the air. 

Clenching your eyes shut, you begged whatever higher power might be listening to please… please not let this be the end for you. Please let Kyle and Johnny make it out of this alive and unscathed. Please don’t take away your chance at living now that you just discovered what it felt like to live.

A deep gravelly call to halt came from somewhere to your left, first in Arabic and then again in English as the clattering of swords stilled and the shouting quieted. Risking a glance, you raised up onto your knees to peek over the stone structure for whatever seemed to bring the fighting to a temporary pause.

It wasn’t hard to pinpoint what had captured everyone’s attention.

Dark clothing intermixed with light, everyone turning to face the same area awash with burning firelight highlighting two figures amongst the chaos.

And there in the middle of it all stood a man in black faced in a tense standoff opposite the familiar form of Johnny, a lit stick of dynamite the only thing keeping him and his forces at bay.

The stranger didn’t cower from the sight in front of him, keen eyes taking in the situation with careful calculations that told you he was weighing all outcomes - well aware of the destruction in Johnny’s hands and the promise in his gaze that dared them to call his bluff.

The man in black straightened to an imposing height, a deceptively bored stance with a calm aggression sparking in his gaze. He didn’t flinch away from the harsh glare of your friend, meeting it head on with one of confident arrogance. It was hard to tell his full expression, a black cloth covering the bottom half of his face that he had yet to lower. His sword swung limply at his side - dripping dark blood onto the sand below - but the muscles in his arms tensed as if they were prepared to strike at any moment.

You weren’t sure you’d ever met a more dangerous man.

“We’ve spilt enough blood tonight.” The rough bass in his voice rumbled through your bones even at a distance, the surprisingly silky timbre cutting through the undertone of lethality. “This is the only warnin’ I’ll give you so best listen carefully.”

He took a step forward as if unbothered by the sparkling wick counting down in front of him, eyes narrowing down to slits above the black fabric of his mask. 

“Leave.” The singular word sent an ominous chill down your spine. “Leave this place, or else we'll be sendin’ you to meet your heathen god.”

You didn’t doubt it, not for one minute. It briefly flashed across your mind that this might just be some elaborate trick to lower your guards, but you somehow trusted the man to keep his word. You were only grateful the killing had ended for the time being, glad to be given the opportunity to leave with your heads still intact. 

One of his men came up beside him, holding out the reins of his horse for him to take, head dipped in a reverent bow.

“Shabah.” Ghost.

The stranger's gaze swept over his surroundings as he made to turn away, halting his movement as he picked you out amongst the sea of faces. Dark brown eyes pierced yours as he came to a sudden stop, something brewing within that once again pulled at the back of your mind the same as it did that night on the ferry. There was something staring you right in the face and you were too blind or traumatized to see it.

He held you captive a moment longer, a hidden message within those orbs that he granted you no time to decipher. Breaking eye contact to mount his steed, he turned his harsh glare back to the others present, yelling out again in English for everyone to hear. “You have one day!”

Calling out to his men, they all took to their steeds and scattered with the wind back the way they came, funneling out through the city gates to disappear out into the darkness of the night. They may have gone, but their chilling warning remained.

You hoped that would be the last you ever saw of him.

°•. ✿ .•°.•° ✿ °•.°•. ✿ .•°.•° ✿ °•.°•. ✿ .•°

<< ✿ Previous ✿ <<

[argyrocratie]

"When I first went to Jamaica in 2012 as a graduate student studying the environmental politics of the Maroons, an Afro-Indigenous community who freed themselves from enslavement in the 18th century and established an autonomous society in the mountainous interior of the island, Chinese overseas development policy seemed irrelevant to my work. Yet as my field research progressed over the following eight years, first as a doctoral student in African diaspora studies and then as a post-doctoral researcher, the impact of Chinese infrastructural development and extractive industry on the Jamaican people and environment became increasingly apparent.

The timing of my field work overlapped with an unprecedented surge in Chinese economic and diplomatic engagement with Jamaica and the Caribbean as a whole.

(...)

It is beyond the scope of this article to detail the political economic dynamics and immense social impact of debt in Jamaica over the last 40 years.4 Suffice it to say that the island became a byword for structural adjustment during this period, with every new loan from the World Bank, or default on payments thereof, coming with International Monetary Fund-mandated austerity.

Health and education were notable casualties of this socio-economic assault. By the start of my field research, Jamaican child mortality had almost doubled over the span of a single decade while completion of primary school dropped from 97% to 73% in the same period. This despite the fact that Jamaica had already repaid more money than it had been lent, with continuing debt servicing accounting for a 106% debt-to-GDP ratio according to the latest World Bank figures.

All this is only a small snapshot of the catastrophic outcomes of debt wielded as a tool of neocolonialism.

With the island’s status as one of the most indebted countries on the planet, Chinese infrastructural development was received with fanfare from Jamaican elites, a possible economic lifeline out of the debt trap.

(...)

Jamaican elites may appreciate that they can pay back debts with land, and that China does not directly require broad policy changes like the structural adjustment conditions of IMF and World Bank loans.

However, even with the above and the fact that the Jamaican debt to China is small compared to that claimed by Western IFIs and private firms, Jamaican politicians are growing increasingly wary of the costs of doing business with China. In November 2019, Prime Minister Andrew Holness announced that Jamaica would no longer borrow from China, a scant seven months after formally joining the BRI.

As usual, most Jamaicans are not privy to the inter-governmental discussions and deals driving these decisions, but their government’s newfound reticence in engaging with China reflects deeper concerns among BRI partners that the initiative is a debt trap.

(...)

Almost two decades of Chinese loans and infrastructure-led development have left Jamaican workers and farmers as precarious and dispossessed as ever. The hard-fought and generational struggle for Jamaican workers’ power (trade unions were instrumental to Jamaica’s independence struggle) has been curtailed and rolled back by China’s transposed sovereignty.

Furthermore, Chinese mining interests appear poised to pick up where their Western counterparts left off in terms of irreversible ecological destruction and threats to indigenous survival. Certainly, Jamaica cannot bear another 50 years of capitalist exploitation and extractive industry.

If there is any hope in turning this dire situation into revolutionary momentum, it will be in Jamaicans making common cause with the Chinese laborers imported to the country. According to China Labor Watch, Chinese workers on overseas BRI projects are often subject to “deceptive job ads, passport retention, wage withholding, physical violence and lack of contracts” to the extent of constituting forced labor and human trafficking.

In fact, at least one Chinese worker in Jamaica has already blown the whistle on such conditions. Unfortunately, as of the time of writing this article, there appears to be no organized effort to make solidaristic alliances among Jamaican workers, Chinese workers, and Maroons. The Maroons are organized as an indigenous community seeking land and sovereign rights, rather than workers seeking class emancipation, and remain locked in a fractious political battle with the Jamaican state toward those ends.

Furthermore, the cultural and language barriers between Jamaicans and imported Chinese workers are significant. Yet both countries have rich revolutionary traditions. If Jamaican labor militancy and Maroon struggle were able to reconcile and align their interests, while cultivating strategic allies among the heavily exploited Chinese workers, a powerful relationship of international solidarity from below could be forged."

...

[imagine-darksiders]

Hi Ellie! First time asker here so kind of nervous but I love your stuff so I’m finally gonna stop lurking! I was wondering, a few months after death resurrects humanity if y/n had like a serious ptsd episode about like being attacked by demons, what would the horsemen do about it if they felt she was a serious danger to herself and humans around her? Maybe she got her hands on a weapon and barricaded herself up somewhere and is shooting at whoever gets near?

Anyways thank you and I love your art and your amazing, talented brain!!

Hi hi! Thanks so much for this interesting ask.

I got a little carried away with this one, admittedly :)

Very self indulgent with lots of overprotective Horsemen, but I want it on record that I don't suffer from this kind of PTSD, and I may not have accurately portrayed the symptoms, which I hear are nearly innumerable and very difficult to define.

CW - flashbacks, triggers, blood, mentions of death, threat to children.

Kind of an idea-dump about how humans are adjusting to life after the Resurrection.

Spoilers, not all of it is good.

----------

Haven is a city full of ghosts.

On every street corner, in every dark alley, in every building from the dingiest apartment to the grandest skyscraper, there exists the haunting echo of death.

One hundred and five years ago, the Biblical Apocalypse had proved itself to be more than just a story, and in a mere matter of weeks, all of Humanity was wiped out, reduced to a single, lonely number.

One.

Just one.

You.

