#Cylindrical Blue Screen of Death

[amywritesthings]

I love the Hallo-sleepover idea! Can I request "my friend abandoned me at this halloween party and I don't know anyone. But you look as miserable as I feel" at a bonfire with Levi (:

hallo-sleepover '24!

of course!! this was the most requested prompt in 5 separate asks, so of course i wanted to present you a little levi on halloween day. xo hope you enjoy!

homemade.

pairing: levi ackerman x reader word count: 1.2k tags: modern au, adult language, halloween parties, first meet, levi ackerman as ghostface, reader as bride of frankenstein, mention of annie as your friend credit: dividers by @saradika-graphics

read on ao3.

Everyone’s too loud. The Halloween music keeps repeating.

Not even swirling the bright orange plastic cup in your hand can salvage the separation of pineapple and white rum.

At least the warm crackle of the open fire pit in the backyard feels nice.

You’re not sure why you agreed to come to this Halloween party with Annie — you knew she was going to see one solo cup and run for the pong table to demolish the competition — but you’d worked tirelessly on your costume this year.

Not that you had anywhere to go to show it off — cons got too expensive this year, work days blurred into nights, and before you knew it the date of October 31 was sitting impatiently on your doorstep. 

Waiting on your front porch handing out candy to little ones wasn’t a bad idea.

Trick or Treaters are cute.

(Except you can’t imagine any of the kiddos willingly taking a Snickers bar from the hands of a screen-accurate rendition of the Bride of Frankenstein.)

So you'd get dressed up, fill a pumpkin bucket, and hang out for the night, right?

Wrong.

That plan wasn’t acceptable to your friend, Annie Leonhart.

The moment she arrived at your doorstep in full costume, Annie acted as if staying home was a cardinal sin.

“You didn’t have a plan for this?” Annie asked incredulously. “Are you joking, dude? Come on. This costume is sick.”

Before you stood an elaborate (see: terrifying) rendition of Lady Death: Annie’s blue eyes were sunken in by copious black eyeshadow, her lips cut into the illusion of teeth under a terrifying black veil obscuring most of her face. On her body was what looked to be a dyed thrift store wedding dress, dark as the night sky above.

She gestures to your wrapped mummified dress and large cylindrical white-and-gray wig — all hand-sewn, all homemade — with equally blackened fingertips, gooey with fake blood.

“What?” you murmur, looking down at your dress like something has gone astray.

“What?!” she repeats with a snort. “Oh, no. You’re not wasting this on sitting on a porch. C’mon, we’re going to Reiner’s thing.”

“Annie,” you groan, giving her a pleading look. “You know I hate parties.”

“Yeah? And I hate idiots who waste good costumes,” she retorts, grabbing your hand with hers to fly into your house. “What do you need? Grab your keys and phone, we’re going.”

(Yeah, you’re used to her bulldozing by now.)

It’s what brought you here — stuck at a bonfire, waiting for an appropriate time to ditch and call a Lyft back to your house.

Annie’s no doubt in the semifinals of the competition, so you can’t imagine you’ll see her for the rest of the night.

It’s fine.

It’s fine, you’ll just wait another ten and—

A flash of black clothes shuffles past you to flop unceremoniously into a lawn chair. With a grunt, their legs extend towards the bonfire, the tip of their boots tapping the brick surrounding the pit. 

Slumping into the chair, you recognize the costume right away: it isn’t a traditional Ghostface given the dark denim jeans and the black henley shirt with rolled-up sleeves, but the elongated white and black ghoulish mask is unmistakable.

Unable to help yourself, you watch as the fire illuminates the veins in their forearms. His gloved hand palms the entire mask and rips it off of his face, causing your whole body to have a hot flash.

Oh.

Oh, no.

The Ghostface at the party is hot.

Immediately his bluish-gray eyes find you when he sits back in his chair once more. The black fringe of his hair clings to his forehead like the mask had been suffocating him to a sweat, complimenting his high cheekbones. 

Lips parted, you note the way he gives your costume a once over before speaking in the most rumbled, honey silk voice.

“Bride of Frank, right?”

Blinking twice, you continue to stare. When a few beats of silence pass, the stranger’s chin drops closer to his chest, brow expectant with an arch.

“You’re looking at me like I missed a reboot this year.”

Wait.

He’s talking to you.

Clearing your throat, you sit up taller and absently reach for your tall wig to make sure it’s in place. 

“No, you’re right. The Bride from the 1935 film.” 

You try to smile, though it gets lost somewhere in your anxiety. 

“And you’re Ghostface, right? From the movie Scream?”

The stranger nods. 

“Sort of. Found a mask half-off at the store, but I wasn’t wearing a damn nightgown.”

“The black clothes still fit the look,” you try to reassure, and he snorts.

“You’re far more forgiving than the Michael Myers I came here with,” he states, “but that friend abandoned my ass at this Halloween party, and I don’t know anyone else here, so.”

Crossing his legs by the ankles and his arms over his chest, he continues to observe your costume. From the flicker of the fire, his expression almost seems appreciative of your work.

“You did a damn good job,” he adds, “which is a shame, because you look as miserable as I feel.”

The surprise praise causes your face to heat up.

“I wouldn’t say miserable.”

“Bored?”

“Oh, definitely bored.”

He snorts. “Yeah, me too. I hate this shit.”

“Parties?”

“Halloween parties,” the stranger clarifies. “If everyone showed up to this shit dressed as elaborately as you, then I’d probably eat my own words.” He tosses a thumb back to the house. “I can’t tell you how many goddamn half-baked Jokers there are in that house.”

Somewhere in the midst of his rant is another compliment.

Toying with one of the ends of the mummified dress you wear, you find yourself shrugging a shoulder. “Not everyone has busybody time like me to make a costume, to be fair.”

“Wait.” He sits up more, sitting the Ghostface mask on his lap. “You made that?”

When you nod, you feel your body match the bonfire’s temperature. Annie gave you compliments by the plenty, but that was Annie. Everyone else at this party had been too busy getting drunk or too occupied to notice.

But he did.

“How’d you do it?” he asks with what seems to be genuine curiosity, though you wave it off.

“It’s boring.”

“Doubt it.”

“No, it really is,” you state, but the stranger leans closer with intrigue. You can’t move away, too mesmerized by how damn gorgeous he is. “And knowing me, I could ramble on for hours, so—”

“Hey, I have time.”

The man clears his throat and holds up the Ghostface mask as if it’ll somehow convince you.

“Might as well make the most of this damn thing while we’re stuck here, right? If anything, you’d be saving me from another goddamn Scary Movie reference inside, so you're doing me a favor by rambling for hours.”

The mention brings a slow and relaxed smile to your lips.

Right.

The ye ol’ wasssssaaaaaap to anyone with a Ghostface mask.

“Fine,” you relent, and you swear your mind is playing tricks on you when it sees a half-smile form on his own face, but the fire swipes it away just as fast. “But at least tell me your name — unless you want me to call you Ghostface.”

The man shakes his head, the fringe of his black hair following with him.

“Levi,” he introduces, softer this time. ���Just call me Levi.”

[the--morning--room]

RESURGAM (Arthur Harrow x F! Reader) Chapter 15: A cold, solitary girl again

"That bitter hour cannot be described: in truth, 'the waters came into my soul; I sank in deep mire: I felt no standing; I came into deep waters; the floods overflowed me.'" -Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14

AO3

I don't know if you're aware of this, reader, but the human body is quite poorly made. The temperature in the desert that night was not nearly low enough to freeze one to death, but it was enough to harden the Thorn's joints until she could no longer move her fingers to wipe the sand from her eyes and mouth. Her breaths came painfully and haltingly, and once her knees failed her she knew she had no choice but to rest. She clutched the thin, whitish hairs of the jackal and let it lead her, half-crawling like a primordial beast, to the relative safety of a cliffside, where she sandwiched herself between the chilled, sandy rock and the jackal's body.

