#『 .. solo. 』

[fengforhire]

Jac doesn’t remember a time when she wasn’t running from something. Even before she’d ended up here, she had been running from her family and her responsibilities. She had been running from her magic.

By now, there is no hesitation in the way she wields the air around her. Her instincts afford no room for error because this world remains as unforgiving as the day she entered it. Any semblance of reprieve or shelter inevitably gets swallowed up by the void that hunts all of the poor creatures that have somehow ended up here. Or maybe they’re here because of her? Who is to say that this isn’t anything more than what has developed in her mind? Riven said she was in a coma… right? His words seem more distant by the day, and Jac realizes with dismay that she has forgotten which of his eyes is blue. Was it the right? Or the left?

How long has she been here?

There’s a dying scream coming from the direction she had come from. It’s a horrid sound, choked off at the end, and the witch can imagine the way whatever thing that had made such a noise had simply been swallowed up in the end. It always sounds so painful when something gets trapped, and Jac shudders as she steers her thoughts in another direction.

There hasn’t been a single hint of help since Riven had come to see her, and she tries not to wonder whether that means that her family has given up on her. She tells herself that they wouldn’t, though what started out as unwavering certainty has dimmed as the endless night stretches on.

She’s lost track of how many creatures she’s killed. There are the monsters that she knows, the vampire and werewolves and witches with strengths and weaknesses she’s been familiar with for her entire life. The tiniest blessing is that none of their faces are familiar, and it’s what gives her the stomach to do what she must. Jac knows that beheading is a surefire way to turn a vampire to ash, and werewolves and witches still need to breathe. She wonders if the void cares whether the bodies it swallows are living or dead.

Then there are creatures that she recognizes not from the real world, but from books and movies and the way her imagination twists them. Hybrid monstrosities that only her worst nightmares could come up with and those are the ones that are unpredictable. They pursue her with a singleminded doggedness, and she’s fighting a battle on two fronts. She cuts one down and two more take its place, like some fucked up hydra. It's like they merge and then split again, never one solid form as they adapt around her. She runs, she fights, she runs again.

——

It takes her an embarrassingly long time to realize that the game has changed. What she had thought was a free-for-all, some kind of fucked up hunger games with every monster for herself, shifted into a trap set deliberately for her. She’s distracted at first by running, by the injuries and scars that dot her body, by the trauma that weighs on her when things are quiet. They are still chasing her relentlessly, but it’s no longer mindless. When Jac realizes that, it sends a chill down her spine because something is controlling them.

It is the first sign of something else here, or maybe it is the first time it chooses to show itself to her. Every monster she’s faced has been incapable of anything other animalistic snarls and growls, the only thing that makes her believe that none of them are real, despite the marks they leave behind and the sticky blood that coats her hands.

They hunt like a pack now rather than individuals, moving as one to cut her off and force her where they want her to go. Any attempts to double back or circle around get more and more dangerous. They get ever closer, their roars and screams echoing as they thunder through the trees. Stragglers are swallowed up by the void that creeps along after them, their death knells piercing through the red-tinged sky, like their blood is fueling the slow encroachment of crimson. There’s an impending feeling of finality to it all, like the walls are closing in around her.

It all becomes clear when the endless forest gives way, and a yawning ravine stretches out before her as the ground drops off at a ninety degree angle. End of the line.

Turning around, Jac faces the hundreds of monsters that have chased her to the end of this world. Already she can feel static electricty starting to spark through the air, and her hair begins to raise slightly as she readies the first strike. Her magic works high above them, mixing pockets of warm and cold air against each other to generate the potential energy needed to bring lightning crashing down on the first to lunge towards her.

But none of them do. They screech and howl, baring their teeth at her in aggression but not a single one takes a step forward and Jac straightens cautiously, releasing her hold on her magic. The flickers of intra-cloud lightning above them fade away, and still the monsters don’t move. Like they are waiting for her to make a choice.

Jac could fight. She has done it long enough at this point to know that she will take down many of them with her, but she looks over her shoulder instead. Down the cliffside and into the nothingness. Maybe there’s a bottom beyond what she can see, maybe there isn’t. Maybe that’s the point. Witches had a flair for the dramatic so why wouldn’t the test be a literal leap of faith? Calculations fly through her head. Was her magic strong enough to support her weight against gravity? Would it matter?

It should be a harder decision, but she is exhausted. Now that she has had a second to catch her breath, her body screams out at her in agony. When was the last time she slept more than a few fitful minutes. Here, she doesn’t need any of those things, to eat or drink or sleep, yet she feels their lack all the same. To stay where she is means keeping her magic, for however long that is before she is ripped apart. For the first time in her life, the unknown isn’t the more terrifying option. At least in the unknown, there is hope.

Jac thinks about all that she has missed, everything she would continue to miss if she stays. She pictures the apartment she shares with Lara, the squashed couch where they’ve watched movies and learned more about each other. She pictures Riven’s easy-going grin, the mischievous twinkle in his eye whenever he comes up with a new idea. She pictures Jen’s little house that she shared with Iris, a place that had always spelled escape when things at home got to be too much, before she learned to strike out on her own. She pictures Nadia’s smile, standing behind the counter at Brewed Awakening and realizes that she’s never even been kissed.

She misses Jamie and Avi, and the way they would pull her out of her head when she needed it most. She misses Reid and his hovering, overprotective nature, and his chiding reminders not to miss the bus. She misses Dani, despite all of their differences and arguments because what sisters don’t fight? But most of all? She misses her mom.

So she jumps.

——

'Obviously we don’t know for sure, but scientists speculate that it depends on the type of black hole you’re getting sucked into and how big it is, as the black hole’s gravitational force could do some unpleasant things. It could turn you into a literal strand of spaghetti because the tidal forces slightly stronger at one end of your body than the other. Or the gravitational pull could suck you in and compress you into the size of an atom. But if you are able to survive that, you could get spit out the other end through a wormhole!'

Jac doesn’t remember why she read up on black holes at the age of fourteen, but the passage flickers in her mind now as she is swallowed up by the void. Oxygen is crushed out of her lungs in a horrendous sounding scream and it cuts off as she collapses out of existence.

Dying is painful apparently. She feels every atom try to fold in on itself, and she’s not even sure how she knows what that feels like. Time is at a standstill while simultaneously stretching on indefinitely, and Jac is falling, falling, falling, through time and space or maybe it’s all just in her head. It is making her small again, forcing her back into the box she lived in for so long, and her magic reacts violently.

She will not go back to being that.

——

In Port Leiry, dawn is just beginning to break, but the skies remain as dark as ever. The air pressure suddenly plummets like a stone, and while the weather reports had predicted May showers, the torrential downpour that begins is far beyond what was expected. Schools have shut down, local emergency lines are backed up, and flood warnings become rampant as reports of a rapidly-forming hurricane begin to hit social media, and it is heading directly towards the city.

[freddybeezy]

Shot by: Kobe Wagstaff Rafael Rios x Courtney Yates.

Sol-Angel 🖤✨ 21’-23’

[whimmortal]

TIMING: A month ago LOCATION: Dance Macabre parking lot SUMMARY: Jenny learns vampires are among us.

Jenny had stumbled out of the club with a feeling of disconnection. Though the deep taste of red wine still stuck to her tongue in the way only red wine could, the sensation didn’t quite feel hers. Sometimes she got like this — stupidly melancholic, in a way she could neither romanticize or make theatrical. She’d paid her tab and had wondered why the barkeep always looked so concerned about her solitude. 

“Get home safe, you,” he’d said, and he had seemed to mean it in a way that made Jenny stir. People said such things without thinking much of it often — they asked for an ‘I’m home’-text but didn’t do anything when no such text arrived. But this man who had dutifully refilled her glass time and time again had said it with a severity that had made Jenny feel seen in a strange way. It was peculiar to be witnessed like that. As if she was something frail.

She blamed it on the alcohol. She tended to search for meaning in the silliest places when sober, let alone when she’d drank.

So she’d saluted the barkeep and said, “Not to worry, Johnny-boy-o, I’m gonna be just alright.” After that, she’d slapped the bar as if it was the hind of a car and swiveled away from the epicenter of the club, into the cold air. 