Slung over the shoulder of one of the very Horsemen who was supposed to start the Apocalypse, you’d watched as Haven City – your home – burned alive around you.

Everywhere you looked, you saw the mangled remains of your fellow humans, strewn about like withering, autumn leaves. Innumerable. Lifeless. And always looming over them, the very demons that had come to eradicate your species from the chronicles of History.

Iron and rust slicked the back of your throat with every breath you took. The city screamed, seven million souls rattled the windows and howled through the streets, joining together in the most bloodcurdling, ongoing orchestral note ever to have split the sky asunder.

One hundred and five years ago, everyone died. Not just Haven City – The entire human race.

But the thing is… they didn’t stay dead.

Ironically, it was Death himself who restored the souls and bodies of more than eight billion people in one, fell swoop.

Eight billion were brought back, mended by ancient magic, right to the place they’d died.

But for humans, one hundred years hadn’t passed.

To them, between one blink and the next, they’d died and were subsequently reborn with their bodies and minds intact, with their last and lingering memory being solely that of the monsters who had been bearing down on them.

The world had screamed anew.

That was the worst of it, you suppose. The remembering.

It didn’t take long before everyone realised that humans could recall how they’d died, and as such, the city itself became wrapped up in terrible, haunting memories. And when enough bad memories gather in certain places, the sorrow seeps like rot into the infrastructure, turning every building into a tomb, even without a body to keep it company.

Everyone could point out a different place where they’d been cut down or crushed or burned alive or swallowed whole. Some could still see themselves laying there, glassy eyes pinned wide open, staring up at the fiery sky.

People were haunted by their own ghosts.

Haven is a city full of ghosts.

But on this night, as you meander down a residential street with your nose tipped towards the sky, breathing in the crisp, October air, you can’t help but note that there are far more ghosts flitting about than usual.

Though these, at least, are a little more palatable.

You can scarcely believe that Halloween has rolled around for yet another year.

A small blur of white darts past you down the path, almost tripping over the long, tattered bedsheet that’s been thrown over their head. You’re rather proud that you only flinch at the unexpected movement, you don’t recoil entirely. Bemused, you watch the little, orange bucket swing perilously from the ghost's elbow as they totter through a garden gate and hammer on the front door of a house, belting out a well-practiced ‘trick-or-treat!’ before the residents have even turned the handle.

Somewhere across the road, a different child screams.

Yours isn’t the only head that immediately whips towards the sound.

Naturally, when you and at least fifteen other adults turn to look, you only see a little girl being hoisted up onto her father’s shoulders, whooping and shrieking with gleeful excitement. To his credit, the man’s mouth is pulled into a grimace, and he raises his hand to offer the onlookers an apologetic wave as if to say, ‘It’s all right. She’s safe. Carry on.’

He knows what they’re thinking.

The whole street seems to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Everybody starts to move at a normal pace once more, though it had all happened so quickly, no one really even broke their stride.

When the sky burst open over a century ago and rained hellfire and demons down onto an unsuspecting Earth, nobody had been spared.

But it was the children – weaker, smaller, slower – who had fallen first.

Everyone remembers the sound of a whole city dying.

You know of several parents who still struggle to sleep at night, because when they do, they’re plagued by the cries of their children who they simply couldn’t save. The children, of course, are alive and well today, but there’s no forgetting that there was a time when they hadn’t been, not until Humanity was brought back from the dead by Death himself.

Nightmares are so much worse when they echo the past.

You may not have children, and you may have been spared a miserable end on Earth thanks to the actions of one Horseman of the Apocalypse, but you still have license to say that you too have felt the terrors that haunt Humanity.

In cruel clarity, you remember the day the world ended.

Heaving out a shaky exhale, you watch a jet of white air puff from your parted lips as you carry on down the leaf-strewn road, sidestepping a young boy whose face has been painted to look like a tiger.

You smile approvingly at the choice, all the while trying not to jump at every sudden noise.

Kids were the ones who wanted to bring back Halloween, while the older folks, yourself included, were a little more hesitant about the matter.

There was something… different about the holiday following Humanity’s resurrection.

People used to say that All Hallow’s Eve was a time when the veil between Earth and other hidden realms is at its thinnest, allowing spirits, demons and monsters to pass through an invisible barrier, all to cause havoc for one, glorious night.

Of course, then you’d all discovered that demons are real.

So are monsters.

So are spirits.

And suddenly, Halloween seemed a lot less like a harmless, fun tradition meant for children to enjoy.

You have first-hand proof that the veil isn’t thin. It’s completely passable, all the damn time, apparently.

But children don’t care about that.

For most of them, Halloween is still the fun, if spooky night where they can don their costumes and stuff themselves so full of confectionary that they’re nearly sick.

And so, it was brought back. But not without a few stipulations put into place.

It seemed to be a unanimous, but unspoken decision that sporting any imagery pertaining to demons was a big no-no.

Out went the little, red horns, the plastic pitchforks, and the spade-tipped tails. Even fangs were discarded. Nobody wants to see a visceral reminder of the very things that killed them running through the city streets.

The same rule eventually extended to white, feathery wings and halo headbands, avoided out of general politeness for the angels who’ve started frequenting Earth enough that it’s now a relatively common occurrence to see one soaring over the city skyline or bothering librarians for human literature.

In the case of the demons, however, ditching their imagery had been more for humans’ benefit than out of any mark of respect or an attempt at maintaining social cordialness.

You weren’t even killed by a demon, and you still feel that bubble of apprehension rising in your throat if the Hell-born merchant, Vulgrim, pops up in your path without warning.

You’d seen what his ilk did to yours, even if the glimpses you caught were brief and blurred.

So, for humans who were cut down by a demon, you can only imagine what harrowing thoughts must ricochet through their heads if they ever catch sight of one.

Of course, demonic visits to Earth are very few and far between, and if ever they do occur, their presence is heavily monitored by at least one of Humanity’s ferocious protectors.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, world-enders turned world-savers, and your best and dearest friends.

It occurs to you that they may already be waiting for you at your apartment, no doubt arguing over which of your horror movies they want to watch first.

It’s rare that you manage to get all four of them in a room together nowadays, rarer still if you manage it without anyone suffering a bloody nose, but human holidays, it seems, have become important to them.

Strife says it’s because you’re important to them.

But then, Strife says a lot of things.

A dainty smile wobbles tentatively across your face at the thought of them waiting for you, so, with a slightly lighter heart, you round the corner of the last house and continue on your path towards home, your steps a little surer than before.

Behind you, you can pick up the distant chatter of a group of youngsters following the same path as you, likely heading home after filling their pumpkin buckets to the brim with sweet things.

It’s as you’re strolling past a nondescript, dead-end alley that it happens.

The sound of rustling alerts you to the presence of… something. You’ve spent enough time around Death to be a little more in tune with your surroundings than you used to be.

In a snap, your head whips towards the shadowy entrance to the alley.

At the exact same moment, something tall, sinewy and dark lurches towards you.

“SHIT!” you holler, stumbling backwards, your heart soaring up into your throat as the thing howls shrilly into the night.

You catch the flash of a red face, pointed teeth protruding from black lips, horns that spiral towards the sky.

That’s all you see before a switch in your mind flips, like something inside you has snapped in half, and the world around you goes blank and quiet, only impeded by the ringing in your muffled ears.

-----

War is not overprotective.

He’s simply honouring the duty he set out for himself. Keeping you safe is not unlike a mission, and the youngest Horseman has always adhered to his missions with a dogged and unrelenting tenacity.

That said, if he could somehow find a way to glue you to him, perhaps keep you nestled safely in the depths of his soul, he’d certainly be a lot less agitated every time you’re left on your own for too long.

Tonight, for instance, he was the first Horseman to arrive at your home, squeezing himself through your front door with begrudging care. You’d seemed so distraught the first time he simply bulldozed his way inside, shoulder pauldrons tearing off enormous swathes of your doorframe, and he’d rather avoid a repeat of the scathing looks his siblings had sent him for a week after the fact.

It wasn’t long before he was joined by his brother, Strife, who spent a few moments griping that he wasn’t the first Horseman there before he quickly got over his minor annoyance and began to make himself right at home, kicking his boots up on your coffee table and burying himself into your well-worn sofa.

They were soon joined by Fury, and finally, Death.

But still, there was no sign of you.

They managed to wait together for all of twenty minutes before someone – Strife – had made the tentative suggestion that you might be in trouble.

And after that…. well.