"Thank you," she told it, and patted its slimy head.

There was a faint silver line along the edge of the horizon. The coming dawn, or the distant Cairo skyline? Either way, why was the light growing so quickly?

The whiteness expanded until it enveloped the sky, erased the desert and the jackal, and the Thorn knew nothing but white.

She'd been here a while, she thought. Of course, she'd just gotten there, but she knew that place, didn't she? The columns, the checkered floor. The information desk, where a "Tomb Buster" poster sat upright in a swivel chair. The gift shop with its window full of ushabtis, standing like a tiny army. And of course, the art. Stacks of prone statues, safely mummified in protective wrapping.

Everything was white and silent.

"...And here we have—oh, you! Yes, you. I'm supposed to come and find you. Hellooo..." The friendly Scottish voice cut through the quiet, and an arm was waved in front of her face. That tattoo looked so familiar. She turned to him.

"Billy!" The relief nearly knocked her over. She threw her arms around him, and was met with a sickening squelch.

"Oof. Sorry, love. This happens," Billy said, red-faced, as his stomach fell open and spilled its slimy contents onto the pristine floor. The two visitors he'd been leading, a crocodile and a hippo, exchanged annoyed glances before turning and walking away. Both wore tutus and oversized pointe shoes.

"Can I, um...get someone for you?" the Thorn asked awkwardly. "A doctor, maybe?"

"'S fine. Just something I have to get used to," Billy replied, gathering up his intestines. "Reading room's back that way," he jerked his head, "through the armory, then take a left."

She followed his pointing finger, wove through the suits of armor and past one massive, silvery-gray getup made of material resembling a mummy's wrappings. It was holding a sign: "Reading room this way," then the Thorn's name and an arrow.

Thoroughly creeped out, she followed the arrow. What other choice did she have?

A rush of book-smell swept over her as she crossed through the doorway. It was a wide, cylindrical room lined with shelves of books and a staircase that spiraled endlessly into a ceiling of clouds. Despite the seemingly infinite shelf space, the floor was crammed with stacks of even more books. For once in her life, however, the Thorn had no interest in books. She could only stare in astonishment at the man in front of her.

He said her name, smiling through his beard. "We meet in person at last!"

Indeed, she had never seen his face outside of a computer screen. She knew him, though. The beard, the glasses, the smile that radiated both kindness and intelligence, and that fuchsia scarf he was never seen without. She remembered the first time she'd seen him, years ago, presenting a paper to a livestreamed conference. He had been wearing a simple blue suit, and the bright, cheerful color of his scarf was a welcome contrast to the general stuffiness of the event.

The last time they'd spoken was over email. He'd sent a letter of recommendation to Lowood, he wished her luck and promised to meet her in person the next summer. That never happened, of course. Dr. El-Faouly was dead before summer.

He was dead, and yet there he was now, standing before her. In order for this meeting to be real, one of them must have traveled between worlds. The Thorn knew which of them it was more likely to be.

"Is this the Duat?" she asked.

"You figured it out much more quickly than I did. But, of course, I am actually dead. Well, fully dead. There might be a difference in the way one's consciousness reacts to the change if—"

"Wait, I'm not 'fully' dead? What does that mean?"

He pursed his lips sadly. "Your hands."

She looked down to see her fingers flickering. Invisible—then not. Gone—and back again. She blinked, and in that tiny fraction of a second she felt a shock of excruciating cold, her body crying out with hunger and thirst, her heart wailing its brokenness, and sand everywhere. There was even sand in her throat—had she tried to eat it?

"Your body is unconscious," Dr. El-Faouly explained. "Your only hope now is to be rescued, but I'm afraid at this point it would take a—"

"—Deus ex machina." She blinked again, and heard the roaring of the desert wind. Her fingers were frozen.

"Yes."

She let out a hopeless laugh laced with tears. "I think the gods might be a little busy right now," she said. "I'm probably the least of their worries, especially since..." Her voice caught." Since I helped...I helped Arthur..." She broke down.

He looked at her with weary eyes. He said her name, lifted a hand to her shoulder—it passed through. She felt no comforting touch, only cold and wind and sand and hunger.

"Come," he said, and two plump chairs appeared nearby.

They sat. The Thorn pulled her flickering knees into her chest, sobbing into them.

"It's peaceful here," Dr. El-Faouly said. "You're in a good place. Don't cry."

"My scales are unbalanced," she said through a curtain of messy tears. "I won't be staying here."

"Who told you your scales lack balance?"

"Well, Ammit."

"And you know better than to take Ammit's word as law, don't you?" He laughed scoffingly. "For goodness sake, the Ennead doesn't even regard her as a proper goddess."

The Thorn's lips quivered with a sudden, familiar need to defend her goddess. No—not her goddess, not anymore. "Praise revoked" and all that. She looked down at her flickering forearm (the flickers were fewer and further between now). Bare.

"The goddess Taweret weighs hearts on the scales of Anubis," Dr. El-Faouly explained. "Ammit has no say in deciding the fates of the deceased." He smiled. "Your heart is safe."

"Even without Ammit, I don't think my scales are going to balance," the Thorn confessed.

"Why do you think that?"

She dragged a hand across her face, and it came away slick with tears. Her flesh was completely solid now. "Like I said, I helped Arthur. I found the scarab for him, I protected him from Marc and Khonshu. And," she heaved a wretched, shuddering sob, "to be honest, I don't regret any of it. I don't regret loving him, no matter what I did for him, what I let him do..." She covered her face, drowning in shame.

He looked thoughtfully at her. "Do you regret leaving him?"

She nodded, sobbing violently.

"Even after he betrayed you so terribly?"

She paused to try and breathe, disgusted by the feeling of so many sticky tears racing down her hot cheeks.

"You didn't want to be Ammit's avatar, did you?" he pressed.

She sniffed. "Of course not."

"Well, that was Arthur's plan for you. Do you think he would ever change his mind, regardless of how artfully you may have argued against him?"

"Never," she admitted, wiping her eyes.

"Then what exactly do you regret?" he asked kindly. "Sparing yourself from a fate you would have hated?"

"I could have handled it," she said sullenly.

"Really? You could have handled committing murders in the name of a deity whose cause you don't believe in? You could have handled living under her abuse?"

"I could have sucked it up," she said after a stubborn pause.

"You have done more than enough 'sucking up' in your life," he frowned. "No more. You deserve to be treated well, to make your own choices and live your own life."

"What about love? I deserve that too, right?"

"Of course you deserve love, but not if it comes at the cost of your freedom."

Freedom. What was it she'd said to Arthur about freedom? "I have a free, independent brain." She pictured herself as a bird triumphantly escaping its cage, soaring out into the bluest of skies only to find itself promptly shot down. Would that little bird miss the safety of its cage as it plummeted to its death?

"Will he be okay?" she asked. "If he really loves me like he said he does, and he finds out I died while leaving him..." Her eyes were drowning all over again.

Dr. El-Faouly reached out and took her hands. Her flesh was solid now, no more flickers. "You are not responsible for his feelings toward you."

"He was always trying to protect me," she said. "He's going to think he failed."

"It's not your responsibility," he repeated, gripping her hands. "He's a grown man; he can take care of himself."

"But what if he..."

"He will grieve, he will recover, and he will move on. And you will do the same."

"I can't." She shook her head at the wall of books, unable to look her mentor in the eye. "I can't."