And now she was sitting in her car. Hands resting on the steering wheel, key not turned in the contact, sitting in the nighttime silence that did not exist back in New York. It had been two months since she’d moved into this strange, small town — and her Untitled Project #1 was still under one thousand words. She enjoyed herself, that was never out of the question, but what was she trying to accomplish by going to goth clubs and wasting money on semi mediocre wine, only to return home and sleep? Her tipsiness never seemed to lead to the drunk writing and sober editing some author had once talked about. She couldn’t remember who it was.

Really, she should call an Uber. She was considering reaching for her phone when she realized there was no Uber in this town. Jenny groaned and leaned her heavy head against her steering wheel, only half minding not to press down on the horn and beep the town awake.

It was the sound of heels clicking on asphalt that made Jenny lift her head after several minutes of deep, mid-twenties despair. Someone was moving to their own car. She probably wouldn’t have a crisis in it before finally opting to drive away. Jenny felt pangs of resentment and envy, but didn’t make any move to turn her car’s engine on or order some kind of cab to take her home. 

She was about to return to leaning her head against the steering wheel – a perfectly acceptable Saturday night activity – when another figure joined the scene. They were impossibly fast and soon proved to be impossibly strong on top of it as they took hold of the woman. Jenny’s fingers wrapped around the leather of her steering wheel as the scene unfolded in front of her eyes. The fast stranger opened their mouth, revealing four shining fangs that angled up towards the moon before finding their way into the woman’s neck. A sound exited her throat, a choking expression of pain. The woman did not flee. Maybe she was held too tightly to even try, but it seemed more likely that she was too shocked to move.

Jenny had seen this before. A thousand times. On the silver screen, on her laptop, on her phone, in her mind’s eye when she was reading. She knew exactly what she was looking at, and yet her mind failed to comprehend the scene in front of her. As her fingers continued to clutch to her steering wheel and her breathing seemed to still, her mind ran circles around itself to try and find the right term. 

Damon Salvatore, Carmilla, Edward Cullen, Claudia de Pointe du Lac, Nosferatu, Sophie-Anne Leclerq — names tumbled around her brain, but she found the right descriptor too late. Once she was able to name the creature in front of her, it had already drained the woman and left her to crumble.

Vampire. 

“Oh,” she breathed, “My fucking–” Her sentence remained unfinished, dying in the car as she watched the vampire rush away from the parking lot. Still impossibly fast. Jenny felt air return to her lungs as she inhaled sharply and panicked. “Oh my god. Oh my – God.” Her hands flapped around uselessly, having let go off the steering wheel the moment her panicked breathing had started. Jenny tried to get ahold of her phone, which proved tricky, and then tried to open the car door – even trickier – all the while repeating those same three words.

As the evening air enveloped her, so did the smell of blood as she rushed over to the crumpled woman. “Oh my god,” she repeated, and only in part because she’d crashed her knees against the asphalt and ripped her tights (and some of her skin). The blood was warm and everywhere, just as it had been when Lestat had laid dying. The woman was still breathing, though the air went in and out with obvious pain and uncomfortable noise. The vampire might as well return for seconds. Jenny’s fingers slipped over her phone’s screen, pressing 9-1-1 before the green phone button. 

Soon enough she was half-screaming, half-sobbing and half-hyperventilating into the microphone. Something about blood, an attack, a pulse and vampires being real. And even if the person on the other side of the line didn’t believe her, an ambulance and police did arrive. Jenny was given one of those crispy golden blankets they often gave in TV shows and had only one thought as she tried to rub dried blood from her hands: vampires were among them.

[avery-st-m]

You’re in your home when you hear a familiar, rhythmic tapping on your window. Standing outside on the sill is a raven, staring at you with beady, knowing eyes. You can see a familiar strip of paper wrapped around the bird’s leg. The details of your new mission are written inside. You’re to gather intelligence on certain members of the Du Bois organization: the private, in-house accountants for both The Clarion Network and The Coronado Current. Your objective is to search for possible financial proof that they had something to do with either the death of the Premier or the disappearance of the Vice Premier.

The Shibata call to action is about as pretentious as the rest of the family – a raven, of all things, peering at Avery through her kitchen window like the ominous little death omen it is. Not an omen for her, though. An omen for the rest of the city.

“Come here,” she mutters under her breath after pushing the window open, the raven first hopping away before it finally lets her unspool the thin piece of paper from its leg. Hand on hip, she stares at the bird as it stares at her. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Zero response. It’s like talking to her siblings.

Avery gestures the bird away with a wave of her hand. “Shoo, before you shit on my windowsill.” The bird shoos, a flurry of dark feathers that quickly melts into the night.

Avery is much the same when she leaves her apartment via the fire escape a mere thirty minutes later, kitted out for intel rather than for assassination; there’s a utilitarian bag strapped to her thigh with basic infiltration tools, and a belt with smaller, sleeker weapons. Her ceremonial blade stays where it lives, affixed to the underside of her bed. Its services won’t be necessary this time.

The nights are still cold this time of spring, the kind of weather that has you dressed in three layers when you leave and regretting your sweater by the time the sun hits its apex. Avery skims from rooftop to rooftop without much care for the cold, hair in a high ponytail and a black mask wrapped over the bottom half of her face to keep the soft clouds of steam from her breath in.

The city is still alive below her at this late hour, oblivious to the black-clad specter leaping nimbly from one gutter to the next, catching the railing of a rusty fire escape without so much as a creak of metal. As she runs, Avery thinks about the task at hand; it’s not worth reading into, the fact that feels like a milk run compared to missions she’s received in the past. Fumiko’s words are in the back of her mind, but only briefly: “If you’re genuinely interested in contributing beyond courier assignments…”

She’s not.

Avery genuinely considered refusing this assignment, or at least pretending she was too drunk to hear the tapping of the bird at her window. And yet here she still is: falling into line like an obedient dog, but more like a fighting dog brought to heel than one that enjoys its work.

Clarion News is both the logical and most dangerous place to start; she’s well aware the tall glass castle keep of a building is staffed twenty-four-seven, which doesn’t stop Avery but it does put her on a higher alert than it might otherwise. Even so, it’s easy enough to find a window devoid of light just a few stories up, as well as an unlocked window – because who would be crazy enough to try to get into the building this way?

Cameras are easily avoided with a keen enough eye, and Avery slips from shadow to shadow with nary an audible footfall on the ugly brown carpeting. It takes a couple of attempts before she manages to find the office of someone worth ransacking; on the corner, naturally, with floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the city. Avery pays the view no mind as she picks through stacks of files and folders, leaving everything as neat as she found it. There isn’t much here, which shouldn’t be surprising. The books are tidy to the point of sanitization, suspicious only in their lack of suspicion. Avery doesn’t have it in her to be frustrated. She only files those thoughts away for her report and moves on to the next place.

The Current is much less glamorous and far easier to infiltrate, with a lax scattering of cameras and a skeleton security crew. The corner office Avery finds here is also much less organized, which is actually reassuring – she can only hope these books won’t be as bleached clean.

Combing through the mess is annoying and methodical, with her leaving every file folder as askew as she found it. Fast food wrappers are moved gingerly from desk to chair and then back again, and a moldy half-cup of coffee is left untouched for more than one reason. This search is starting to look like it’ll come up as empty as the last before Avery sets her sights on a squat filing cabinet in the corner, barely concealed behind a chair stacked with archival paper prints. She moves it carefully and soundlessly out of the way, willing the teetering stacks not to fall, and crouches to unroll the belt of tools at her hip. She probably could’ve picked the lock with a paperclip and a hairpin, meaning her far more professional set of tools makes embarrassingly quick work of the budget lock.

The only sound Avery has let out so far escapes as a quiet hum of approval; these files have clearly been gone through time and time again, the edges worn and discolored by oily fingerprints and smudged ink.

Taking a half-step back, Avery spreads a couple of the files out on the floor in front of her, eyes rapidly scanning the lines and lines of figures even in the dim light. Once again, the damning evidence is in the omission; money poured into properties without clear use, addresses in districts neither business nor residential. It isn’t what she’s looking for – there’s still no clear evidence the Du Bois had anything to do with the assassination or the disappearance of the heads of office – but the carefully laid out addresses of a few family safehouses is a decent enough consolation prize.