There was no harm in just… checking the surrounding area, was there?

Death stayed outside your apartment building to wait for you, just in case you came back, though he’d sent his crow, Dust, to scour the city for you in his stead.

In the meantime, Fury, Strife and War set out to roam the blocks surrounding your home, summoning their steeds to cover more ground.

The youngest Horseman has to keep his horse’s reins in check.

Ruin - an ebony beast of a stallion with a mane of smoke, and legs like molten rock – can sense his rider’s agitation, keeping his thick neck arched high, nostrils round and wide as he tromps heavily down the road, sending sparks flying from his hooves with every step.

Without warning, Ruin throws his enormous head up, ears shooting forwards to point down the street, and his muscles tighten rigidly beneath the saddle.

“Y/n?” War asks his steed, standing in the stirrups and squinting through the streetlights to try and spy anything recognisable in the darkness.

Tossing his smoking mane, the almighty horse’s body suddenly jolts as he lets out a deep, guttural bellow, more akin to a roar than a whinny. The sound echoes over the rooftops, until it’s swiftly answered by a shriller, metallic neigh from several streets back.

Mayhem, at least, has received the message.

The street goes quiet again, and that’s when War hears it.

The unmistakable sound of crying.

Metal-clad heels have barely tapped Ruin’s flanks before the horse launches forwards into a dead gallop, thundering down the street towards the noise that drifts out from the darkness of a narrow, unlit alley.

War pulls his arm back as they draw close, gauntlet fisted around the heavy chain that serves as his horse’s reins.

With a squeal, Ruin plants his hooves against the tarmac and digs in, sparks flying as the pair come careening to a halt just outside the alley’s entrance.

The dim glow cast by Ruin’s legs isn’t much, but it’s just enough to allow his rider a glimpse into the shadows.

It takes much of War’s self-restraint to keep himself from gasping out your name.

There, in the gloom, you stand before him, hunched shoulders, still as stone, eyes ablaze in Ruin’s molten firelight.

War’s eyes flick rapidly over you from head to toe. His first instinct is to scan for injuries.

But although your nostrils flare and your arms are spread wide out to either side of you, palms tilted backwards, he can’t discern anything glaringly obvious.

Even still, the Horseman isn’t satisfied with just a brief glance.

Shaking his boot from the stirrup, War heaves himself out of the saddle and drops heavily to the ground, shaking the earth as he lands.

And you crack like a whip.

An arm is thrust forwards at the Horseman with a jolt, tiny fist clenched as though you’re holding an invisible weapon. You widen your stance to stabilise yourself and rip your lips back, revealing blunt, unimpressive teeth. As you move however, War hears it again, crying. More specifically, a loud, childish sob.

But the sound hadn’t come from you.

All at once, he stops in his tracks, shifting his eyes down to the shadows behind you.

Three pairs of wet, glistening eyes blink back at him.

War’s brows shoot up into the darkness of his crimson hood, taken aback by the trio of human younglings cowering against a brick wall behind you.

Now, War isn’t the type of Horseman who would ever proclaim to be out of his depth in any situation… But when human younglings are involved, he’s only too willing to let Death, or even Strife take the lead. He has a hard time wrapping his head around how small you are compared to him. Children leave the titan especially perplexed.

As if summoned by the mere thought, the sound of hoofbeats steadily swing around the corner at the end of the street, galloping hell-for-leather towards him.

Ruin’s head twists sideways and he wickers deeply in greeting. An answer follows, the haunting, melancholy whinny of Despair.

War doesn’t tear his eyes off you though, not even when the powerful presences of three, ethereal steeds skid to a halt behind him, nor when their riders immediately launch into a frenzy of questions, each crowing to be heard over one another at the same time.

“War! Is she here?”

“Mayhem just turned and bolted over. The Hell is goin’ on!?”

“We heard Ruin’s call. Y/n. Is she all right?”

Rather than add his own voice to the confusion, War merely jerks his chin towards the alley, guiding the eyes of his siblings inside it.

Death is the first to spot you, and he’s the first to slip silently from Despair’s saddle, taking a slow, testing step towards you.

“Y/n?” he murmurs.

The very fact that you don’t even twitch at the sound of his voice is indication enough that something is very wrong.

“Death-“ Strife’s voice cuts in, armour clanking as he leans forwards in the saddle. “-She’s got kids with her…”

Kids…?

Their eldest lowers his gaze from where it had been studying your blank expression, and… Ah.

Three little ones - the tallest standing no higher than your hip - are squashed together against a wall, only a foot or so behind you, half hidden by your wide, protective stance.

Death would be embarrassed to admit that he’d missed them upon initial glance, especially given their bright, painted faces and unorthodox clothes indicative of tonight’s festivities. He’s supposed to be the observant one, not Strife. But in the moment, all the old Reaper could focus on was you.

“My,” Fury muses from her seat on Rampage’s back, “She really has been busy since we last saw each other…”

Despite her flippant tone, Death and his brothers know their hot-headed sister well enough to catch the strain in her words. She’s trying to pick apart this mystery, just as they all are.

“It’s the Horsemen,” hisses a boy wearing a straw hat best suited for a scarecrow.

Cowering behind your right arm, an older girl stammers, “That… that means, they can help us? Right?”

The Four give a rapid blink, all at the same time. It isn’t often they meet humans who have accepted the fact that the Horsemen are on Earth as protectors, not destroyers.

The girl turns her eyes onto Death, and he has to commend her effort to meet his stare before she drops it again, quivering under his gaze. Green makeup is swiftly washed away as tears stream in rivulets down her face.

“She won’t let us leave,” she hiccoughs at the ground.

There’s no question as to who ‘She’ is.

You don’t react to the voices around you. But the sudden clang of metal… that does garner a reaction.

Strife can never do anything quietly, it seems. He’s too preoccupied with getting to you; his best and only friend. So, when the sharpshooter drops from Mayhem’s saddle and lands with a cacophonous clamour that doesn’t sound a million miles away from a gun’s retort, Death is hardly surprised that you duck your head as if you’ve been shot at, back-peddling towards the children until you end up pinning the smallest between the wall and your leg, arms once again throw out wide to keep the other two restrained against the brickwork.

All three of the younglings let out bleats of alarm, and the smallest pushes half-heartedly at your calf, sniffling and shaking, her eyes glued to the Reaper. She looks as though she can’t decide whether she wants to stay concealed behind you or take her chances with the fabled Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

“Damn it, Strife,” Fury reprimands.

But her brother isn’t looking her way. In fact, he can’t seem to take his eyes off your face, his own expression crumpling slowly underneath his metal visor as you stare through him, face blank and empty. You’ve gone quiet. So quiet. And so still, just as Death had numerously ordered you to do when you travelled with him across this ruined city all those years ago.

But it isn’t your silence and stillness that troubles Strife so.

You’d recoiled from him.

And perhaps it’s testament to how highly he holds you in his regard that your supposed fear of him is so crushing.

He takes a step towards you, hand outstretched and ready to try and rebuild whatever rift has grown between you.

His stomach nearly bottoms out when you stiffen in response, shoulders prickling like a furious stalker.

“Brother, stop.”

War’s immense gauntlet drops heavily onto his shoulder, jerking him to a halt.

If Strife hadn’t once promised you that he’d make an effort to stop antagonising his siblings so much, he’d have thrown his brother’s arm right back into his face, or perhaps he’d have simply wrenched the prosthetic off in frustration. There’s something upsetting his human, and it isn’t something he can shoot, so the pressure is building up inside his chest like a submarine filling with water.

“War?” Death calls lowly, stepping back and flicking a glance across at his youngest brother, “You’ve seen this before?”

“Not in her,” War replies, studying the eerie stillness of your chest. Are you breathing? You must be, if you’re standing upright.

And then Death utters something in the Nephilim language, a sharp, harsh word that rises on the second syllable, rolling from the back to the front of his mouth. Nephilim isn’t an easy language to speak, nor is it really put into practice now that the species has been reduced to four.

But War understands why his brother uses the word here. He doesn’t know of its translation into the Common tongue. If he were pressed to translate it, the closest he might come is something along the lines of ‘battle-trapped.’

“Mm,” he nods, his crimson hood rustling in the Autumn breeze as he repeats the word.

Strife and Fury share a glance upon hearing it, their gazes sharpening in sudden comprehension.

The former turns his helm towards you, raucous and righteous anger churning in his gut. “So, what did this?” he growls unevenly.