"I said the same thing when I arrived here, knowing I was leaving my loved ones behind. I worried so much for my daughter, thinking she would never be able to move on. But of course, she did. She had to."

"You don't know Arthur. He's," she interrupted herself with a high, panicked laugh, "he's a professional sufferer. He never gets over anything. He needs—"

"He needs a kind of help that you were never equipped to give him. Either he gets that help, or he doesn't; either way, it has nothing to do with you. You renounced his love. He is no longer yours to worry about."

She was remembering the nights she spent pulling shards of glass from Arthur's shredded skin, and how each shard would leave a sickening deluge of blood and pus in its wake. That's what Dr. El-Faouly's words had done to her heart—not that she herself hadn't caused the wound. She had left Arthur behind. She had rejected his goddess and broken off their engagement.

He would never have abandoned her. She would have only had to stay by his side, loyal and silent, and let him make her Ammit's personal killing machine. In return, he would have loved her, cared for her, kept her company for the rest of his life. A few million sinners' blood on her hands, in exchange for a lifetime of romantic bliss...if that wasn't a fair trade, what was?

No. No, she would have hated it. It would have been hell, serving Ammit, and living with Arthur would have been even worse. Didn't his goddess always bring out the worst in him? Ammit would have been a plague on their marriage. The most loving, sincere religious fanatic is still a fanatic, and even his most passionate kisses would never have been able to love the sticky sheen of guilt off her heart.

She bent her body into a pathetic curve and let out a long, slow wail into her knees. Waves of hot sand beat at her dying body. She could feel the brightness of the sun behind her closed eyes. There were voices, two of them, arguing above her.

"What if I hurt her?"

"Steven, look at her. You carrying her to the car isn't going to damage her any more than the desert already has."

"I just don't know, she looks so frail..."

An exasperated sigh. "Fine, let Marc do it then."

"No! Wait! I can do it, just let me—"

Her hands were disappearing, blinking away before her eyes. "I'm going back," she said. "No, I don't want to. No, stop," she cried in a panic, unsure of who or what she was pleading with. "Let me stay here, I want to stay here!"

"It looks as though your body has other plans," Dr. El-Faouly said. "We'll see each other again someday. Say hello to my little scarab for me."

"Your what?"

He smiled. "She's right next to you. Tell her—"

She blinked, and was alive.

The first things she knew were yellowness and hot air, then a sliver of morning creeping in through a pair of thick curtains. There was just enough light for her to note that nearly everything in the room was broken, and the various pieces of things had been scattered across a loveseat in the corner. Someone had apparently begun cleaning up, but never finished the job. A cracked mirror across from the bed showed the Thorn that she was in a white bed, and wearing white clothes: A man's T-shirt and baggy shorts. Her hair felt clean, and smelled like an unfamiliar shampoo. Nearby, another woman sat cross-legged on top of the bedside table. She was balancing a laptop precariously on her knees, and seemed either unwilling or unable to look at the Thorn. The light from the computer screen exaggerated the pronounced circles under her eyes.

"Morning," said Layla.

"Little scarab." The words slipped from the Thorn's mouth so unexpectedly that she almost felt as if the words weren't her own.

Layla slammed her laptop shut with a ferocity that left the cracked mirror vibrating like a cowering animal. Her face was stony. "If one of you people," she growled, spitting out the word people as if it were a deadly curse, "ever calls me that again..." Wet bullets of grief shone in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," the Thorn said reflexively. "I don't know why I—"

"Just stop." Layla shook her head and put a frustrated hand to her face. She took a single loud, tremulous breath, lingering on it as if considering making it a sob. She stood up suddenly, nearly knocking the small table to the ground, crossed the room in a few staggers, and flung the thick curtains wide to reveal a stunning panopticon of Cairo, pyramids and all.

"Wow," the Thorn breathed.

Layla paused in front of the window, her back to the Thorn. "Yeah," she agreed, apparently with some reluctance.

"Thank you for, uh," she could think of no less awkward a way to put it, "saving m—"

"Thank Marc," Layla said curtly. "And Steven. One of them, can't remember which, but he saw you in the sand when we went back to get some stuff we left in that car."

"Are they here?"

"No." She moved away from the window, started to sit on the sofa only to note the mess covering its cushions, and sank down to the floor instead. "No, we're...we're kind of taking a break."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

Layla's face was shifting oddly. Sometimes the shadow of a beard, the glint of a pair of studious glasses, and the shout of fuchsia-colored fabric around her neck would appear, just for a glimmer of a fraction of a second. It seemed to the Thorn that she had yet to entirely leave the Duat—or maybe the Duat wasn't ready to let go of her. Or, it could simply be the ghost of Dr. El-Faouly materializing around his daughter. Of course, she could also have been hallucinating. Even I'm not certain what the truth was.

"Well," said Layla, "don't you want to know what happened?"

A clump of dread had been growing in the Thorn's stomach, anticipating this subject. Clearly, Layla and Marc had survived Ammit's wrath. That fact didn't bode well for Arthur.

"I don't know," she said.

"He's alive," said Layla. "Does that help?"

A tear slipped down the Thorn's cheek and hovered saltily on her upper lip.

"You were supposed to be Ammit's avatar, weren't you? Is that why you left?"

Avoiding Layla's gaze, she nodded.

Layla mirrored her nod, an infuriating knowledge in the way she pursed her lips. "Yeah," she said, "I saw that one coming."

"You did?"

She shrugged. "I always thought something about you and him together didn't really add up. It seemed wrong. And this explains it."

"What do you mean? Are you saying you don't believe he could love me?"

"No. Well, maybe. I find it hard to believe he could love at all."

"And what gives you the right to make that judgment?" the Thorn retorted wildly, her voice climbing in pitch. "Who do you think you are, saying something like that about another person's relationship? As if yours is so perfect."

Immediately she felt herself tense and recoil, shocked by her own cruelty. Layla, however, only hardened her jaw. A deadly silence followed.

"I guess that's fair," Layla said. "But I do know what it's like to be lied to."

The Thorn, of course, wasn't sure what Layla was referring to—but she nodded anyway, wary of opening her mouth for fear she might let loose another needless barb of cruelty.

"I had to hear the truth from Harrow before Marc had the balls to tell me himself. How fucked up is that? To have to learn something like that from the man who shot my husband?"

The Thorn swallowed. "The man who what?"

Layla closed her eyes. "It was so loud," she said, "and the echo...and the blood on his white clothes..." She was shaking.

"He shot Marc?" the Thorn heard herself say. "Arthur did?" His name had never felt less pleasant in her mouth.

Layla nodded, swallowing a sob. "I wanted to kill him."

"He would have killed you first."

She let out a short, mirthless laugh. "Yeah. For sure."

From there, she told the whole story, up to and including the battle between the three avatars in Cairo.

"Stop," the Thorn said suddenly.

"Really? Now?" Layla had reached the point in the story where, sutured to the side of an overturned van by one of Marc's crescent darts, she watched Arthur approach Marc's prone body while Ammit and your humble narrator tangled in combat on the horizon.

"I don't want to hear any more." Tears were dripping from her chin and staining the white sheets between her legs. "Not yet." Never, she thought.

"Suit yourself," Layla said with a tired shrug. "You probably want some food or something, right?"

The Thorn shook her head. Her stomach cried out pathetically, earning an unamused look from Layla.

"I'm getting you some food," she said. "After all that's happened, it would be really stupid if you died of hunger now."

She left, and the Thorn let her body descend into convulsive sobbing—but not before crossing the room to yank the curtains shut. The pyramids would not be a witness to her suffering.