So Avery hopes, anyway. As much as she’s never cared about being a good little soldier, she does have some pride, and that pride tells her it’d be embarrassing to come up empty when the stakes of this mission already feel so low.

Unfortunately, it’s the brief flashes of her compact camera taking snapshots of the evidence that alert the passing security. Beyond that, he’ll have no idea what hit him – a smear of shadow darting up from the corner, indistinguishable, finding exactly the right point at his neck to pinch and wait until two-hundred some odd pounds of muscle turn to putty. Avery manhandles him into the desk chair with an unceremonious grunt. He’s unlikely to have seen enough of her even to get a bead on her height, so she leaves him slumped over the desk as if in the throes of an unfortunate nap.

In another time she might’ve done more to discredit him – sprinkled him with the smell of whiskey, or put one of the rummaged, damning files in his hands while he was still passed out. Not tonight, though. This man is just putting food on the table; she doesn’t know the life he leads, how many kids he might have. She’s not here to penalize anyone for doing their job in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hopefully he’ll just wake up wondering what the fuck hit him, and go back to his beat too embarrassed to bring it up to anyone when he doesn't clock anything missing.

After a few more minutes of careful picture-taking, Avery replaces everything exactly where it was found, locks the file cabinet, and slides the precariously balanced chair of papers back into the divots the legs have left in the carpet.

As she slips out of the building the way she came and escapes back up to the rooftops, Avery heads for the designated drop point and idly wonders if the Shibata will be disappointed with her intel. She wonders if she would’ve brought them the useful stuff even if she’d found it. She wonders if they’ll think she’s withholding it even if she isn’t, even if she thought about it. That would probably be the worst, she thinks: that they’d assume she’s being disobedient, even when she wasn’t. Not that she hadn’t given them plenty of reason to assume that, anyway – it’d only be annoying in that she wouldn’t have the satisfaction of actual disobedience.

None of that really matters, at the end of the night. Avery leaves two rolls of film tucked where she knows they’ll only be discovered by the right hands and heads homeward, to a dark apartment that feels like her only refuge anymore.

That bird better not have shit on her windowsill.

[huntedarte]

It isn't a full moon, yet the late night hours hold that same reverence that their bones recognize. They have learned to love this time of night and the peace that comes with it. A time when many are winding down for the day, and they are free to wander among their thoughts. No one is looking at them for answers or safety, and Arte feels a little like they can breathe again.

They have been splitting their time between Flick and August, barely sleeping between watching over the both of them. Their wolf fights to keep August contained, while Flick's injuries heal but they are no closer to finding who hurt her in the first place. It isn't uncommon for them to disappear in the early hours, either to go to work or to find some space. There seems to be no shortage of emergencies that demand Arte's attention lately, though that is part of what being an Alpha is.

It's the first of the year, yet Arte feels just the same as they had a day ago. This time last year, they had been spooked by the fireworks, and one of the old Eventides had to coax them out of a tree. Some days they still feel like that wolf, terrified and useless. It's just past 10PM when they find wander into a clearing not too far from Cham's house. They sit on the earth, cold and damp seeping through the seat of their pants as they stare up at the stars. It is quiet out here, and Arte exhales quietly as the stillness of night settles over them.

A haunting howl pierces through the night and Arte immediately rises to their feet, head turning this way and that to pinpoint where it came from. It's joined by another, then another and another until there is an entire chorus of howling wolves. A pack. Born wolves? The moon was barely a sliver in the sky and thoughts rocketed through Arte's mind like gunshots. The howls feels like they are all around them and they turn, uncertain which direction to turn. Finally, they decide to go back toward the cabin, taking barely three steps before they see the first wolf.

It is see-through, shimmering in the moonlight and Arte blinks rapidly, wondering if it's a trick of the low lighting. But one by one, more of them appear, blinking into existence until they are surrounded by the pack they lost.

"D...d-" They start to shake, but there is nowhere to run unless they go through the pack, and they don't think they have the strength to do that. Instead, their legs give out from under them and they hit the ground with a soft thud. It's a cruel joke, they can't think what else it could be as their father's wolf approaches them, transparent and faintly glowing in the darkness. A hand eagerly reaches up to touch and swipes through the figure and Arte's face crumples briefly before they have another idea. "W-wait... wait for me," they mumble, quickly getting up and moving toward a copse of trees, shedding clothes as they go.

The ghostly pack watches as they shift, bones snapping and elongating in a horrifically familiar way. As their mind blurs between human and wolf, all they can think about is the fear that when they open their eyes again, the pack will be gone once more. It's harder, when the moon is at the beginning of its cycle, only a shadow of its power, but Arte persists, screams turning into howls as they change.

In under an hour, they rise as a reddish-brown wolf, shaking off the residual ache in their joints. Arte circles back to the clearing, their own howl piercing the air desperately as they call for their lost pack. Silence answers them and their heart plummets, until a chorus of responses greet them, the same eerie echoes that they'd heard before. They dart through the underbrush, barking and calling out until they are running alongside them. Even if their forms aren't physically there, Arte can still hear and see them as they go sprinting through the trees.

An exhilaration fills Arte's chest as they bound through the trees with the pack, wind whipping across their face. For once, they are running, without feeling like they are trying to get away from something, and they'd forgotten what that felt like. Rather than terror pushing them forward, it's excitement, and Arte lets out another howl that is joined by the others and it buoys them forward.

Arte doesn't know how much time has passed, or how far they have run when they realize that they no longer hear other wolves. They slow at the top of the next ridge and look around, but there is none to be seen. Tipping their head back, Arte calls out, and the howl echoes through the trees before fading entirely. They double back, paws pounding against the earth as they retrace their steps before trying again, but there is only silence. At the realization that the pack was gone, they let out a low, mournful sound and slowly begin to trudge back towards the city, feeling more alone than ever.

[bountyhaunter]

TIMING: January 6th, 2021 PARTIES: The Volkovs! LOCATION: Volkov family estate, dining room SUMMARY: A look into a nice, cozy christmas dinner with the Volkovs. CONTENT: Implications of (past) domestic abuse

Like most evenings like this, Christmas with the Volkovs was a method of showing off. Russian orthodox traditions were followed like paths shaped into the earth centuries ago, with little purpose besides repetition and glory. A visit to church is forgone, by now, though Alexei Volkov was wont to pull out the dusty slavonic bible and read a passage or two. Not about the birth of the savior, but rather the stories of guts and sacrifice. He thought very little of God, but old testament vengeance is up his alley. Besides, the house was at its best when all ears and eyes were laid on him. 

Still, the most important part was what laid on the table — spoils of another successful hunt. Only those that had contributed were allowed to sit around the table, and so there had been plenty of years in Daiyu’s childhood where she had not had a seat and eaten dinner in her bedroom, her plate lacking any and all meats. Her siblings would tell her excitedly about the food they had eaten and prepared, how they had stripped the skins of their hunts and learned how to roast, cook or grill them. 

But no longer was she a child incapable of shooting something first, so the past years Daiyu had sat at the full table, filling her plate with the meats of creatures killed by herself and the rest of her family. The pungent smells of meat and alcohol filled the room. The candles flickered softly. Something classical and dull played in the background. The scent of stale cigarettes stuck to her uncle like glue. Daiyu pushed around the meat on her plate. It would be a death sentence to say that a traditional American Christmas Turkey might be preferred over the tough meat of an aquasturge, but she sure was thinking it. At least the gravy helped. And the deviled stymphalian eggs? Those were a hit, every fucking year.

So logically, she got up from her seat, placed a knee on her chair and reached over the table to grab some more. Immediately, like a knife cutting through the muscles and sinew of the slayed bies (the centerpiece of the table, killed by Vissa), her father spoke up, “Have you lost your ability to ask for things politely, Daiyu?” It was the first thing said in five minutes. 

Her hand remained floating mid air, fork sticking from her grab as it pointed towards the plate of eggs. Her sister sat close to them, looking up at Daiyu with amusement in her eyes. Her immaculately painted nails reached for the plate, pulling it closer to her. How Inna’s manicure remained so perfect after a bloody and long hunt, Daiyu didn’t know. Hers chipped immediately after putting it on. 