“That’s the problem. It could have been anything, or perhaps nothing at all,” Fury returns, no less incensed on your behalf. You’re not afraid of them. Hell, you’re probably not even seeing them right now. You aren’t really looking at her, nor at her siblings. Your gaze is centred past all of them, blind to everything around you except for whatever it is that only you can see.

They have seen this before, War more-so than the others, given his extensive history with large-scale conflicts.

“We have to get her out of this fugue,” Death addresses his fellow Horsemen, “We’ll worry about why this happened when she’s home.”

There’s a silent moment of agreement that passes between the four of them before their eldest returns his attention to you.

“Y/n…” he murmurs, and his siblings know better than to raise their brows at how gentle his voice is, “It’s us. Death, my brothers and sister. We’re all here.”

There are very, very few beings in the Universe that could draw even an ounce of gentleness from the ancient Nephilim. The fact that you’re one of them told his siblings all they needed to know about what you meant to their eldest brother from the moment you were first introduced to them.

“The area is clear,” War jumps in, “Fury and I swept the city. You’re safe.”

“So are the kids.” This time, it’s Strife who speaks up, following his brother’s lead, “You kept ‘em safe until we could get here.” Then, as an afterthought, he lowers his voice and adds gently, “You did good.”

Death’s keen eye immediately picks up on the minutest slouch of your shoulders.

He’s almost surprised. The Horsemen are not naturally a comforting bunch, but apparently, if it’s for you, they’re willing to make changes to their own nature. You’d always told Death not to underestimate what a powerful force friendship can be.

Seems you were right.

“Keep at it,” he tells his siblings, trying not to let on how shocked he is that they actually seem to be saying the right things for once.

Luckily, it doesn’t take much more coaxing before they see a little more life flickering across your face.

“… Wha-…” you breathe sharply, squeezing your eyes shut and prying them open again in a painfully slow blink, “What’s…? Guys?”

At once, Strife’s expression brightens, Fury’s fearsome scowl grows a touch softer, and War dips his head to hide his eyes behind the shadow of his hood, letting them slip shut in a moment of selfish relief.

You, however, immediately shrink in on yourself, drawing your arms up against your chest, breaths coming hard and fast.

“It’s all right, you’re safe,” Death shushes.

It’s all you can do to shake your head rapidly from side to side and blurt, “I… I think I have to go.”

“Hey, slow down,” Strife coaxes, “Take a breath, you don’t need to-“

But the Horseman is interrupted when your head snaps up and in a shrill voice, you shout, “- No, I have to go now! I-I can’t be in this fucking alley!”

It takes enormous effort to peel your feet off the ground, but you start to take a strident step towards the road, your vision tunnelling into an inherent and desperate need to get out of the open and into somewhere familiar and secure. But just as you begin to move, somebody whimpers behind you, and you’re ashamed to say that you whip around with a defensive snarl curling your lips back… only to come face to face with a trio of small, wide-eyed children.

The tips of your fingers turn to ice, but in your chest, there burns a feverish heat that feels as if it’s creeping up your throat to suffocate you.

“I’m… I sorry,” you insist shakily, trying so hard not to wince at the uncertainty plastered across their faces, “l… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

You’ve turned away before you can even finish your own sentence. Every molecule is insisting that you get away from this alley. Something bad happened here. Something terrible wanted to hurt you. Your body flushes with sudden, scalding panic that lights a fire beneath your heels and sends you hurrying straight to War’s side.

When Death introduced you to his siblings, War was the last Horseman you approached. There was nothing about him that signalled an interest in getting to know you. Strife had been only too eager to snatch you out from under Death’s wing and bully his way firmly into your day-to-day life. Fury had at least spent time learning about humans and found you worthy of respect, especially after hearing of the trials you were subjected to on her eldest brother’s quest.

But War? War was just… there. Like a mountain looming on your horizon, always in the periphery of your vision, always with that severe glower on his face that would have been terrifying if Strife didn’t tell you that it’s just his default expression, and that War was simply taking his role as your personal guard far too seriously.

That was the first you’d heard of the Red Rider’s apparent undertaking. It wasn’t just Fury who’s respect you’d earned by staying at Death’s side until the very end.

Now, if ever you’re in the mindset to look for safety, War’s side is the first place you head for.

He stands still and unaffected as a statue as you slot yourself carefully next to him, not close enough to touch him, but close enough to feel his powerful presence engulf you as tangibly as the natural warmth his body kicks out. The Horseman knows better than to press you to step closer. With your arms wrapped defensively around your torso, chin tucked almost to your chest and your eyes fixed solidly onto the glow of Ruin’s hooves, you’re all but radiating agitation. If he tries to touch you and you lash out and strike his impermeable armour, it won’t be him getting hurt.

Strife tries to inch his way over to you, but a deep, thrumming growl from his largest brother halts him in his tracks. When War gets a mind to guard your space, he can sound like the engine of something very large and very powerful revving itself, warding off potential intruders.

The sharpshooter clicks his tongue irritably but is at least wise enough to maintain a safe distance, opting to try and catch your eye instead.

“Hey. What happened?” he murmurs.

It is, evidently, the wrong thing to ask.

Your head is suddenly thrown from side to side with a ferocious refusal, the words locked behind your gritted teeth. You don’t want to think about it. You just want to go home and forget it ever happened.

“It was… Leon…”

You’re equal parts relieved to hear someone else speak up in your stead and mortified that a child has to explain for you.

Christ, but you’re tired…

It’s the youngest of the three children who steps forwards, wringing her tiny hands together and swallowing thickly when the Four apocalyptic riders turn to look down at her in curiosity.

Dwarfed by the giants in her path, she points a trembling finger at you and says in a voice as small as she is, “I think he scared her. My daddy gets real scared like that when he sees red wine…”

The other two younglings are gaping down at her as though she’s grown a feline tail to match the badly drawn whiskers flecked across her cheeks.

Death bends to one knee in an effort to appear smaller, less threatening, though with a countenance so grim, the endeavour is in vain. The children still cower from him as though he’ll pounce on them like a hungry panther. If only they knew how seldom the Horseman takes a knee, they might not be so frightened.

“Who is this Leon?” he questions, urging his anger to remain at a safe, unprovoked simmer. It isn’t the fault of these young ones that he’s growing impatient, but he for one would rather like to know the whereabouts of the wretch who scared his human.

Wide eyes peep up at him, squinting curiously at his mask for a moment before she speaks again, a little emboldened by his manner, if not his appearance. “Leon Korby. He’s a bully,” she tells him firmly.

“He’s just some teenager who lives on our street,” the older girl pipes up, sweeping a calculating look at the Horsemen. It occurs to Death that she hadn’t thrown in the word ‘teenager’ by chance.

She probably thinks she’s just saved the boy’s life, believing that his age might deter the Nephilim from tracking him down and putting the fear of an uncaring god into him.

She’s probably right.

… Probably.

“Teenager? The guy turns twenty next month. He’s been bragging about his stupid plan for weeks,” the boy grumbles, deeming the Horsemen safe enough, now that his friends have already engaged with them. “He said he was going to get a demon mask and use it on Halloween to screw with people’s heads.”

Fury’s teeth gnash and she spits out a Nephilim word that you’d likely tell her off for if she said it in Common in front of children. Force of habit has Death grunting reproachfully at his sister, but he has to admit, he concurs with her sentiment. Whoever Leon is, teenager or no, he really does sound like a little shit.

“Dumbass,” Strife hisses poisonously, earning a hard glare from War.

“You walloped him good though!” the littlest human points out, though she only serves to make you bury your face in your hands, mortified.

“I did,” you agree miserably as your memory stirs up a flash of wide, startled eyes gawking at you through the holes of a red, horned mask. And it was a mask, you realise, struck by a wave of vivid mortification that threatens to knock you off your feet.

Just a dumb kid in a cheap, plastic mask who was too young to foresee the consequences of his actions and took a fist to the face for his error in judgement.

You’d punched a kid.

Your stomach twists itself into a knot of coiling, curling guilt that only seems to wind tighter and tighter with no end in sight.

You don't know how long you stand there, drowning under the weight of regret and embarrassment whilst Death picks a few more details out of the children you'd inadvertently tried to 'save.' Everything seems to blur around you as fatigue sets in, an emotional crash that drains the muscles in your legs of any strength.

You only start paying attention again when Death rises to his full height.

“Fury,” he announces, turning to face his sister who still sits astride Rampage. Ever since they were reunited, she and the horse have been inseparable, as if she’s glued herself to the saddle and is simply too embarrassed to admit she can’t dismount.