[esonetwork]

Timestamp #281: World Enough and Time & The Doctor Falls

New Post has been published on https://esonetwork.com/timestamp-281-world-enough-and-time-the-doctor-falls/

Timestamp #281: World Enough and Time & The Doctor Falls

Doctor Who: World Enough and Time Doctor Who: The Doctor Falls (2 episodes, s10e11-12, 2017)

Powerful, surprising, and heartbreaking: A Doctor Who triple threat.

World Enough and Time

Upon a snowy landscape, the Doctor stumbles from the TARDIS and repeats the word “no” as he begins to regenerate. He falls to his knees as the energy overtakes him…

…and we flash back to a long cylindrical spaceship hovering at the edge of a black hole’s event horizon. The TARDIS materializes in the control room at the closest point to the phenomenon and Missy emerges. She describes herself as “Doctor Who” and introduces her companions. As alarms sound, we find out that this is a test of Missy’s resolve to be good. The Doctor watches from the TARDIS as Missy, Bill, and Nardole work through the puzzle and make contact with a blue-skinned humanoid named Jorj.

Jorj arrives at the control room with a gun and demands to know which of them is human. As three lifts race toward the control room, the Doctor emerges from the TARDIS and Bill admits to being human. Jorj declares that she is why the lifts are coming and shoots Bill, mortally wounding her. Figures with bandaged faces emerge from the lifts and take Bill, claiming they will fix her but will not return. The Doctor decides to trust them and leaves a psychic message for Bill to wait for him when she wakes.

Before the trip, Bill had disagreed with the Doctor about the rehabilitation test. The Doctor wanted Missy to be good, but Bill didn’t know if it was possible. They later had a discussion about the Doctor, the Master, and Time Lords and their flexible approaches to gender. Bill confided that Missy scared her, and the Doctor told Bill that he would do his best to not let her die.

This pressure now weighs on the Doctor. He let his companion die on his watch.

The Doctor tries to scan the lift with his sonic screwdriver, and when Jorj threatens him, he warns Jorj not to make him angry. The Doctor is borderline furious. Nardole finds thousands of life signs in the lower levels of the ship, leading the Doctor to understand that the different levels of the ship are moving at different times due to relativity.

On one of those lower levels, Bill wakes up in a medical facility with a cybernetic heart in her chest. She gets the message from the Doctor and meets a caretaker named Mr. Razor. She also hears a cybernetic voice calling out in pain. She finds the patient as screens show the time differential between Floor 0000 and Floor 1056. She can’t stop the voice from chanting “pain” over and over, and a nurse merely mutes the voice instead of tending to the pain. Bill finds that the others are also chanting about their pain but their voices are also muted.

Mr. Razor finds Bill and takes her to his room for tea. He explains that they are curing the people in the surgical  (conversion theater) suites and that she was saved from death with her new “shiny” cybernetic heart. She’s been on this level for months and passes the time watching the live feed of Level 0000. The Doctor literally takes a week to raise his eyebrow. Bill eventually recovers enough to work as a cleaner as she continues to wait. Meanwhile, the Doctor uses Venusian aikido to knock out Jorj and make his way to Bill.

Bill also cannot leave the hospital. Her heart will supposedly cease to function and the patients will raise the alarm. Mr. Razor explains that the people are being converted to survive Operation Exodus, a necessity since the human lifespan cannot survive the trip back to the top of the ship. Mr. Razor takes Bill outside one day, and sure enough, after a brief walk, her heart begins to fail.

The years pass and Bill continues to wait. She watches as the Doctor, Missy, and Nardole board a lift. They cannot take the TARDIS because the black hole with mess with navigation. Mr. Razor tricks Bill into one of the conversion theaters and condemns her to a full conversion. After all, people usually scream when they find out the real reason for surgery. They fit her for a headpiece that will inhibit emotion.

When the Doctor, Missy, and Nardole arrive on the bottom floor, Missy is left to explore the ship’s computer history. She soon meets Mr. Razor who is enamored with her and seems to know who she is. On separate paths, the travelers learn the truth: The ship’s origin was Mondas, the twin planet of Earth, and the conversions are the genesis of the Cybermen.

More shocking, Mr. Razor reveals that he is Missy’s predecessor, the Saxon Master. With that revelation in mind, Missy reverts to her cruel nature.

Even more shocking, this trip has turned upside down. The Cyberman standing before the Doctor is Bill Potts, and the former companion cries beneath the mask as she tells the Doctor that she waited for him.

The Doctor Falls

On Floor 0507, farmers and families face off against the scarecrows – the prototype Cybermen from Floor 1056 – shooting them at night and restraining them on wooden crosses by the light of day. One of those days, the relative peace is broken when a shuttle crashes through the ground near a girl named Alit. From the wreckage emerges a Cyberman carrying the unconscious form of the Doctor.

We flash back to the Doctor restrained to a wheelchair on the roof of the hospital on 1056. He was subdued by Missy and the Master, dancing and flirting as they discuss the Doctor’s deaths and how many regenerations he has left to spend. Notably, Missy cannot remember what happened that forced her regeneration. The Doctor ponders what happened in the Master’s life since he vanished while blasting Rassilon with his life energy.

Upon returning to Gallifrey, the Time Lords showed their gratitude for the Master’s help in preventing Rassilon from executing the Ultimate Sanction by restoring his body and kicking him off the planet. The Master stole a TARDIS and landed on the Mondasian colony ship where he lived like a king and killed at his leisure. When the colonist overthrew him and he attempted to run, he found that his TARDIS was burned out from being too close to the event horizon.

While they gloat, the Masters are shocked to find that the Cybermen are advancing on them. When the Masters attacked the Doctor, he was able to change the coding for humanity to read two hearts instead of one. With the Cybermen marching to convert the Time Lords, Missy knocks the Master unconscious and rescues the Doctor. She frees the Doctor and he calls for Nardole, who has successfully stolen a shuttle.

As the Masters and the Doctor try to board the shuttle, a Cyberman attacks the Doctor with an electrical shock. Bill kills the Cyberman but the Masters take over the shuttle as the Doctor falls. Bill stops the craft from taking off and ensures that the Doctor boards the shuttle.

That same shuttle has since crashed into 0507, leaving the entire group stranded. Two weeks pass as the Doctor recovers and Nardole prepares the families for war. Bill has been resigned to the barn since she frightens the children, and while she believes that she is still human, everyone else sees her as a Cyberman. Alit comes to her side with a mirror and Bill is shocked to see her true self. When the Doctor arrives, he rewards Alit for being kind to Bill. They have a brief discussion about Cybermen and what she’s become, Bill’s anger and grief boil over as she accidentally destroys the barn’s door.

The Doctor is amazed by Bill’s resiliency against the Cyberman programming. When Bill sheds a tear because everyone is afraid of her, he wipes it away and notes that she shouldn’t be able to cry. They meet with the Master, who mocks Bill and tells the Doctor about a plan that he and Missy have been working on. As they all walk across the farmland, the Doctor limps and stifles regeneration energy in his hand, revealing that his electrocution was fatal. When Bill worries about him and her future, he tells her that “where there’s tears, there’s hope.”

They reach the forest where the Master and Missy theorize that they’re out of temporal sync so they can’t retain their memories of these events. Missy reveals that the forest around them is a holographic wall disguising the lifts. Missy calls for one, not remembering that it is coming from the bottom floor and not empty. The lift reveals an evolved Cyberman, and despite killing it, the trio of Time Lords knows that the Cybermen now know where they are.

They cannot run because time is running faster on the lower levels. The Cyberman invasion would easily catch up to them. They have no choice but to fight as the Cybermen begin punching through the various floors. Nardole uses the fuel piping on Floor 0508 as weaponry and the Doctor finds a service duct that can be used to evacuate the children. Meanwhile, the Masters discuss running for their TARDIS on the bottom floor. After all, Missy once (now) threatened her former self into carrying a spare dematerialization circuit.