Of course, she knew — you weren’t supposed to stretch your body over the dinner table to reach for something. Her arm was passing her brother’s face, obstructing his view. It was considered rude to do such a thing. But what the fuck did politeness matter, here? With people she’d known all her life and had shown her their ugly sides over and over? They had been shooting their bullets and arrows in living creatures for the past few days. She had elbowed Vissa in his stomach to get somewhere faster. Inna had messed with her rifle. Her father had demeaned all three of them on separate occasion for their many flaws and failures, in hopes of improving them.

God forbid, though, that she obstruct her brother’s view and didn’t ask her sister to hand her the deviled eggs.

Daiyu stretched her short body further, trying to stick her fork into the white of at least one of the eggs. Inna pulled it even closer. “Do you want something?” Her voice was honey sweet, her eyes blinking as if she had no idea what Daiyu was after. Her eyelids were smeared with glitter that looked bloody. Daiyu’s own eyeliner was already smeared onto her cheek. She hated how pretty her sister was. “Maybe I can … assist you? I don’t know.” 

It was just eggs, was it not? Vissa, quiet as always, now also turned his gaze onto his sister. She felt it burn into her, making her cheeks red. Daiyu had no alcohol to blame for this, only the history between herself and every single individual at the table. It was just eggs. She was just supposed to ask Inna to hand her the fucking plate so she could scarf down a few more of the eggs, but she had it in her mossgreen claws and was looking at her the way she often did. Like she was something small and helpless that simply needed a hand. Like it was so nice that Inna didn’t step on her throat every chance she got. As if she was so charitable, helping out her simpleminded, less capable sister when she simply could not. 

And Vissa? Her oldest sibling, her great and strong brother who had once seemed like a protector? He was the silent watcher, begging her with one crease of his brow not to cause a scene. 

“Sit,” her father said, a distant voice at the head of the table. Daiyu never understood why manners mattered to a man who locked humanoid beasts into cages, who was covered with blood in most of the memories she had of him, who’d treated her and her siblings in ways no polite father was supposed to. 

Daiyu did not address the demand, in stead staring daggers at Inna, “Give it.” 

Inna continued to look confused. “Give what?”

“You know what.”

She shook her head, “I don’t think I do.”

Daiyu was sure Vissa was begging Inna with his stupid eyes now, too. “You’re fucking touching it, you know —”

“Language,” said her father, who had taught her most of the swearwords she knew. Who thought there were places and time for such expletives, who saw the world as his design and figured this dinner table as a place of control. She wondered how long it’d take before he’d shove her back into the seat.

Her uncle drained his glass of wine and refilled it. He never had to reach for the bottle — it always seemed closest to him. Vissa was non verbally communicating with the younger sisters that had long stopped listening to any of his cues.

Inna picked up an egg and nibbled a tiny bit off it, not spilling any of the filling. She chewed thoughtfully and Daiyu sniffed angrily, wanting to go off on a tangent that was interrupted once Inna had swallowed her tiny bite: “Whatever do you want Daiyu? I’d gladly give it to you. But you’ll have to ask nicely.”

Daiyu raised herself to her full, unimpressive length. (At least Inna only had one inch on her, and not the ten her brother did.) Her fork was jabbing in the direction of the eggs. “The. Eggs.” 

Inna waited patiently, putting her nibbled egg on her plate and picking up the dish holding the eggs. She made no move to hand it over, though. Daiyu knew what she wanted to hear — that six second word that they had all been taught was a sign of weakness. Asking people for things was a concession, tacking on that pleading word was even worse. They had been drilled not to use it. You don’t ask for things. You take them when you deserve them. Unless, of course, it was at the dinner table of her father’s home. Then, suddenly, these human etiquette rules played a role again. Performance.

Daiyu let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Please.” A beat. “You bitch.”

As if it was choreographed, her father put down his glass like a punctuation to the insult. “Sit down and spare us the rest of your foul vocabulary, Daiyu. We have heard it enough times to know it by heart — and besides its obvious rudeness, it has grown tedious.” 

Daiyu considered flipping him the bird, but in stead continued to stare at Inna and the eggs. Her sister raised the plate, Daiyu moved the fork in her hand so that she could balance both plate and cutlery, and for a moment it seemed like it might all be okay after all. She had sacrificed some of her pride, but she’d get her eggs. 

And then Inna’s hand slipped and the eggs slid from the plate, falling face forward on the tablecloth. They made unimpressive sounds, but they might as well have sounded like falling bombs with how destructive this simple slip was.

“Whooops.” The plate followed the eggy avalanche, slamming onto the eggs and plastering them against the deep red of the cloth after shattering in three pieces. Daiyu stared at it for a moment. Vissa sighed the longest sigh known to men. Her uncle was fingering around for a cigarette. Alexei looked at both his daughters, wondering why they could not leave their feral behavior at the door, as if he had not taught them to be as feral as the creatures they killed.

The fork moved in her hand, finding its way back between her thumb and index finger and before Daiyu could think twice, she had pulled herself up straight and was throwing it at Inna. She squealed as she evaded the thrown fork, which ended up in stuck in the wood paneled wall, quivering like an arrow. 

And then, all notion of manners went out the window. Daiyu dove over the table to her sister, who met her attack with her own. Her claws pulled at her hair while her clever tongue rained an endless torrent of insults about her sister’s temper and immaturity. Her uncle lit his cigarette, as smoking inside was a smaller sin that brawling during dinner. Vissa looked at his father and apologized, as he was sure he could have stopped this and felt the burden of their misbehavior weigh on his eldest chest. Alexei pretended not to hear him as he unconsciously mimicked the child he thought himself least similar to: he took his glass and threw it at the same wall Daiyu had thrown her fork into. 

Glass flew and spat and this time, when he demanded everyone, “Sit down!”, they would listen. Because once Alexei forwent his beloved manners, all knew that the tide could turn quickly and nastily.

And so the Volkov’s Christmas fell into silence once more, as Inna wiped the glass from her chair and Daiyu observed the pluck of dark hair laying on the floor before returning to her seat. This time she took the long way round, sitting down quietly and returning to her dry aquasturge. The longing for a normal, fat turkey was even louder now.

[laurestcphens]

location: westriver gardens time: saturday night, post-masquerade

The week since the masquerade had been largely uneventful in her eyes. It seemed that most of the inhabitants in the city decided to remain quiet in its wake, though she imagined it wouldn't be long before something came along to rock the boat once more. But until then, Laure continued to place down the foundation for her plans.

The masquerade had given her plenty to think about, chief among them what she planned to do with Aria. Laure sees now that she had only been delaying the inevitable. In her delusion, she had wanted the girl to be someone she wasn't, and she's since realized that fate brought Aria to her not as a replacement, but as a vessel. Desmona confirmed that it was possible, even if difficult, and she had told the witch to begin preparing.

But that would take time. Laure has waited three years, she supposed she can wait a few more weeks if she must. She hasn't spoken with either Aria or Morgan since the night of the masquerade, fairly certain that neither of them are particularly happy with her at the moment. If she were capable of feeling regret, she might have tried to reach out to smooth things over, at least with Morgan. But obsession has taken over once more, thinking about how close she is to finally regaining what she has lost.

She leaves Westriver for the first time since the masquerade to hunt, unable to stay cooped up any longer. Laure is restless in a way that she detests, feeling unsettled and not entirely in control. Finding a victim is easy, some sad divorcée who wants to be pampered. Laure pays for their drinks, invites her back to Westriver, and leaves her in the sitting room while she fetches a bottle of wine.

Laure has gotten entirely too used to how quiet the house has become after Kiri's death. Music used to fill their home at all hours of the day, but she rarely has the desire to do so anymore. Instead, she has become familiar with the way the wood creaks in the wind, or the groan of the pipes. She knows what it sounds like when she is the only one in the house, and when she has a visitor.

She also knows what it sounds like when there is an intruder.

The bottle of wine is left forgotten as she speeds down the hallway. Long black hair obscures the attacker's face as it is buried in the human's neck and Laure moves forward without hesitation. One hand wraps around a throat while the other sinks into their chest, fingers wrapping deftly around a heart that no longer beats. Laure's eyes are black as she snarls into their face, unable to fathom that someone would dare to be so bold. In the next moment, she freezes as she stares into the face of her wife, whose eyes and fangs now match her own.