Pale, white eyes burn through the darkness at Death as he continues, “See these children home.”

“What?” she hisses between her teeth.

“Make sure they get there safely.”

“And why am I the one assigned to be babysitter?” the irate Horseman bristles, “Strife loves humans so much, let him escort them!”

One of Death’s eyelids twitches as he heaves a rough sigh and relents. “Fine” the word leaves his lips like it always does; reluctantly. But he isn’t in any mood to argue with Fury, not while your state of mind remains to be determined. “Strife?”

The Sharpshooter’s head lifts in acknowledgement, and he turns his golden gaze onto the trio of younglings huddled together in the alley’s entrance. Death regards him coolly for a moment, knowing that there’s an internal struggle in his brother’s mind right now, with one side anxious to stick by you, whilst another part of him – the part that’s slowly grown fonder of humans since meeting you – urges him to see a bunch of scared younglings safely to their caretakers.

“We don’t need a chaperone,” the oldest girl states testily, “Our houses are just around the corner.”

It isn’t clear whether her defiance or the promise of a short trip is what ultimately sways Strife’s decision, but in the next second, the Horseman has banished Mayhem to the outer realms and planted his metal gauntlets squarely on his hips. “Yeah? Damn, n’here I was hopin’ to come with you, and maybe catch a couple of houses on the way back. What’d you call it? Track or tricking?”

It’s a shame you don’t have it in you to smile because Strife’s attempts to add levity to a grim situation are usually rather grin-inducing.

At least the children, specifically the little girl, indulges him in a giggle. “It’s Trick or Treating,” she corrects him in that exasperated way only the young do when they’re convinced an adult is being dense.

“Oh yeah,” Strife perks up, cocking his avian helm and gesturing down at himself, adding, “Wonder how much of the sweet stuff folks’ll give to a costume this cool.”

Suddenly, the older two children look a little more interested, and you feel your pulse tentatively start to ease itself back to a normal pace.

Turning briefly to his siblings, Strife mutters, “Get ‘er home safe, got it?”

It’s bold of him to phrase it like an order, not a request, but neither Fury, Death nor War can honestly say they wouldn’t command the same thing of each other if roles were switched.

As it stands, the other three merely offer their brother resolute nods, or in Death’s case, the tiniest upward lift of his chin. Acknowledgement.

They all know how important you are to Strife.

You watch on in idle contemplation as your friend ushers the children from the alleyway, a spring in their steps, each gazing up at the towering, armoured giant with varying levels of curiosity and fascination.

You’re glad it’s no longer with horror.

Vivid, blue light flares across your shadow for a moment as Rampage plods up behind you, tossing his electric mane and stretching his neck out to flex his wide nostrils into your hair inquisitively.

“Would you like to ride with us?” Fury asks when you tilt your head to glance blearily up at her.

Even in the dulled state of exhaustion you find yourself swept up in, you have enough of your wites to recognise that you’re being offered a very rare opportunity. Even as endeared to you as she is, it isn’t often that Fury invites you up onto Rampage’s saddle.

Sucking down a steadying breath, you haul the corners of your mouth into a weary smile and raise an arm towards her, knowing very well that you won’t be allowed to take no for an answer.

----

You get a lot of looks on the ride back home, though most are fleeting, a passing curiosity. Most people around here have grown accustomed to seeing you sitting astride at least one of the almighty steeds.

“I’m sorry to drag out here like this…” you mutter under your breath, stretching your hand forwards to twist cold fingers into Rampage’s erratic mane.

“Don’t be foolish,” Fury is quick to reprimand, her tone sharp like the whip strapped to her saddle. She must have felt you tense against her stomach, because when she next speaks, her voice has a tad less edge to it. “You couldn’t drag us anywhere we didn’t want to be…”

Letting her words sink in, the Horseman falls silent, turning to catch the eye of her youngest and oldest brothers, who’ve both guided their horses into stride at each of Rampage’s flanks.

War, to your left, scans the street ahead of you, blue eyes narrowed to guarded slits, as if any of the kids dressed up as vampires and werewolves might actually pose as much of a threat as the very creatures they’re trying to portray.

To your right, Death and Despair glide along, though you can’t help but notice that the rider is just as vigilant as his brother. At least Death is being subtle about it.

Lowering your head, you say, “I still can’t believe I hit some teenager.”

“From what I gather,” Death huffs, “It was a warranted hit.”

Drawing your brows into a hard scowl, you reply, “That’s no excuse… Shit… What if it happens again…?” You trail off for several seconds, listening to the distant sounds of chatter and laughter intermingling underneath the steady plods of enormous hooves on the tarmac.

“What… if I hurt someone else?” you finally whisper, shrinking backwards into Fury’s torso, “I… didn’t even know what the Hell I was doing. I could have really hurt those kids, just because, for like… a second, I couldn’t tell the difference between a real demon and some dumb teen dressed in a shitty, plastic mask.”

“Sometimes…” War grunts, shifting in Ruin’s saddle to look down at you, “… a second can be the difference between life and death. Surely you learned that travelling with my brother.” He sends Death a pointed look whilst you press your lips together miserably.

“But I’m not travelling with Death now, am I?” you utter, “It’s over. I… I know the Earth is safe, I do. I just-…”

But the words fail to emerge.

A familiar burn starts up just behind your eyelids, and you try to hurriedly swipe a palm across your face, smearing flecks of mascara across your cheeks. You fail to notice the three Horsemen exchanging glances over the top of your head.

“Perhaps,” Death sighs, “This is a conversation you can have after you’ve had some rest.”

You’d protest, insist that you’re not tired, but you know it’s written plain as ink across your downcast face.

It isn’t far to your home, and you’re only a few metres from the front door by the time you hear hoofbeats cantering up the road behind you. As is the norm, you hear Strife before you see him.

“Sorry we’re late,” he announces, pulling Mayhem up short to trot alongside Ruin, “Got distracted scorin’ those kids some candy.”

“I trust you didn’t keep any for yourself?” Death asks.

“C’mon, does that sound like somethin’ I’d do?”

The ringing silence from three of the Four Horsemen is telling enough, and you even find yourself smiling a little easier for the first time in what feels like hours.

Strife mutters something that’s muffled underneath his visor, but he doesn’t press his innocence, for once, instead angling Mayhem towards the door of your building and surging ahead, swinging himself out of the saddle. This time, at least, he makes sure to land with considerably less force.

He’s joined quickly by War, who similarly dismounts and strides over to Rampage, hardly waiting for Fury to draw her steed to a halt before he’s reaching up and taking you by the hips, pulling you gingerly from the saddle.

Hanging back, Death watches you safely onto solid ground once more. Then, when he’s satisfied that your legs aren’t going to collapse from under you, he raises his voice and calls out, “War, Strife. Get her inside… Fury. With me.”

“Wait. Where are you going?” you immediately cotton on, squinting up at the Reaper.

Feigning boredom, he merely twists his mask away from you and nonchalantly replies, “Just performing a standard perimeter check. You know we always do them when we visit.”

“Death? Death!” you snap as Strife takes you by the shoulders and begins to coax you towards the door, “Look, just – Just don’t you do anything stupid, okay?”

“Y/n, you do wound me. When have I ever?” the Nephilim returns breezily, though his response does nothing to soothe the suspicion on your face.

Even though it would be only too easy for Strife to simply drag you inside, you plant a hand on the doorframe and root your feet to the ground, twisting about to glare up at Death around War’s hulking mass. “I mean it,” you reiterate, frowning at him meaningfully, “I’m okay. I promise.”

The Reaper only peers back at you for several, silent seconds before at last, he dips his head in a slow nod, ebony locks falling about his mask. “Get some rest,” he tells you, “We’ll return shortly.”

At once, your face falls slack into quiet resignation, and you allow yourself to be shepherded through the door by an insistent Strife. War follows after you closely, blocking you from view entirely as he fills the doorway with his immense frame, though not before he spares his brother and sister a departing grunt, telling them without words that he’ll take care of you.

And in another moment, he shoulders the door closed with a resounding slam, leaving two of the Four outside in the cool, Autumn night, their steeds puffing plumes of white condensation into the air.

“So,” Fury breaks the silence, giving the reins a tug and turning Rampage around to face the street beyond your apartment, “You have a plan, I take it?”

Death tilts his head in a so-so manner as he too nudges Despair around. “In a manner of speaking.”