As night falls, the first wave of Cybermen appears. Nardole tricks them into believing that a single apple can destroy them all. When the Masters decide to leave, the Doctor delivers an emotional and passionate speech on why he helps people. It’s not easy and doesn’t always work, but it’s the right and kind thing to do. The Master ridicules the Doctor and continues on, but Missy is somewhat moved. She agrees that being the Doctor’s friend was what she always wanted, but she goes with her predecessor anyway. Within minutes, the two Masters arrive at the lift where the younger tricks the elder by fatally stabbing him and leaving just enough time to reach his TARDIS before regenerating. Unfortunately, the Master fires his laser screwdriver at Missy and mortally wounds her.

By all appearances, Missy dies. Her last intention was to return to the Doctor’s side.

The next wave of Cybermen arrives and Nardole’s tricks force them to retreat and develop a new plan. The Doctor downloads the plans for the floor into his sonic screwdriver and sends Nardole to escort the children to the service ducts. The Doctor convinces Nardole to leave despite the latter’s protests. After all, the Doctor is treating this like a suicide mission and Nardole owes him too much. The Doctor convinces Nardole that this will be penance for his crimes from before the Doctor rescued him. Bill stands beside the Doctor and Nardole admits that he’ll never be able to find the words for their sacrifice.

Now alone on Floor 0507, the Doctor and Bill prepare for a last stand by saying their farewells. They move to opposite sides of the floor and engage the Cybermen. The Doctor cites his numerous victories over them – Mondas, Telos, Earth, Planet 14, Marinus, Voga, Canary Wharf, and the Moon – before falling to several laser blasts. He nearly regenerates, but holds it back as he ignites the piping below the floor and engulfs the forest in fiery destruction. The Cybermen are destroyed.

As Nardole and his charges reach Floor 0502, he holds out hope that Bill and the Doctor will return. Alit convinces him to move on and focus on living with them instead.

Amongst the wasteland that is Floor 0507, Bill finds the wounded Doctor. She’s barely functioning, but her personality is nearly restored, and she mourns over the Time Lord’s body. She is surprised to find Heather emerging from a nearby puddle and learns that she’s real through a passionate kiss. Heather changed Bill into a being like her, and together they take the Doctor’s body back to the TARDIS. Heather sets the controls for a new location and offers Bill the choice to return to her old life or live a new one at her side as she travels the universe.

Bill chooses the latter, shedding a tear over her friend and telling him that “where there’s tears, there’s hope.” The two women depart as the TARDIS flies on and the Doctor heals, dreaming of Bill, Nardole, Rose Tyler, Martha Jones, Captain Jack, Donna Noble, Madame Vastra, Jenny Flint, Sarah Jane, Amy Pond, Clara Oswald, and River Song as they each call his name. The last voice is Missy’s, one which awakens the Doctor as he mutters some words of his former lives. He yells that he can’t keep being someone else and suppresses his regeneration as the TARDIS lands.

The Doctor is defiant, telling the TARDIS that he would listen to the lesson it’s trying to teach him, and steps into an arctic landscape. He screams into the snow and stifles his regeneration, pledging not to change as he hears a voice that echoes his concerns. When he demands to know who the other person is, he’s surprised to find the Doctor in the snowstorm. The original, you might say.

He finds the First Doctor.

Before this point, the televised history of the Cybermen was pretty simple: There were the Mondasian Cybermen from this universe and the Cybus Cybermen from Pete’s World. This pair of episodes complicate the evolution by introducing various origins for the Cybermen of this universe.

After Mondas was ejected from Earth’s orbit, the Mondasians were split into two groups based on the desire to fully embrace cyber conversion. The so-called Faction left Mondas to find their destiny in The Wheel in Space,  The Invasion, and The War Games (with a cameo in Carnival of Monsters and brief nods in Dalek and Death in Heaven). The remaining Mondans would evolve into Cybermen in this episode – and in the audio drama Spare Parts and the comics The World Shapers and The Cybermen, if you count those – before proceeding to The Tenth Planet. It’s worth noting that the Cybermen in The Tenth Planet arrived with their rogue planet, so these Cybermen might not be those Cybermen.

Apparently, every other version of the Cybermen evolved independently and on parallel trajectories across time and space. At least, that’s how the story goes as of right now since Doctor Who‘s continuity is perpetually fluid.

As if that wasn’t enough, we get a quasi-confirmation that “Doctor Who” is a legitimate variation of the Doctor’s name. These days, fans will point to all sorts of sources to justify the character’s moniker of “The Doctor,” but there are several sources that also make “Doctor Who” just as legitimate: The computer WOTAN repeatedly called for “Doctor Who” in The War Machines; The Second Doctor used the alias “Doktor von Wer” – literally, “Doctor [of] Who” – in The Highlanders; The Second Doctor signed a note as “Dr W” in The Underwater Menace; Bessie’s license plate was WHO 1 and WHO 7; and Miss Hawthorne referred to him as “the great wizard Qui Quae Quod” – literally “Who Who Who” in Latin – in The Dæmons.

What about the show’s credits, you might ask. The character was credited as “Doctor Who” from An Unearthly Child all the way through Logopolis, spanning 18 seasons of stories. Starting with Castrovalva and the Fifth Doctor’s run, the character was credited as “The Doctor” through the TV movie (which also credited the Seventh Doctor as “The Old Doctor”). The name changed again to “Doctor Who” for the Ninth Doctor‘s run before returning to “The Doctor” in The Christmas Invasion. Rose also featured a website entitled “Doctor Who?”.

All that to say that either name is legitimate, really. Sure, Missy lies… a lot… but her lies always have a kernel of truth within. In recent years, the title has referred more to an ethos and mission statement rather than an actual name.

Considering the stories at hand, the horror film feeling of these episodes is amazing. The first half is edge-of-your-seat tension mixed with copious amounts of body horror, and the second half blunts the body horror for more battlefield tension. The tension follows the lighting, leading to more empathic storytelling in daylight and ratcheting tension during the night. The Doctor’s impassioned speech is truly a last-stand Hail Mary pass, and it serves up more tension before the final battle. The moment that truly sent shivers down my spine was “pain, pain, pain,” cueing the audience to just how monstrous the Mondasians were.

Another shocker was the identity of Mr. Razor, but this is only because I didn’t the “coming soon” teaser at the end of The Eaters of Light when this series was in first-run. If I had known that John Simm was returning, I probably would have seen right through the Mr. Razor disguise. Since I didn’t know at the time, it blew me away back in 2017.

As someone who earned a degree in physics, I love when science fiction shows play around with the subject and can explain it to the home audience. Gravitational time dilation is a real phenomenon related to special relativity that has been observed on Earth. Scientists placed identical atomic clocks at different altitudes (which relates to the pull of gravity) and noted significant differences in time between them. In this case, “significant” is on the order of nanoseconds, but imagine scaling that up beyond the fragile envelope of our atmosphere to a really long spaceship parked longitudinally on the event horizon of a black hole. That difference in gravity is pretty big.

I did have a question about fridging the black woman in this story – a terrible trio of tropes! – but Bill doesn’t really die and she’s not put in peril by the villain simply as a means to motivate the hero, so I dismissed the idea.

The video of Level 0000 looks like a paused classic black-and-white episode of the show. It added to the feeling of tension and was a nice callback to the era that this story and its cliffhanger were meant to evoke.

The two Masters working side-by-side in this story was pure joy. Notably, this is the first televised story to feature multiple Masters. It was also the third finale of the three in Capaldi’s run to feature the Cybermen.