"Oh darling, don't tell me you still haven't taken my name off the title."

Laure is breathless, despite the fact that she has not needed to breathe in over six hundred years. Her knees tremble, threatening to give way, even as her hand is still inside her chest, wrapped around a heart that no longer beats.

"Kiri?"

[intxication]

Swing Set

It was a pleasant warm day with a slight breeze. Mathias could hear waves crashing on a shore and seagulls squawking above him. The swing set he was on faced the ocean as the sun dappled blinding light on the blue water's surface. It was an image right out of his memories. His family would take them to the beach when they were young, but never to swim. There was a tiny park that he and his brother would run around in while his parents watched.

It was one of the few good memories he had from back then.

Living in New York denied him of views like this. On the other side of the country, fall didn't feel too different than summer and the beach was still an option. It was so peaceful that Mathias couldn't think about anything else. He dug his bare feet into the warm sand beneath him as he swayed on the swings. In the first time in a long time, everything inside him was quite. It was a long lost feeling, one he felt before everything went wrong for him.

There was a creaking noise beside him, and when he turned he came face to face with a younger version of himself. He couldn't have been no more than eight. But on closer inspection, he realized it wasn't him. The Cain twins were indistinguishable unless you got really close and noticed the smaller details. Like how Ezekiel had slight freckles on his nose, or how Mathias' smile would pull to the left side of his face. It was even more noticeable now that their ages were different.

You're all grown up. Mathias couldn't see his brother's mouth moving, but he could hear his voice and he could see his eyes on him. Is this what I would have looked like? Mathias nodded his head, "I think so. I think people would have really liked you". The two twins swayed on the swings together as the ocean breeze blow through their hair in silence.

Memories Mathias pushed down came back. The night he had killed his twin didn't go down the way Mathias had believed it did. He thought it was done out of love but his brain made him forget the fear he saw in his brother's eyes. The instant feeling of regret when it was over. How he tried his best to make his brother breathe again to no avail. The way his mind forced him to justify what he did. Zeke wanted to die. He wanted to be free from the pain. Or maybe it was Mathias who wanted that. The act alone broke his mind to what it was today, and all he could ever do was sit back and watch it happen. Violence became the only thing he could do, and his poor parents suffered from it as well. There was a reason why no one would ever be able to know why he did it. The truth had been lost to everyone, including Mathias. He did it simply because he could.

The pain he felt made him double over on the swing and sob. He was a monster and there was nothing that would ever convince him otherwise. All the fighting he did to be something more was for waste and now he was set to serve eternity knowing that he was what everyone believed he was. It was hell.

He felt a small hand on his shoulder, pulling him out of his sorrow. You shouldn't cry Matty. There was nothing either of us could do. Forgiveness was something Mathias had learned from Jude. How some people can experience the worst treatment from others and still forgive them for it. But why? "It should have been me. You deserved to grow up and grow old. I deserved this...I've always deserved this". Now that he remembered things he understood why he was always marching towards death. It was because this life wasn't his to live. He wanted to be free of it all and end up on this swing set.

But you're living for the both of us. The words rang in his ears. You need to continue living for the both of us. Mathias whimpered as his brother spoke to him. I forgave you long ago, so now it's time for you to forgive yourself and live. Yeah, I'm waiting for you here, but there are so many more waiting for you out there.

Thoughts of the people in his life came back to him. They'd miss him, Zeke was right. He could see Lee's face in his mind, how sad and hurt he'd be. How even though they weren't related, it would still feel like someone took his son from him. How he promised his father that he'd always be at his side. He thought about Alex and Ric, and the others Mathias called friends. Would they feel empty like he did? Would they blame themselves for his end? Then he thought of Jude.

Jude.

He had only ever seen light in Mathias, and had only ever wanted to love him. They met at the right time, so there was no way they were only allotted such a brief moment in each other's lives. They need you as much as you need them. You have to let me go now, Matty. You have to let me go.

Mathias' hand in death was great. He had killed so many without any regard, moving them to the afterlife like a ferryman. He embodied it to the point where he stopped knowing who he was before. The deal he made was to continue raining death and in return when it was his time, he'd go without a fight. But here that fight was, bubbling inside him and begging to live. He had to live, if not for himself then for the people in his life. For his brother.

He gave one last look at Zeke, and suddenly they were both eight year olds on the swings. They were the inseparable brothers like they once were. Mathias smiled and reached for his brother's hand. He'd live. They both jumped off the swings and ran around for once last time. Playing like siblings did, enjoying their last moments together the way they should have long ago. Mathias laughed with his brother until his image faded away and the sounds of the beach morphed into a steady mechanical beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

When he opened his eyes there wasn't a beach and instead the ceiling of a hospital. He seized forward as if he was rocketed back into his body. His neck hurt and he still felt light headed as he took in panting wheezing breaths. He lived.

[bladesbounties]

TIMING: Present day (June 14) LOCATION: WR State Park SUMMARY: Daiyu is hunting tree worms when she comes across a father and daughter, walking down a closed trail. CONTENT WARNING: Parental death mention

Today’s hunt was supposed to be an easy one. Of course, thinking that was like shooting oneself in the foot (something Daiyu had never done before, but a friend on hunter camp certainly had). A jinx. Hunting wasn’t supposed to be easy, or whatever. It was supposed to be a heavy job, a responsibility that a select group of people was burdened with so the rest of the world could live in relative peace. Or whatever it was they’d said at camp and often echoed in hunter bars. (Never hunter libraries or hunter cafés or hunter burger joints — now there was an idea!)

But today she was just going to get rid of some tree worms. One of the trails in the park had been closed off in order to keep people from encountering a surge of them — and Daiyu had been hired for the job. There really were worse ones out there.  

From a young age she’d known that worms were not often what they appeared to be. To most ignorant people out there (and that really was the majority of the population) worms were simply pink, crawling things that came out when it rained. To a mostly seasoned ranger, they were sometimes no more than annoying pests, and sometimes creatures of nightmares. It would take waterboarding to get it out of Daiyu, but she still sometimes dreamed of the very same death worm that had devoured her mother all those years ago. Or, at least, the version she had created in her mind’s eye as a young child in an attempt to cope with a grief for which there was no space. Worms could really suck.

But these worms? They were easy. She was in the state park, on a trail that was off limits (except for her), which meant no people were going to disturb her. The weather was nice. She was in a good mood. Nugget was trotting along, sniffing bushes and whatnot, giddy about being out for a long walk. It was endearing, how he was always excited about a long walk, even though they took one daily.

Daiyu had jinxed herself though, remember?

A sound rang through the forest. This wasn’t unusual – a forest was loud, even if it seemed quiet. Daiyu was good at picking out the different noises, about knowing which ones she ought to pay attention to and which ones were simply part of the natural orchestra. This was one of the ones belonging to the former category. 

A child’s voice. An excited one. Daiyu rushed along the path, turning a corner and seeing Nugget standing across a girl and her father in the middle of a crossroads. The expression on the kid's face was one of absolute endearment and excitement. “Oooooh,” she said, “Can I pet her?”

Daiyu cursed people’s innate need to break rules (a need she felt herself, every day) and reached for Nugget’s leash. “Him,” she corrected, moving over to clip the leash onto the dog’s collar. “Go on Nugget, sit. You have to let him smell your hands first. And then, sure.” She wasn’t excited about encountering this pair, but she wasn’t crush a kid’s dream of petting a dog. She knew how great petting a dog could be, especially when it was hers. 

This was bad, though. There was a smell of decay in the air that indicated she was close to where she was supposed to do her job. There was also an excitable kid, who was softly rubbing Nugget’s head. She was a perfect victim for these pastel worms, especially because so far the girl seemed the exact type to follow the smell of sugary syrup right into a trap.

She glared at the father. “This trail is closed,” she said. “And before you say anything, I’m a ranger and I have full authority to be here.” Not a lie, technically. It helped that she was wearing clothes that made her pass for a park ranger, even if she wasn't in uniform. She ought to get one. “Full authority to fine you, too.” 

He looked back at her, eyes flicking to his daughter a few times. “Oh – I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t see the big blaring sign that said ‘Trail Closed’, did you?”