Restless, the horses begin to paw at the tarmac, shaking out their manes and whickering impatiently.

Fury’s hum is skeptical as she glances at her brother from the corner of a narrowed eye. “I hope you’ve thought it through, at least,” she grumbles, “Y/n will never forgive us if she finds out we tracked down this Leon Korby…”

“You make it sound as if I mean to hurt the boy,” Death responds coolly.

“Mm. You wouldn’t be the only one…” Cracking her knuckles, Fury sends him a wicked grin and continues, “So, what is the plan then?”

Behind his bone-mask, Death’s countenance remains solid and unaffected, business-like, one might call it. Nudging Despair with his heels, he moves the horse into a steady trot, back up the street they’d escorted you down, his sunburst gaze rigidly focused on the path ahead.

“I think it would be prudent of us to pay the boy a visit,” he remarks, hearing Rampage swiftly fall into a brisk pace at Despair’s side, “So that we may remind him why it may not be the wisest idea to pretend to be a demon. Why, suppose he were to be mistaken by the wrong person? A Horseman, for instance, whose purpose it is to rid the city of any rogue demons that might pop up to threaten the human population.”

He doesn’t need to look to see his sister’s gleaming teeth bare themselves in an eager, primal grin.

[terrence-silver]

“It’s not a ‘trigger’! I don’t have ‘triggers’! There’s nothing wrong with me! I’m perfectly normal!” sounds to me like something KK3 Terry would say

The Elevator.

---

It was easily considered the biggest architectural eccentricity of the decade.

A fifty two story building looming over the skyline of LA reconstructed in such a way where each of its respective elevators were to be widened --- made bigger --- the shaft dimensions along generously altered from their usual 1850x1500 in diameter to a staggering 2000x1800, which meant of course, that perhaps the entire skeleton of the building itself, from top to bottom, its rebar, its wires, its reinforced concrete blocks, all had to be re-measured and rebuilt, notwithstanding the fact that an entire Skyscraper's worth of furniture and and staff had to be temporarily moved out first before the building could be virtually torn apart right down the middle. Gutted with the precision of a surgical knife. Reconstrued. Re-done. Re-calibrated. Re-fitted into place. The entire infrastructure of Dynatox's HQ remodeled, dissembled and re-assembled, solely to accommodate what they all claimed was a capricious whim --- blowing money for the sake of blowing money; a project that could go into the Millions. Tens of Millions for starters. That would require countless engineers. Man-power. Workers. Coordinators. Equipment. Shiploads of cement. Plans. So many plans. Journalists. News reporters. Pesky protestors outside of his building carrying signs saying how once again, Terry Silver's endeavors have not only polluted the planet but somehow managed to lead to urbanistic chaos amidst renovations, throwing the nearby city neighborhoods into disarray, shutting down entire streets and uglifying the vista for fuck knows how long. Did he at least have a permit for that, they asked? He was first name basis friends with Tom Bradley and they tended to golf together. He didn't need a permit, but if he genuinely wanted it, he could get it. He didn't give a shit either, though. In fact, all of it amused him profoundly. He wanted to ride around in more spaciously comfortable elevators and he would have his desire appeased too. He had the money to fund his own whims, and he would too.

Never thought much of it, until Margaret said what she said.

And then his desires began to itch.

-"Mr. Silver, sir. Forgive me if I inquire, but on the basis of employer-employee confidentiality, taking into consideration the vast sum of investment that'll go into this project ---"-

She adjusted the rim of her glasses perched atop of her nose and he already knew he had to brace himself for what she'd say next and prepare an even wittier comeback; finding his smile prematurely fading from his lips before he could even properly crack a chuckle across the precipice of his tongue. His secretary, like the incarnation of all wisdom and logic itself, looks at him, knowingly, similarly to how someone's grandmother or an aunt would've from across all the stack of building plans sprawled across the empty conference table, save for the two of them. -"But, it's not claustrophobia, is it?"- What? Without breaking a sweat, Margaret Spencer holds his gaze, one of the few people who could, as she clarifies. He knew what the fuck it was, but she chooses to explain anyway, giving him a clear definition with the precision of a Thesaurus, drilling the point home. Something pierces Terry's brain then, like a spiked, hot rod. He knew Margaret didn't do this to pin holes inside of him intentionally, but it happens anyway. He bleeds inwardly. Sees jungle red. -"The irrational fear of confined spaces. It is quite the serious trigger for some."-

On instinct, he finds his tone of voice growing low and dangerously cold.

He cocks his head to one side, assessing the word.

Like a dog assesses the bone between his teeth.

-"Trigger?"-

He seethes.

The term is unfamiliar.

Akin to a weird blank. Yet he doesn't like it. He loathes it.

Wants to tear into like, like a punching dummy.

Hit it until it collapses dead underneath his feet.

Was she implying what she was implying? That he was doing renovations, importing material, flying in engineers from as far as Korea, ready to blow the budget of a smaller country and all because he was too chickenshit to get into an elevator that felt slightly too small? Because it reminded him of 'Nam? Of the cage? She was infuriatingly right, of course, like someone who knew him for far too long could only ever be, and he hated it. Felt bared and seen by it. Felt the need to fight. Get defensive. So he does. -"It’s not a ‘trigger’!"- He hisses, getting up from his leather rotating office chair in a haste, sensing his own jaw tightening, finding he was speaking to the older woman through painfully gritted teeth. He relished the pain though, seeking more of it, because a soldier didn't do pain. He didn't do triggers either. Who invented that anyway!? What would John say about that if he knew!? Bullshit! Suddenly, his anger flares up to volcanic degrees. He's there, furiously pointing a ring-bejeweled finger at her, every trace of humor long since gone. -"I don’t have ‘triggers’, Margaret!"- He stands firm in that fact, but she sits there --- not judging --- but seeming stoic. Unconvinced. Folders and files neatly in her lap, the picture of professional poise and experience. Tricking Margaret Spencer was like trying to trick one's own mother; they always seemed to know better. He would've fired anyone else on the spot and issued a lawsuit their way, destroying every prospect of any further career anywhere, but with her? He felt the need to justify himself somehow. Convince her, from a strictly business standpoint, that they weren't sinking Billions into a building solely on the basis of him being afraid. He didn't do afraid either. There was no fear in this dojo. In this unit.

-"There’s nothing wrong with me! I’m perfectly normal!"-

He shouts suddenly, spittle flying from his mouth.

Once he realizes the outburst, he stops just as abruptly.

Straightens himself out. Halts. Re-takes control.

Stops pacing around the office like a feral animal.

It was technically her job to ask these things. Man, he was overreacting.

All of this seems funny out of nowhere, even though he was furious just a second ago.

Terry chuckles. Then, he cackles. His eyelids ache. He forgot to blink.

-"I'm fine. Lighten up, Margaret."-

He brushes it off, going for nonchalance, not feigning a single part of it, though, feeling it, in fact, in every part of his body; this unbearable lightness of being, filling his head with the high of an unexpected euphoria. He was fine. He truly was. By the end of year two since commencing the master plan programme, in a Herculean effort of unprecedented proportions, his vision is complete and his project done. Of course, Forbes writes about it extensively. So does Architectural Digest at a ribbon cutting ceremony. He rides a private elevator out of spite to commemorate the occasion, one of many and newly designed according to his specifications, going to the top floor of his building, right to the spire, where his office was overlooking Los Angeles, deciding to overcome himself once and for all forget what fear ever even meant by definition.

[ohyeahben10]

Have you done headcanons for Appoplexians or Cerebrocrustaceans yet? If you haven’t done either, your pick, and if you’ve done both, you can instead share headcanons about your favorite alien species or the one you have the most thoughts about!

I haven’t posted about Cerebrocrustaceans specifically but I have talked about them before! Namely in my Vulpin headcanons as I like to imagine them being in the same planetary system! I’d love to talk about these crabs some more!

Intergalactically, Cerebrocrustaceans have a somewhat bad reputation. Not only can they be hard to work with, but because of how they drained their former planets Encephalonus I, Enceph. II, and Enceph. III of all life.

Them being hard to work stems from deeply instinctual territorial behaviors. Despite their highly advanced intelligence, Cerebrocrustaceans simply never evolved out of their primitive hostility to Any Threat to their Territory.

This being where the species’ rivalry with the Galvans stems from.

Additionally, Cerebrocrustaceans have a strong dislike of Planchaküles. Cerebrocrustaceans culture highly values order and dignity, while Planchaküles behave as absolute chaos goblins and achieve incredible mechanical advancements that easily rivals Cerebrocrustacean work.