In the end, I’m left in awe of the Twelfth Doctor’s resolve and strength. He survived all of that and still had the fortitude to hold back one of the character’s most primal forces, setting the stage for Peter Capaldi’s swan song in the next adventure.

Rating: 5/5 – “Fantastic!”

UP NEXT – Doctor Who: Twice Upon a Time

The Timestamps Project is an adventure through the televised universe of Doctor Who, story by story, from the beginning of the franchise. For more reviews like this one, please visit the project’s page at Creative Criticality.

[itsuki-minamy]

LIMITED KINGSHIP, WAR STORIES:

CHAPTER 3: BLUE CLOTHES & BLACK CLOTHES

* Mini Episodes KFCN (List of Chapters) * Projects & Chapters

Translation: Naru-kun Raws: Ridia

The rain that started to fall in the morning was pouring down in the afternoon.

Kazumada Takechi liked the rain. To put it more precisely, he thought that "it was preferable if it rained at the time of shipment". The rain hid many things. The more smoke screens there were, the better you would be earning in terms of visibility, steps, number of people, and amount of initial exit information. It would be great if the enemy was destroyed without knowing which is the right or the left.

According to the notification from the information department, the number of confirmed black clothes was six. They were said to be hiding near the abandoned influx facility in Shirotsuchi Ward. "Scepter 4" formed a breakthrough unit consisting of 18 people and dispatched them directly to the site without delay. The hideout was in a river area away from the residential area, and the fact that there was no need to consider the damage in the surrounding area was the deciding factor in making a quick decision.

In the first confrontation, the two dressed in black were incapacitated.

From that moment on, it was the usual battlefield. A catastrophic counterattack of angry words, taunts, and black clothes turned into living bombs. A firestorm blew, and the storm-swallowed limbs screamed and turned. Overcoming this, Takechi and others proceeded. When he tries to cut the one in black clothes and go further to the hall,

"Die! Blue clothes!"

From the side room, black clothes appeared.

A flaming fist protruded into Takechi's face. Takechi prevented it with a shield of extraordinary skill, and waved a saber at the back of the opponent's neck. He avoided the one in black clothes, kicked the ground and hit the enemy's entire body like a bullet with martial arts.

"Guh..."

The epigastrium broke and Takechi lost his balance. Those in black pushed Takechi down as if they were entwined, and laughed as if they were riding a horse.

"Hey, that's it!"

The one in black raised his burned right fist, with the flame of extraordinary ability.

He couldn't turn it off.

"Ah?"

He blinked and looked mysteriously at his fist. On his flank, Takechi hit the left hook hopefully. Takechi bounced off the one in black that lifted his body with a crushed groan and stood up as he coughed.

"What is this?"

Rolling into the corner of the hallway and quickly regaining his posture, the one in black got annoyed when he saw his left wrist.

There he put on a metal wristband. Takechi installed it at his own discretion when he became a rider.

"It's a different suppressor, bracelets type. As long as you're using it, you can't use your abilities."

"Don't be silly, take it from me! Right now!"

"If you were me, would you remove it?"

Takechi approached the one in black, saying that clearly. In the battle with "Purgatory", the death of the hostile clan member is allowed, but orders have been issued to stop him and bring him back "if possible". Black's threat, which had been sealed, was so low that he could take it away and he tried to stop it.

At that moment, red and orange lights filled the field of vision.

"Mmm!"

Takechi reflexively reflected his hands in front of his eyes and developed a field of different abilities. He protected himself and the defenseless black-robed man. Probably a suicide bomb attack with another in black. In response to the deadly pressure of power, Takechi held the field with concentration on him,

"Take off because it's fine, you bastard dressed in blue!"

The one in black screamed and rushed inside.

"Now, stupid!"

He lost concentration. At the last minute, a crack occurred in the talented field that had stopped the blast and it immediately collapsed. Takechi and the one in black attached to him were dragged like leaves in a muddy stream, smashing the window panes and thrown "outside".

There was a huge "hole" in the "outside".

"Mmm!"

Takechi grew impatient as he spun in midair.

In the pre-operative briefing, he knew what that "hole" looked like. It is a well with a diameter of 30 meters and a depth of 70 meters to pour the water from the flooded river into an underground drainage channel.

If you are a talented person, you will be safe even if they throw you out here. He should have been able to deal with it by softening the impact of the fall or by clinging to the inner wall due to the power of it.

However, the one in black that was thrown with him was sealed.

If he fell like this, he would die.

Within seconds of the fall, Takechi recognized, thought, and made up his mind. Takechi was angry, shining with an extraordinary brilliance under his feet.

"Damn it! Why am I saving one from black?"

He then he jumped further as if kicking in the air, holding the one in black and falling into the depths of the "hole".

++++++++++

He woke up with the sensation of being hit by his body.

He opened his eyes slightly. In the field of vision like a movie, his dark red hair was swaying. The temples on one side of him were cut off and the other side of him was injured. Takechi reflected on a fuzzy thought that the one in the black suit had a drunken hairstyle. So he came back to himself.

There was a man in black in front of him. The member of the clan "Purgatory", the enemy of the sky.

"What are you doing?!"

He screamed out of reflex, pulling away from the man in black, Takechi tugged on his right hand to catch him. He looked there involuntarily.

Takechi's right hand and the man in black's left hand were connected by a handcuff-like power suppressor.

A low, whining voice escaped from his throat.

"What is this?"

"You don't know what to look for! You're connected! Quick, give me the key, you fucking bastard!"

The function of the suppressor of different abilities does not choose the opponent. Whether it is "Purgatory", Strain or "Scepter 4", those who use it will be blocked from different abilities, and their physical abilities will be the same as those of normal humans.

(Why is it on my wrist?), he thought.

"You've done it?"

"I don't know! I was like this when I realized it!"

The man in black who had lost his fangs was screaming and it seemed that he was not lying.

If so, was it a coincidence? Takechi and the one in black fell into the well in a tangled manner. It seems that the impact of the fall could be softened by Takechi's abilities, but the momentum at that moment caused the empty handcuffs to get stuck in Takechi's hands.

As a result, the one in blue clothes and the one in black clothes were sealed and lost their abilities, falling behind at the bottom of the shaft.

"That's probably what happened."

Explaining that, the one in black shot Takechi's lock to the max.

"Don't worry, that's it!"

As he scowled and endured the pain, Takechi glared at the one in black. He helped him with all his might, but what was that attitude? He thought he should have abandoned him, but that would violate the order to bring the man in black alive "as much as possible".

With a sigh, Takechi confirmed the situation.

There was no doubt that they were at the bottom of a cylindrical shaft. Looking up, light and rain poured from the rounded sky. The water that collected at the ankle was wetting Takechi's entire body and the one in black.

He felt no pain when he tried to move his body. He was lucky to have fallen from that height and not injured himself, although he had used his ability, but he had encountered another problem.

The radio was broken. With this, it was not possible to request help from "Scepter 4".

When he was thinking with a difficult look, the one in black yelled, "Hey!"

"Okay! Take off the handcuffs and you'll be fine! Even you are in trouble if you can't use your skills!"

Looking back at his unruly puppy eyes, Takechi asked.

"Why didn't you kill me?"

"Eh?"

"You probably woke up earlier. You should have killed me while I was passed out and then look for the key, why didn't you?"

After thinking about the one in black for a while, he made an "Ah…" face.

When he was shocked that he couldn't think about it because he didn't have a conscientious response, the one in black stood up and grabbed Takechi's chest.

"Oh! Idiot, you've made a fool of me now!"

"Actually it is."

"That's it! I'll kill you from now on!"