“I guess not.” He scratched his neck. “Really sorry. Clara, uh —” He nodded towards the girl. Nugget had sat down to receive his pets. “She’s been begging to go on the trail since she read online about it. Something about pastel colored worms? It’s silly, but …”

“That sounds ridiculous. You believe everything she reads online?” Daiyu would have to alert Eve about this. “And then take her on a trail that is very much closed?” She tutted, pulled out her phone. “Child endangerment …” An ironic thing to accuse someone of, considering the things she had been doing in the woods at Clara’s age. No matter.

“Hey, hey — come on,” the father said, stepping closer towards his kid. “It’s just that since the divo–”

“Nope, stopping you right there sir.” Daiyu had very little interest in learning about someone’s messed up private life and how it was affecting their relationship with their child. Besides, she wanted to get back to it. She tugged on Nugget’s leash, who got up to move beside her. “So what I think we’ll do here … I’m in a charitable mood today. You go on, go back the way you came and either pick a trail that’s open or go home or, well … I really don’t care.” She unlocked her phone, opening her messages to Eve before looking up. Her fingers hovered over the keys as if she was about to send some real threatening messages to whoever was in charge of protecting children. Non-hunter children, that was. “Capiche?”

The father had placed a hand on poor Clara’s head, who seemed very disappointed that petting time was over. “Alright. I — sorry. I’ll pay better attention next time.” 

“Yep, you’d better.”

He dropped the hand to Clara’s shoulder. Daiyu had no interest in analyzing how sweet it was. “What do we say to the nice lady?” She did feel an interest in picking apart ‘nice lady’, but mostly because it was hilarious to be described as such.

“Thank you.” Her voice was small yet appreciative. 

Daiyu offered her a smile. “No, thank you. My dog loves getting pet. Now go on, scram. We don’t close these trails for any old reason.” 

She was offered a tiny wave by the girl and a look she couldn’t place by her old man as they turned and walked off. Daiyu inhaled deeply to reorient herself. She’d have to keep going ahead for the worms and so she did, readjusting the straps of her pack. Half her mind was on the scent, the other half focused on the footsteps of the pair that got further and further away until they were well and truly gone.

It was only when she reached the nest and had pulled up her collar to cover her nose and mouth that she realized that the father and daughter could have helped here. She could have guided them to the worms, to let the creatures entice them while she prepared to kill them. A decoy, of sorts. A human distraction. Getting rid of tree worms was always done better in pairs or trios — but Daiyu had gone alone, and was alone now. 

It was better this way, she figured. Whacking a bunch of worms with a steel enforced club was not something she would have wanted to do in front of a kid. And though the humans would not have gotten hurt – of that she was certain, due to blind confidence – she was glad she’d managed to guide them towards safety. 

So she whacked them all to death after disrupting and displacing the nest. She gathered their limp, pastel bodies as proof and a possible sales opportunity. She opened her text history with Eve, sending coordinates of the nest so she could do whatever she did with the remains of the worms’ victims. She rubbed Nugget’s head, walked back the way she came and hummed a song as she slipped into her car. All in a day’s work.

[nightmaretist]

PARTIES: Ingeborg LOCATION: Wicked's Rest TIMING: Current SUMMARY: Inge leaves town

Going away had become a staple in her life from the moment she separated from Hendrik and found her way west, to Amsterdam. In the four decades that had followed, Inge had left place after place, turning her back on cities and countries with increasing ease. But it was never really easy, no matter how lackadaisical she pretended to be. It was especially hard when it didn't feel like much of a choice. 

She'd been considering changing Wicked's Rest for a different city for a while now, admittedly. But the walls were closing in faster than she liked and the bloody bitemarks on her legs were just more proof of that. The amount of hunters who she figured were just lying in wait was too large as well and besides, what was there to do in this town that she could not do elsewhere? The teaching position was so-so, but it ate away from her time spent creating art. There were friends, but she had friends elsewhere too. There was the gap left behind by Debbie, a festering wound even more painful than those left by Wyatt's teeth. 

It was time, the way it was always inevitably time.  

It had been time, back in Antwerp, when Inge had witnessed a hunter chopping off Sanne's head. She had ran into the astral that time, rushing to a plane of existence where no axe could get to her. She had played it over and over again, that image, and only returned to their once-shared appartment to gather her most important belongings before fleeing south, to the crowds of Paris. In that capital she had stayed no longer than three months before there was the hot breath of hunters in her neck, so off to Nice she went. Bordeaux, next. Across the ocean to England and then across a larger ocean, to the Americas. In Mexico she'd enjoyed her time until her neck had been marred with the scar left there by Elena Cortez and she'd fled north again, with few belongings but her life. That was always the most precious thing to cling to. 

The years had continued on, as had the places she'd come and gone. Switzerland, Venice in 2003, and then copious of European capitals as she moved through them as Nika Beinhacker, famed sculpturer. That identity had to be destroyed eventually, though, and soon enough she was herself again. Inge de Jong, returning to the Netherlands, to the hospital and running away from the scene as soon as the funeral of her only daughter was concluded. 

She tried to collect something from each city, but it was not always an option. Sometimes she ran with just the clothes on her back and the few belongings in her bag, and memorabilia were discarded. These days she was clever enough to have a few storage boxes scattered around with some of her things, but even so. Things got lost in the wind. 

This time, though, she was doing it right. Quick, but right. She was gathering her things, ordering a moving van to drive the most precious materials up to New York, where she'd move in with Mona and delve into the vibrant nightlife that Dance Macabre could never claim to imitate. She was trying to say goodbye, though it was never really goodbye — at least not for those who would live as long as she did. It was a good thing, that most of the people she'd learned to value in Wicked's Rest were as undead as her, but there were a few she knew would come to grow old and pass while she remained unchanging. Maybe, then, it was best to leave now, before she grew all the more fond of Anita and her mourning would weigh even heavier than it inevitably would. 

And Inge intended to return periodically, she really did. As a mare it was easy to come and go as one pleased, but she needed her homebase changed. There were things lurking behind corners here. Crocodilian dreamers, hunters whose brothers she'd hurt or who'd deceived her, ghosts that killed indiscriminately. Wicked's Rest would just become a place she visited from time to time, making reappearances in the lives of Anita, Leila and Ariadne as she pleased.  

So her things were packed by the movers. Her appartment was empty. Her studio sold. Her contract at the university ended. She'd seen the people she cared for one last time as an inhabitor of Wicked's Rest and left them her forwarding address. All that was left to do was get in her car and drive off. 

In her car, Inge felt a level of uncertainty that came with saying goodbye. There was also, more dominantly, a feeling of concern. What if someone was to stop her from leaving now? If all her intentions to not die in this godforsaken town were for naught, and she'd still be caught underneath someone's axe or between someone's teeth or even that same sword once more? If she'd still had a functioning heart, it would have been hammering all the way through her drive out of town, but it remained as still as it always was. 

It wasn't until she'd moved past the Maine stateline that she felt comfortable enough to turn up her music and sing along as loud as she could, the next destination on her horizon a mirage full of promise and potential. 

[fengforhire]

She is pretty sure that she explodes.

Consciousness starts as a pinprick but expands so quickly that she feels like she is stretched across the entirety of existence. She is out of her body, watching as her physical form nearly bends in half in her childhood bed. Winds whip through the room, yanking books off shelves and sending papers flying. There is the brief sound of splintering glass before her bedroom window blows out. Rain pours through the opening as the door bangs open and her mother runs into the room.

Jac can’t hear her voice over the howling winds, but she can see her lips form her name. The older witch takes two steps into the room before she is hurled back, slamming into the wall outside. But she presses forward again, determined to reach her daughter. Jac can watch it all like a slow-motion trainwreck, somehow knowing what is about to happen before it actually does.

Her body responds like it had learned in the void world, instinct even in her unconscious state, only this is on an entirely different scale. The air pressure around her builds and builds, sucking oxygen from the immediate vicinity to draw it close, before releasing it like a deadly wave.

The house is obliterated.

When Jac opens her eyes, somehow, she is unharmed, despite being covered in drywall dust and dirt and being in the epicenter of a small crater. Rain is pouring down onto her, and she has no hope of her glasses having survived what just happened, but she has another priority. Jac tries to squint through the rainfall, continuously brushing her hair out of her eyes as she calls out for her mother. Her feet are unsteady under her as she stumbles along, dirt quickly turning into mud as the storm rages overhead. She doesn’t let herself be worried. Earth is her mother’s element, and she’s stronger than anyone Jac knows.