Their territorial nature makes lab assistances a non-concept on Encephalonus IV.

When group collaboration is needed (such as the creation of the Cerebroian Currmary as discussed in the aforementioned Vulpin post) Cerebrocrustaceans will agree to meet in a neutral gathering space owned by none of the working Cerebrocrustaceans.

Planet hopping greatly encouraged adaptation in Cerebrocrustacean biology. Modern populations are observed to be more capable of operating on less food and more resistant to pressure changes.

On the topic of adaptation, there is very apparent differences between subsections of Cerebrocrustaceans. The most notable is some being aquatic and others being terrestrial. (This is can seen in examples such as Brainstorm requiring a breathing brace, while Dr. Psychobos does not.)

Aquatic Cerebrocrustaceans have built expansive underwater infrastructure that spans for miles on record. Their water built technology puts them on interplanetary interest.

Semiaquatic, air-breathing Cerebrocrustaceans typically live just above the water, enjoying the brackish and humid conditions.

Fully terrestrial variants seemingly instead push themselves as high above the water as they can manage, many apparently believing this to be proof of their higher advancements to their cousins.

There are five united societies on Encephalonus IV. Two of these are fully aquatic, two semiaquatic, and one fully terrestrial. When planet wide matters are up for discussion, representatives from each of these five nations meet on unowned territories and attempt to reach the most mutually beneficial agreement.

Cerebrocrustaceans do not care for their offspring. Eggs are laid and left. Newborns will hatch and fight for rugged survival until their brains have developed enough to join proper society.

There is no social concept of romance in Cerebrocrustacean culture. Reproduction exists as a part of a natural cycle, usually having little intimacy in it.

On this, there is a booming interest in hormonal adjustment practices that remove the urge to breed.

There is no mass recognized currency on Encephalonus IV. Accommodations (such as travel, lab spaces, high functioning homes, etc) are earned through having the Cerebrocrustacean’s intelligence being recognized. If your work is considered impressive and worthwhile, you will have access to ever increasing resources.

Many Cerebrocrustaceans will agree to off planet work with no financial compensation, believing the work will bolster their reputation on their homeworld.

Meanwhile, so to say “low class” Cerebrocrustaceans are limited to a conservative amount of resources to use. Caused by their society’s fear of draining their planet like they had in the past. Cerebrocrustaceans at the bottom of the bucket are expected to work their way up to higher recognition through success. However, there is history of Cerebrocrustaceans whose failures are well known enough that they are “unofficially” given even smaller access to resources.

There are some Cerebrocrustacean whose measurement of intelligence are less material and more philosophical. They are not well respected.

Hope this is acceptable anon!

[artbyblastweave]

Gideon the Ninth Liveread, Chapter 6

Okay. Here’s the first one and the big one; this is absolutely not going to be a competition. This is not the Hunger Games. By explicitly raising the idea that they aren’t sure if it’s a competition, and then having Harrow go all in on her assumption that it is a competition, the author has confirmed, via the law of dramatic irony, that whatever is about to happen is not a competition. That said. I think it’s completely reasonable for Harrow to assume it will be. To use TVtropes parlance, she’s wrong genre savvy; she knows what kind of story she’s in, and more to the point, this feels like the kind of society- literally, pointedly fueled by death!- that would in fact have a death-and-infighting oriented selection process for its highest ranking fueled-by-death positions, which the empire would in turn gussy up with glamourous and prestigious language in order to half-assedly elide the horror of how their government works. That feels like a very plausible thing that a native of this universe might expect an imperial summons to turn out to be. I’m only certain that that’s not what’s about to happen because I’ve got special insight as the all-consuming voyeur of these people’s lives. (Also, I once saw a post specifically dragging everyone involved in…. whatever’s about to happen for assuming they were in The Hunger Games.)

The launch sequence highlights, to my eyes, the three positive qualities that Harrow has as a human being. The first is an impeccable sense of drama (acknowledged even by Gideon!) The second is that she’s deeply fucking funny in the audacity of her lies; she tells the whole community that her parents are going down in the tomb to look at some communion wine and he’s bricking them up in there now, and everyone just rolls with it. Does she think she’s good at lying convincingly? Does she have a frame of reference for what lying means when everyone doesn’t automatically treat you as a mouthpiece for religious authority? 

The last thing, though, is that I now have a slightly sympathetic motivation for Harrow; she actually does care about the ninth. They are her flock, her people, and they are old, and she’s watching them die one by one. And to Gideon, who hates everyone here, watching Harrow “do the census adjustments in her head” when a hermit drops dead from shock is a funny one-off gag of no real gravity; that Hermit is a set piece. But to Harrow it’s probably genuinely distressing, watching a bunch of people she cares about and feels responsible for who are quickly moving past the point where they can take care of themselves die off one by one, potentially taking crucial infrastructural knowledge with which to care for the others with them! I am significantly more sympathetic to her goal of revitalizing the house now; at a bare minimum, she could pull strings to get some competent elder workers out there.

And Gideon is finally leaving the Ninth. As part of her cathartic moment, she has an imagine-spot of the entire facility collapsing with her departure, for lack of her perception of it; this feels, though, like less of a metaphor than she’s treating it as. The idea of leaving the house doesn’t make the house seem fragile- her leaving the house is very literally making it more fragile. Gideon has noticed this sporadically throughout the earlier chapters for the sake of jabs, but the three individuals keeping the collective house half-life above 10 years or so have vacated the planet. She's acting like it's some great leap of imagination that the whole thing's going to physically collapse and explode when she’s gone, but when a few more bone nuns die and the already-framed-as-sucky Terraformers cut out, it might! It literally might. I’m not sure Gideon has shaken the places omnipresence in her life thus far quite yet; she’s realized it’s just a place, but not how fragile of a place. She is, to sum up, experiencing a very, very different sort of story than the story Harrow is the protagonist of. Harrow is taking the inaugural steps of a heroic quest to save her doomed hometown, but we see that quest from the viewpoint of the town punching bag. Fun things, once again, being done with Genre and protagonist privilege. 

[rockofeye]

And what now?

I accidentally became a bit of a hermit. It certainly wasn't intentional or even really desired, but life moved in and sat squarely on my chest for the last few years. The load has lifted and shifted a bit, and so it is time for me to stretch out the places that became a bit atrophied and find my feet again.

For just over three years, most of my energy and mental effort went towards battling US immigration on behalf of my husband's visa. I tend to keep the things that are hard private, but...boy, the battle of a life time. It wasn't that there was something to do every day (more of a hurry up and wait situation), but more that trying to balance two households in two different countries with jobs, spiritual responsibilities, and generally trying to remain a person versus a screaming wraith on top of the creeping horror that is processes with the United States government was about all I could handle.

Dealing with USCIS and the National Visa Center and their general lack of fucks for the lives of US citizens and their families was way more than I could ever have imagined it would be. I would wait months and months for an acceptance letter, and then months and months for another acknowledgement, and then almost two years for the interview that would give approval for my husband to come live here. I spoke with senators and representatives and lawyers and advocated and basically anyone who would listen, and the reality is that USCIS and the National Visa Center operate extralegally and are not held accountable by anyone.

Double down with that the US has a real shitty mindset towards Haiti and Haitians, COVID, and the rapid crumbling of infrastructure in Haiti, and it took me taking my case to federal court to get them to give me the goddamn date for the interview that, by the time they gave it to me, was a formality. We've been married for just over 5 years and the stacks of proof of our relationship go past my waist, and he went into the interview with a suitcase full of receipts and photos and documents so they could not say no.

Alongside all of that, Haiti has suffered. There's no electricity, no water, sometimes no phone signal, the price of food skyrockets, hospitals had no doctors, and sometimes there was not even money to be found to fulfill transfers sent to support the people you care about. I'm honestly impressed that I made it to the other side, because there were times I really didn't think I would and where I spent a lot of time on the proverbial floor unable to do more than propel myself through my daily responsibilities.

However, in June, I spent a few weeks in Haiti while my husband went to the embassy, got his visa, and then folded his life in Haiti into a suitcase and got on a plane back to Boston with me. Another type of work unfolded as we both begin to adjust to new life; him to a new country and new culture and new language and new weather, me to having a new physical presence in my life. It's something that I wasn't sure would ever arrive, honestly, and it's arrival gave me the opportunity to fall on the floor in a new way: I don't have to hold everything up anymore. I spent the first few weeks looking at my husband and occasionally poking him because none of it seemed real.