The one in black jumped up and tried to put his hands on Takechi's neck. Takechi shook it off with a disgusted face. The one in black was very small and seemed weak. In the case of fighting with sealed abilities, there was no element that Takechi lost, who was superior in physique and had received combat training.

He could kill that guy at any time.

But…

After thinking for a while, Takechi controlled the one in black who was still in an uproar with one hand.

"Wait. Calm down."

"Don't worry! Die! Or take off the handcuffs right now!"

"I don't have the key."

The movement of the man in black stopped.

"The "Scepter 4" runners do not carry the key because if they are stolen, the hostile clan member they sealed will be revived. I cannot remove the handcuffs unless I return to the transport vehicle or headquarters."

"Hm... oh ... that's..."

"Will you still kill me and drag the corpse away? Can you do it now? I weigh 94 kg."

The one in black grabbed his mouth and stared at Takechi's thick boar neck and his tight shoulders. He seemed like he could hear the sound of thinking going round and round.

Takechi did not miss the opportunity and opened a hand in front of the one in black clothes.

"I have a suggestion. Let's make a truce."

"Eh?"

"I don't want to drag your corpse. I want you to walk anyway. So how about a break until we get out of this hole?"

The one in black looked at Takechi with suspicious eyes and asked:

"Exit, then, and then?"

"I'll drag you to headquarters. If you don't like it, you can resist. If you're lucky, your friends can find you. Then you will die."

"......"

"Or do you stay here and starve?"

"......!"

The one in black thought, thought, thought, and finally scratched his red hair and screamed like a buffoon.

"Oh, yeah! Okay! That's fine!"

"Ok."

Takechi looked around him, and then, when it suddenly occurred to him,

"What is your name?"

The one in black glared at Takechi.

"Ah? Why would I give my name to a blue outfit?"

"I am Takechi Kazumada."

"Hey! Listen to me!"

He was angry and hit Takechi, but his thick chest was not afraid. As Takechi stared at him without saying anything, he sighed and murmured, as if the one in black clothes had taken root.

"Mina."

"That is all."

Takechi nodded, convinced.

"I was not confident because your body is thin, but that is correct. You are a woman."

Mina dressed in black kicked Takechi again.

++++++++++

The stairs leading to the ground had brilliantly collapsed after about 10 steps.

"What is this? Do a good job..."

Mina said bitterly, Takechi shrugged.

"This is an abandoned well in the first place. It is wrong to expect decent maintenance."

"Sorry. You don't react to soliloquy one by one."

She looked up and threw it away, but Takechi started walking without any particular pretense. Because they were connected, Mina couldn't help it.

A tunnel was cut through the shaft at a distance from the stairs to the ground. She was one step away from one of them. It seemed true that it was not maintained and there was real darkness with no emergency lights.

Wondering what to do, Takechi pulled the flashlight from his blue clothes. A powerful beam of light illuminated the interior of the tunnel. It was about 10 meters in diameter and the destination was covered in darkness, so he had no idea what was going on.

Mina asked Takechi anxiously.

"Hey. Is it really here?"

"I don’t know."

"Eh?! You don't know the way!"

Takechi looked at Mina coldly.

"I only know the data. I don't know which way the exit is."

"That is not usable. You are a tax thief!"

"There is no reason for criminals to say so."

Mina and Takechi walked through the tunnel while cursing each other.

The tunnel was wide, but dark and damp. Of course, it was not a path for humans and vehicles to walk. The reflected footsteps reawakened anxiety and Mina hit Takechi on the elbow.

"Hey. What is this path?"

"It is an underground drainage canal."

"What's that?"

Takechi looked at Mina with stunned eyes.

"You didn't even know what they were occupying? Geez..."

She was irritated. She used to hit him with a fist of fire, but now Mina couldn't do that. She screamed to reduce the anxiety of squeezing and opening her right hand.

"Please just answer! What's in here?"

She wondered if he could reply in disappointment, but Takechi explained clearly as he looked ahead.

"The underground drainage channel is like a tunnel to take the water from the river when a flood is about to occur. We have fallen into a well to drain the flood into the drainage channel. There are several, all connected through channels of underground drains, so if you get to a working pit, you should be able to get to the ground from there. "

"Mmm..."

Mina's nose was confused by his unexpectedly polite explanation. Yes, they did not know the details of the facilities they occupied and Mina did not even know that there was a system to prevent floods.

"What is that axis? How long do you need to walk?"

"The total length of the flood channel is 10 km and the number of wells is 5, so if calculated, the average distance of each is 2 km."

Takechi looked back at the path he had taken with a delicate expression.

"Here's a discarded axle. I still don't know if it's still connected to another axle. Maybe it's stuck in the way."

"Hey! What's that?!"

"It is not my fault to fall here or not know the way."

Mina tried to curse Takechi again, but she reconsidered and tied her lips.

Takechi was a blue robe and her enemy, but from what he had spoken, he seemed to have a fair personality. Certainly, as he said, this situation was not due to Takechi. The reason they fell here was because of Mina's attack, and...

Mina looked down at her feet and spat out the question that she had caught in the back of her throat.

"Why did you help me?"

Takechi looked at Mina. Mina continued her words, feeling his gaze around her.

"We, the 'Purgatory' clan, I think that for the blue clothes, we are just bugs. If you had dropped me as I was, you would save yourself a lot of trouble, but why didn't you?"

Takechi thought for a bit and then replied.

"I never thought of 'Purgatory' as an insect. I think they are criminals."

Then he looked ahead.

"If they want to hurt us with their abilities, we have to fight, but if they don't, they don't have to die. Criminals are still human. If you're incapacitated, I have to protect you because that's my job."

"......"

Mina didn't know how difficult it was.

So she didn't understand half of what Takechi said. What she could barely understand was that he was in a job helping people and that he thought Mina was a human being.

She was getting frustrated.

Takechi's response was not what Mina expected. She thought he had fallen next to her in the basement to take her neck and take credit. If he had told her that he helped her for his own benefit, she would not have been so frustrated.

No, thinking about it again...

After all, Takechi helped Mina, to take credit for himself. The reason why she walks on the ground like this was probably because it is difficult to carry Mina's corpse. Takechi himself said so, so it was for his own benefit after all.

She wouldn't forget it. Takechi was a blue clothes. She knew that many of her friends from "Purgatory" had been killed by the blue clothes. No wonder he strangled her as soon as she hit the ground. So she was not afraid.

When she was thinking about that while she was looking at the ground...

"Wah..."

She tapped the tip of her nose against Takechi's back who stopped.

"Hey... why are you stopping?"

Mina rubbed her nose and protested, and Takechi made a little soliloquy.

"What's wrong with this?"

When he wondered what it was, he noticed.

Moist air and the sound of flowing water.

The road split in two in front of Takechi. The right side was a bit higher and the left side was a bit lower. A stream of water flowed from right to left along the fork. That meant…

"This means that if you go somewhere, you can go out, right?"

"Probably yes. The fact that the water is flowing means that it is connected to a live shaft."

"Then you don't have to stop. Let's go quickly."

Takechi grabbed Mina's wrist as she tried to walk.

"No, you should go back."

"Eh?"

"The river water flows inwards. I don't know the state of the soil, but there is a danger that the amount of water will increase if it rains a lot. Let's go back and go through another tunnel."

"Don't worry, why do I have to turn around if I've walked so far? Let's go this way!"

"No, let's go back. Until the situation clears up."

Mina looked seriously at Takechi, who still had a hard expression, and then laughed.

"What's wrong, are you scared, you idiot? How much water do you think it is?"

Takechi replied grumpily.

"Even if the water is low now, it may rise in the future. It may be too late to go back after that. Don't you know?"

Mina didn't listen and stick her tongue out at him.