“Mama?”

She tells herself that it must be hard to hear her over the rain, and that she knows she’s practically blind without her glasses. But each time she calls out, she’s met with no response. When Jac trips over a loose piece of stone, she freezes when she sees a pale hand several feet away.

“Mama!”

Blood trickles from a nasty looking gash on her forehead, and already Jac knows the truth because her eyes are open in a blank stare. Concern and frown lines crease her face, and Jac sobs because she knows that they were for her daughter, not for herself. A hastily constructed shield of stone lays cracked in two next to her. While her magic had protected her from the initial blast, it wasn’t enough.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Jac hiccups, crawling on her knees and pressing her forehead into the ground just beside her. She’s too afraid to touch her, for fear that she might desecrate her body even further. How could Jac even begin to honor her after being responsible for her death?

“What do I do? What did I do? Oh God, I’m so sorry. Mama, I’m sorry.”

[formersacrifice]

TIMING: May 10th PARTIES: Wynne and some mimes LOCATION: The Motel SUMMARY: Wynne is investigating the Stripes, loitering around the Motel, when they are invited in for a job interview. CONTENT WARNING: None

It was always a little strange to be back in Worm Row, the streets lined with memories of their initial time in Wicked’s Rest. So very much had changed since those first weeks after moving into their shitty apartment, both within them as around them — and yet some things had not quite changed. There was still the same mounds of garbage. The graffiti’d sketches of Bessie. The crooked street signs. The stench that came from a mixture of different scents.

It was enough to make them feel nostalgic. Not that it took much — nostalgic was the default for Wynne, though only on days when they weren’t filled with that unscalable grief.

They weren’t here for a trip down memory lane, though. There were much better smelling places for that. No, Wynne was here to investigate. It had been a few weeks since they’d learned of a society in town that called itself the Stripes — a collective of (presumably) humans that studied the supernatural. Wynne wanted to fit themself among their ranks, to use their curiosity to learn more and find a way to contribute in this town.

They were at their best when useful to something larger than them.

In Worm Row, there was a motel with a theme of stripes. Wynne had stayed in a few motels after they had ran from Moosehead lake, and thus thought they knew for a fact that stripes were a weird theme for a motel. They didn’t tend to come with themes, and if there was a common thread tying the decorations together it was usually something to do with animals. Like owls. There had been a lot of owls in one of the motels they’d stayed at. But stripes? That was weird. And so, suspicious. 

They had walked past the building a few times now, not sure how to go about this. They’d like to ask Emilio for advice on investigating, but he was not answering their texts. Besides, they weren’t sure how he would feel about their interest in all this. (And if it was a secret society, maybe they shouldn’t be telling everyone about it anyway.)

All in all, the motel didn’t look like the motels they’d been in before. It looked more like a hotel, a place people would spend the night for leisure rather than because they needed a bed to sleep in rather than a random bench. Those nights, without a mattress supporting their back, had been the worst. Wynne didn’t like to think in those months between running away and settling in Wicked’s Rest, but at least they could now use their insight in the motel world.

When they passed the building for the third time, their eyes got stuck on a sign saying they were ‘now hiring’. That was interesting. The hotel, for all its oddities, did don quite a few stripes. A secret organization calling themselves the Stripes might choose to hide in plain sight, by using this stripey hotel as their base. Or maybe they wouldn’t — that was what Wynne was investigating. If this was linked to the organization, then the sign might be a form of recruitment.

As they overthought these options, someone walked up to Wynne. He beckoned them with a wave of his hand, his shirt as striped as some of the hotel’s exterior and interior. They looked over their shoulder, wondering if he was gesturing at someone else before looking back. He nodded, as if to say yes, you.

They swallowed and gave one singular nod of their head, walking up to the employee. “Hi,” they said, “How are you?” It was crucial to be polite in all situations, but especially one as precarious as this. The Stripes would probably not accept rude people within their ranks — Wynne imagined it was quite the respectable society.

The stranger did not answer, simply turning around and walking through the hotel doors, past the reception desk and into a hallway. Wynne wanted to ask if they should follow, but that would seem a little bit much — it was obvious they should follow. He had beckoned them, after all. The stripe-wearing man led them into a small room and gestured at one of three chairs. They looked at him, then the chair, then back at him. “I’m so sorry to ask,” they said, still very polite, “But I’m just wondering what this is about.” 

He didn’t answer and they mentally hit themself on the head. It had been a foolish question. They should know better than to ask — answers made themselves known to them when it was time. That was something they had learned back at home, where questioning anything was a no go.

Wynne moved to sit down. The man gestured once more: this time moving his hand up and down. They frowned, before realizing it was likely he was acting out the movement of dipping a teabag into a cup of hot water. Then, he moved his hands once more. Stirring a cup of coffee, they figured. “Tea,” they said. “Please.” He stared at them, not jumping into action. After a moment, he repeated the action. Wynne hesitated, “Um,” before making the same motion he’d made before. 

He popped out of the room for a moment and they took the opportunity to look around it. The floor was black, the walls were striped. The three chairs circled a round table, which was striped, just as the chairs pressed against it. The entire place was as quiet as it tended to get — so not entirely quiet, but eerily so all the same. The stranger had been a little elusive, what with him not talking. Wynne figured he was mute … was that how the Stripes kept each other from talking about their secrets? But people could still write and spread things that way, right?

As they pondered such questions, their stranger walked into the room with another, dressed in the very same apparel. She waved at them, before sitting down. The man’s hands were empty, but he acted as though he was holding a hot beverage. He leaned over to them, placing it on the table and gesturing to the side as if there was something there. Wynne looked, but saw nothing. No sugar, nor milk. 

They stared at the place where the drink had been ‘put down’, then back up at the two strangers. Wynne was growing very aware of the fact that the only noise they’d heard was their own voice and the footsteps of themself and the others. It was kind of disconcerting. They hoped one of them would break the quiet.

In stead, the woman started to move her hands around. It seemed she was trying to convey something — Wynne knew about sign language, but they didn’t know any of it. They frowned a little, opening their mouth to ask a question but being met with a shake of the man’s head. There was no talking, that was starting to grow more and more clear. Their request for tea had only been met after they had acted the drink out, after all.

They tried to pay close attention to the woman’s movements. Her face was inquisitive, which pointed towards her asking something — but Wynne wasn’t sure what. They looked down at their hands, then back up, and tried to act something out with their hands.

They received an ‘ok’ hand sign. That one, they at least understood.

Then the man got up and started an elaborate act. They watched with pure concentration as he seemed to be moving around a large object, tidying it and putting something on top of it — was he making a bed? Once he seemed done, he turned towards Wynne with a question in his eyes. They nodded. He remained standing, gesturing at them to come to the ‘bed’. Wynne hesitated for a moment and then got up. He stepped way to give them the room they needed.

They stared at the large empty space. This made very little sense, though that was a recurring theme in their life. A lot of things didn’t make sense to them, and plenty of things that hadn’t made sense at first did make sense now. That meant that Wynne was determined to at least try. 

They took to the bed, starting to unmake it. Their movements were hesitant, but they tried to remember where the corners of the bed were and what corners they’d had. As a last act, they fluffed up the pillows.

The woman once more gave an ‘ok’ hand sign, and seemed to carry an expression of glee on her face. Wynne was requested to sit again (not with words, of course), and a few more silent inquiries followed. They tried to best to abide them, using their hands and face to convey a message — which was, they supposed, that they wanted to pass whatever this was. These Stripes were strange and mysterious, which was meant they wouldn’t be swayed just yet.

At one point, the woman walked to the corner of the room, opening a cabinet drawer and pulling out a small stack of clothes. They were identical to the ones she was wearing. She held them out to Wynne, who looked them over before being pointed towards a door in the back of the room. When the woman circled her finger around her own clothes and pointed at Wynne, it became clear what was to be done.

In the backroom, Wynne changed out of their own comfortable clothes and into the others. When they exited, they were judged thoroughly, offered a smaller pair of trousers and a larger pair of shoes before being pushed inside the room again. Once everything fit snugly, they were given a look of approval.