My lwa are the only reason this became a reality. I pushed them hard to resolve the situation how I wanted. There were a lot of barriers (A LOT) and working up against an government juggernaut is fucking hard as hell, but they did it. I wasn't great about it all and there were more than a few times when my prayers started with 'listen, I am tired of bringing this to you' and yet they still entertained my exhaustion and frustration with not too much eyerolling.

I won, and I am grateful.

I recently sat with my lwa and told them it's time for something new. I finished this work, and there are some new things on the horizon, known and unknown. I have the mental space to create again and there is renewed studio space in the room where my lwa and his lwa live. I get to read books again. I get to plan for a future that I wasn't sure would arrive.

There are new things almost ready to come to fruition. There's a website getting built and there will be a SubStack and classes coming. While all of this was going on, a new book was published with one of my pieces in it, detailing my religious history and conversion to sèvis lwa. It feels good to journey back to my Self and to journey to what my Self will be.

[katnissdoesnotfollowback]

Crush My Bones with Bittersweet 🙏

Your titles are my FAVORITE just saying

*Deep breath* This one is a little out there, ngl.

Basic premise is a what if/reincarnation fic. What if Coin somehow screwed up the deception and everyone knew it was her that dropped the bombs on the Capitol children? What if Snow still dies but the Capitol (Snow's granddaughter, hello) manages to maintain control in the chaos after the war? As for the reincarnation aspect, what if Katniss and Peeta died in the war and then were reincarnated a generation later as enemies, but their memories of each other from their previous life grow increasingly stronger with each interaction? Like I said. It's a little out there. I don't have much written yet. Actually what I'm sharing here is everything that is actually written, and the outline is still in flux/very much a draft.

Thanks for the ask, friend! And I always feel like I struggle with titles, lol so that means a lot. <3 kdnfb

**

From the Second Treaty of the Treasons…

Section 1: Let it hereby be declared upon these cessation of hostilities the most Noble and August House of Snow proclaims for the future prosperity of the nation

That the war criminal known as Alma Coin, for her heinous and unpardonable crimes of inciting insurrection, producing harmful and misleading propaganda against the Capitol, and ordering the bombing of children and medics upon both sides of this tragic conflict, shall be executed by hanging in public.

That the military assets of the province known as District Thirteen, to include soldiers, weapons, transportation, physical infrastructure, and medical assets, are hereby remanded into the custody of the Capitol.

That this new military shall be charged with maintaining the peace and prosperity and security of the nation, beholden and obedient to the orders of the office of The President, punishable by death. The specific purpose, powers, and duties of The President shall be delineated in Section II of this treaty. The purpose and duties of said military shall be delineated in Section III of this treaty.

That the most August and Noble endeavor known as the Hunger Games are hereby abolished in perpetuity.

That, in order to secure amity and equality in the need for retribution, to establish a bond of trust and mutual sacrifice among the people of Panem, there shall on each fourth day of July, take place a public Reaping. The purpose and ceremonial procedures of this Reaping to be explained in Section IV.

That henceforth and forevermore, the names ascribed to the late rebels, Katniss and Peeta, are hereby outlawed, neither to be uttered nor given by any citizen, an offense punishable by death.

Always the same dream. A desiccated street cloaked in a blanket of smoke. Agony metallic in her mouth. Searing her skin. Screams hollow in her ears. Muffled. And half a face hovering over hers. The tears welling in her eyes smearing the paint of the image to incomprehensible.

“Don’t go. Don’t go. Please don’t go. You can’t die. No you can’t!”

The crack of gunshots. The full, blooming sky puckered with black smoke.

And then… nothing.

Catriona Nox surfaces slowly from the dream. A recurring nightmare. She blinks the sleep from her eyes and squints at the bright sliver of spring sunshine peeking in through her curtains. Rolls over to carefully luxuriate in her silken sheets. She reaches out and turns the gilded clock on her bedside table, sighing at the time. Her maid allowed her to oversleep.

Tossing aside the covers, she rises from the bed, marches to the window and flings open the drapes. A few blinks and her eyes adjust to the bright morning sunshine and she is able to drink in the bounteous profusion of flowers blooming in her garden. Her lips quirk in a smile. Even a Snow would be envious. Not for nothing is Catriona Nox known as the greenest thumb in the Capitol.

Reaching out, she pulls the velvet chord to ring for her maid and dances across her room towards the ensuite bathroom, starting the bathwater and humming to herself.

[hybbart]

Do you have ideas for how other characters are involved in your apocalypse au? Like Scott or Impulse or Cleo or - any other folks? I’ve loved seeing the little references to other characters that pop up every so often :) It fleshes out the world so much!

There are a few! I've done a few sketches that I ended up setting aside for later or scrapping for various reasons, and I have some ideas where some folks are and what they're doing. I don't plan this, though, I just draw when I have an idea for the next day.

Until it's depicted in a posted day it's all tentative. I might come up with an idea for a character I like better and change my mind. But these are some of the ideas I have floating around.

The hunter Tango and Jimmy talked to is Katherine. She'll probably be in the next picture but in case she isn't that's who it is.

Hypno is with Keralis and xB, and he owns a popcorn machine he stole from an arcade that has a dancing horse on top. They use it for special occasions. I did draw a day with him but I didn't feel like it worked with the timeline so it's set aside to be adjusted for now. He probably won't appear unless I somehow continue this series long enough to go to a second winter.

Pearl, Scott, and Cleo have already found each other and formed their own little group. Dunno what they're doing but probably having a blast.

Gem is using the apocalypse to live out her cottagecore dreams. I dunno if Impulse is grouped with her, but they probably at least run into each other if they aren't.

Doc is in a similar situation to Tango being a tech guy with no infrastructure. He was also in the set aside day Hypno is in but he's not part of their group.

Joel and Lizzie are grouped, naturally. Dunno about Sausage and Hermes yet.

Martyn and Ren probably haven't met yet but will eventually group. Martyn is travelling in particular. I dunno yet if Bigb or Bdubs is also with them.

And Scar and Cub have probably gone their separate ways by now. This is due to a day that's currently set aside.

[asleepysapphicc]

Slightly controversial take i guess??

(slightly venty aswell)

I hate cars with a burning passion.

It drives me absolutely insane that there's such an obvious solution to the overcrowding of cars, to the insane amount of space that roads and highways take up, and to the time waster that is the inevitable traffic.

I attend a community college with no dorms. Every student drives to school to and from every day that they attend. We have large layered parking lots in the front,,, we also have some in the back too. It's such a pitiful waste of space. I'm baffled at the fact there's no train station near by.

I'm sick of an America where my entire life revolves around driving. I want to walk to the store, I want to take a train to my college, i want to take the bus to go to the mall and to have more space.

The problem with embracing public transportation as a primary source of transportation isn't how people adjust, it's the fact that the entire foundation of our country's infrastructure was built on roads; bridges, highways, tolls, and adding more lanes to existing roads.

There are some walkable cities in the world that truly did it right. I am more than aware that the U.S. Isn't ready for public transportation yet, but god damn do I wish we did from the start. Now we have traffic. We have global warming, we have innumerable accidents and we have gas prices that nobody enjoys but nobody cares to do anything about. We truly were fucked from the start, and it is nothing short of disappointing being born into a world so set in stone.

[paging-possum]

I have many jadele moments in my head however they’re all incoherent screaming (as you do) so I have two to share-if janette met adele in highschool they’d both end up antagonists definetly, highschool adele would be like ‘omg a cult? thats so cool hahaha’ and highschool janette is like ‘she doesn’t find me weird I’ve found my soulmate’ and then they burn down some buildings

and i should draw janette in chappell roan outfits. ok jadele hour over/silly (you are the person to share random jadele facts to ajdgsk apologies for that)

incoherent screaming does seem to be the primary method of having favorite character/oc thoughts to be quite honest (in the exact same boat rn) I am DELIGHTED to be seeing these. first off, they were kept apart in high school because the town infrastructure simply would not be able to handle them together...two badly adjusted teen girls teaming up would be absolutely CATASTROPHIC and yet it would be so fascinating....that said I am gently taking high school Janette by the hand and telling her she deserves much better. BUT ALSO the two of them finding solace and friendship in each other!!!!!! and JANETTE CHAPPELL ROAN OUTFITS. I must ask which ones you're thinking of...idk if it's the right vibes but my faves are the NPR tiny desk concert and the pink pony club jumpsuit...