That look had the same effect on them as it always did, and they beamed. They didn’t know what they had done exactly, but they had succeeded at it. Their hand was shaken by both parties and the three of them left the room, moving deeper into the hotel. Maybe this was it. Maybe they would be shown more of the Stripes now.

In stead, the man took them to one of the many rooms. It was a clear mess, with crumpled sheets and dirty towels lining the floor. Wynne looked at the man, who smiled and nodded, gesturing at the room and repeating their own gesture back at them of fluffing up a pillow.

The woman entered the room as well, wheeling in a contraption that held everything a cleaner needed. 

“Oh, I don’t —” 

Wynne was met with disapproving looks, which immediately made them close their mouth. They looked at the room. At least they knew how to handle this. And so Wynne got to work.

[freddybeezy]

Sol-Angel 🖤✨🦀

21’ - 23’

Shot By: Rafael Rios, Kobe Wagstaff & Courtney Yates

[whimmortal]

TIMING: March 13-May 19 PARTIES: Jenny @whimmortal (but mentions Metzli, Owen, Emilio and Henri). SUMMARY: Jenny writes in her diary CONTENT WARNING: None

March 13 Dear diary,

Okay wooooow! So much to say. I don’t even 

Vampires are real

There’s blood under my nails

OH MY GOD HOW DID JOHN HARKER DO THIS SO NICELY? WHEN HE ENCOUNTERED DRACULA HE FUCKING WROTE DIARY ENTRIES WITH A STORY LINE AND ARCS AND WITH PROPER ENGLISH

I guess that was Stoker and it was fiction If it was more realistic it would have just been Johnathan scribbling on the page for ten pages

Anyway what is realistic is fucking vampires.

Vampires. Real. Are you hearing me?

No you’re a piece of paper

Jesus

So anyway I watched this woman almost die. I just tried to shower all the blood off me but there’s still some under my nails and I can’t find my nail brush anywhere and I refuse to use my toothbrush, because ew, gross. She almost died. Someone just walked up to her and bit her in the neck and I guess if it wasn’t for me calling 911 maybe she would have just bled out???

Wait did I save someone’s life

I don’t think I wanna live with that weight.

I don’t know what to do with that

Or the weight at all of this knowledge. Like, what the fuck? Vampires are real? They just go out and attack women at night and then go away again? Literally what the fuck.

What even does that mean for the world, right? What of all those books I read? What of all that folklore and myth, what else could be real? 

She was so pale. 

I’m going to look for my nail brush.

Yours, Jenny

March 14 Hi diary,

Vampires are still real I guess. I wasn’t able to do anything today. I just sat in bed with my knees pulled up, all sad girl style, staring at the wall. It’s not even an interesting wall. I wasted so much time just sitting there, but I kept going back to the moment where I saw what was happening, and then when I was with the woman.

Should I go visit her? I don’t even know her name. I just feel so weird about it. I’m not supposed to be doing any of this.

Especially not bedrotting all day.

I need to go walk Eddie but it’s getting dark out and I’m kind of freaked out about it, you know? I mean, walking alone at night was always Dangerous (yay) but now there’s a new layer to it.

God. I can’t fucking believe it. Vampires are real.

Yours,

Jenny

March 30 Dear diary,

I’ve been having a lot of thoughts (yeah, rare moment for Jenny Price!) about all this. I’ve been trying to research this whole situation, but the internet is a fucking mess of nonsense all the time, even more so when it comes to this. I do not associate with the delusional people who think but don’t KNOW vampires are real. Wish I could tell them they’re not delusional though, but not sure how to go about it lol.

I need reputable sources. I need first hand accounts. I can’t go to the woman, though. I can’t see her again, I feel fucking weird about it still. Too real or something. Like, here’s another human who might have died. It’s just not something I want to deal with. Death, that close. 

I don’t know, it’s kind of … interesting, right? Vampires, real. Immortality, real. 

I’m just saying, I want to know more. Maybe then I can figure out what to do with that knowledge.

Yours, Jenny.

April 8 Dear diary,

My play is getting nowhere. I don’t know how to get my brain to work any more. I just keep going back to my newly gained knowledge about vampires and what it means for me, the world and everything I thought I knew. I’m supposed to be working here, but I just can’t. It’s maddening. I hate myself so much haha

Mom called to ask me how things are here and if I’ve been getting anything done and I had to sit there and lie because there’s no way I am going to listen to her berate me about moving out to Maine and not even doing anything. I still heard the judgment in her tone and I just wish she’d not call if all she does is bother me under the guise of checking in. I’m not doing fine, but that’s none of her business, now is it? I mean, she never bothered to make it hers before, and it’s not like she’d hear me out and comfort me anyway, if I told her how much of a failure I am. She’d just be like  “Yep that’s right honey! Now stop being one”. Ugh.

Maybe I should call Ash and rant to her about mom. Brb.

Yeah, that helped a little. She also asked how work is going and I told her the same thing (it’s going fine) but she didn’t believe me. I wish she was as easy to lie to as mom. UGH!!!!

Anyway, I’ve been thinking and sometimes I wonder how someone becomes a vampire. There has to be rules and lore to all of this, right? There has to be a method. I want to find it and then I want, well, for it to be done.

Is that crazy? I mean, objectively probably yes. Though if I were to ask a psychological professional about this they’d think it’s crazy because of the vampire business, not because I’m considering becoming one.

It would just be … good, you know? Endless youth, or well, semi-youth. Twenty eight isn’t that old yet, just not as young as I’d like to be immortalized as. More time for me to figure things out. And like, it’d be really cool. I’d make a good vampire, I think. I’d know how to be one, you know?  Not just go around attacking women in parking lots, but doing it right. 

I’m going back to the parking lot, I think. And Dance Macabre. Try and find stuff out.

Love,

Jenny

April 25 SLAYERS ARE ALSO REAL? 

Bad news I guess? Jesus. 

I don’t feel like writing this all out. Someone just killed a vampire in front of me, though, what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck.

April 29 Dear diary,

I’ve done it. I’ve had my V-card taken. My vampire card.

God, it was … so good. They were so beautiful and dangerous. My neck kind of hurts from where they bit me, but it’s totally worth it. Like, being sore after sex isn’t anything new, it’s just a different kind of sore. A better kind. 

They left me to wake up alone. I wish they’d stayed — it wasn’t like there weren’t curtains in the room. Don’t worry, I’m not getting ahead of myself! I don’t think sleeping with a vampire will lead to an endless, immortal relationship — I just don’t like being left. I mean, who does?

They have no intention of turning me, but they did tell me how vampires are made. Mostly. There’s still some information missing.

It’s okay, I wouldn’t want to put the weight of siring someone onto someone who doesn’t want it. I know enough about this to know that is a recipe for disaster. I will have to find someone who will do it willingly — there have to be those out there who like creating more of their kind. 

But Metzli…

I’ve never seen someone like them.

Love, Jenny

May 19 Dear diary,

I have yet to find another vampire to aid me in my search for immortality, but I have found this:

A book that can ‘speak’ to me and seems to hold some intelligence.

A grad student who definitely knows about vampires (and might be one?) who is driving me insane by edging me with information.

Sadly, also a stinky man with anger issues. Nothing supernatural about him, deserves mentioning.

Metzli is just like many men I have met on Tinder, who want to have a casual fuck and then get really hung up on me. Somehow this is not like the dark vampire romance I was imagining for myself. I don’t understand what they want and really, if they’d just been a human then I would have blocked them and saved myself the trouble of dealing with someone who needs to see a therapist rather than have casual sex. But they still intrigue me. How can you be so old and such a stranger to the world? Why are they kind of annoying? Maybe it’s their tone online, maybe I should go see them again? I don’t know. It’s such a headfuck, lol. I’d just like it if they were as confident and forward as they were that day at the gallery. No hesitation, there. Just sheer … confidence.

Is something wrong with me, for just wanting them to be like that? For being so sure and so overpowering. Why is that what I want from someone?

Ugh, never mind. 

I’ll keep looking. Go back to Dance Macabre, cemeteries. Someone’s gotta be out there.

Love, Jenny

[eresia-catara]

Eternal war 1, spoilers

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