"Eh? I don't think it's a good idea to be ridiculous, but we'll say goodbye as soon as possible! It's no joke to wait here!"

"That's the same for me! But considering the danger…"

"That scares you! What's wrong with your courage? If it's too bad, I'm going to leave you alone here!"

Mina started walking, telling him that. But of course her right hand was stretched out and she couldn't go any further. Looking at Takechi with a look of contempt, she started walking with an indignant expression.

Mina shook her shoulders and laughed.

"Hey. You should do it from the beginning, face the problem."

"Black clothes. Remember when we went out..."

"That's my line. I'll kill you, get ready!"

Then they began to follow the path to the left, avoiding the running water.

Five minutes passed and then ten minutes.

Meanwhile, the water level rose steadily. It used to be a stream, but now it was as big and fast as a mountain stream. The water could no longer be avoided approaching the corner of the tunnel, and the splashes began to wet the black shoes. That fact made the silence between the two even heavier.

The two went further.

The water level was rising even higher.

The water level was already up to their ankles. The two of them sped up without saying anything, but the currents of water made them fall over and over again, and they moved ridiculously. Mina screamed unbearably as she supported her body by pushing her hand against the wall on the right side.

"Hey, when will we get there?"

Takechi yelled back without wasting time.

"You should know that! You told me to go this way!"

"Is everything we did wrong?! Idiot, you came with me, right?"

She slipped and fell, sinking from her head to the bottom of the water. Spitting water, scooping up wet red hair, Mina tried to spit out words of anger.

"Hey! Behind you!"

Looking back at Takechi's warning, she found that her face was completely tense.

The water that was twice as high as before was rushing down like a tsunami.

"Run!"

Mina scrambled to her feet and started running with Takechi. Of course they couldn't escape. The water level had already risen to shoulder height and it was not a state where they could run properly. Still, the two of them desperately moved their slowly moving legs.

Feeling the impact of being hit from behind, Mina fell forward again.

She spun as the field of vision went round and round. Mina shook her limbs and tried to keep her body fluid. It was a waste of effort. The water rushed towards her mouth, which she opened in search of air.

She was drowning.

Even if she stretched her legs out, she couldn't even scratch the bottom of the water. Fear of death filled her lungs in an instant, and Mina literally appeared on the surface of the water in a deadly manner.

The water hit there even harder.

Mina's head flew off and crashed into the tunnel wall. A spark flickered in the back of her eyes, and as it disappeared, Mina's consciousness plunged into darkness.

++++++++++

He was lucky that her finger got caught in "it."

Takechi's situation was not much different from Mina's. But, Takechi was taller than Mina. He was able to keep his composure because his feet were on the bottom even though he was being washed.

Mina, who had been hovering until just now, suddenly stopped moving, and Takechi knew from his handcuffs that she was passed out or dead. In any case, it was inevitable that he would follow the same path. He circled his bloodied eyes around him, desperately trying to reach into the wall, wondering if there was any way to help her.

At that moment, his fingertips touched a different texture than concrete.

When he reflexively grasped it, he applied the weight of two people and the pressure of the jet of water, and the ligament in his left arm was stretched to the point of breaking. While frowning in pain, Takechi held Mina's body in his right arm and began to lift them up with the power of his left arm alone.

"It" was apparently like an iron ladder.

Against the water, Takechi brought his body to the ladder, dangled his right foot, dangled his left, and carried Mina on his shoulder. Mina weighed less than half his weight. So there was no particular problem. The unit he once belonged to was trained with a backpack of similar weight on his back.

At his feet, a large amount of water flowed with a sound like that of the ground. If she was swallowed again, this time she would not live. While he was haunted by fear, impatience, and the constantly rising water level, Takechi still secured himself and Mina's body and climbed the ladder.

By pushing the hatch attached to the top of the tunnel and opening it, Takechi and Mina were finally able to reach stable ground.

He stabs his knee into the concrete and take a deep breath. Then Takechi laid Mina's body on her back and listened to her mouth.

She wasn't breathing.

Takechi's decision was quick. He had done it many times in life-saving training. He opened her black garment, gave her a heart massage, opened her airways, and did mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. After several attempts to revive her, Mina's body shook and a surprising amount of water leaked from her lips.

"Keh, Kah..."

After seeing Mina cough, Takechi breathed a bit of relief.

He then he looked around him.

What kind of place was that? Is it a maintenance passage or an emergency evacuation passage installed at the top of the underground drainage channel? There was no doubt that it was still a habitable facility because it had a light green night light. So it was no wonder there was an emergency phone somewhere.

When he got to that point, Mina groaned. Looking at Takechi with a vague look...

"What? What happened…?"

"We were saved. There appears to be an escape route over the tunnel."

"......"

"I won't be able to walk for a while. I'll take a break here."

With that said, Takechi sat down by the wall.

Finally, Mina got up. She sat next to Takechi with a slow movement, her back against the wall in the same way. She brushed away the red hair sticking to her cheek with her finger and asked in a heavy voice.

"Have you helped me again?"

"Well, that's correct."

Mina looked at Takechi with an indescribable gaze and then collapsed.

"Thanks."

Takechi was a bit surprised.

He didn't think the day would come when a black robe would thank him for something, he tried to say that, but a different word came out of his open mouth.

"Ah…"

Then, for a moment, Takechi and Mina stared silently at the ceiling.

They were both soaked, it was cold and they were tired. In the dim light of the night lights, they couldn't even see the color of the other's clothes. The only thing that was transmitted was that there was someone next to them, and only someone's body temperature there. Surrounded by darkness, the two of them were only human.

"And you…"

It was Takechi who broke the silence first.

"Why did you go into 'Purgatory'?"

If it had been the Mine from a little while ago, it would have been repulsive. It was not something related to him, she would rather die quickly than hear his insulting voice in her ears.

But Mina didn't, and she only echoed a careless voice in the dark.

"It's a wrap."

Takechi glanced at Mina. Mina was staring at the ceiling.

"The man I lived with was at the bottom of the Yakuza. The group started fighting with 'Purgatory', and I happened to get involved."

Mina's voice was simple. Like listing the facts.

"The man and the others were all dead, I was wondering if I would die too, but that person came over."

Mina's voice trembled. He knew who that person was without asking. The cause that created the current situation. The worst "King" who does not know self-control, has no cause and exercises violence at will.

Genji Kagutsu.

"Even though the corpses were scattered around, I laughed. I was very scared, but I couldn't tear my eyes away. So, as if grabbing a child's head, my head was in a mess."

Mina shook the air with her left hand and her fingers folded.

"Then... something hot spilled out of that hand. It was so hot, it was painful, and it seemed like my body was going to explode. In fact, it exploded. My right hand burned and I screamed. He was laughing and looking at me."

Takechi looked at Mina's right hand. The scars that were badly burned reached down to her bare shoulder.

"Once that was done, the people around me stood up and passed by. At that point, I became a member of 'Purgatory', and I have been with them ever since."

After speaking, Mina hugged her body tightly. Was it because her wet body was getting cold, or because of the memory of Kagutsu Genji? With a little sympathy, Takechi asked.

"What kind of man is Kagutsu Genji?"

Mina looked at Takechi. The distorted look on one cheek of hers also seems to laugh. With that look, she slowly shook her head and...

"Here we go, I don't know."

It did not appear to be a trap or a joke. Maybe it really was a "I don't know.".

The information department of "Scepter 4" wanted information on Kagutsu Genji. Hometown, age, values, purpose, career before becoming a "King". Knowing the enemy is the first step to capturing him. Therefore, it was an important goal for "Scepter 4" to know what kind of person Kagutsu Genji was.

However, the answer he got was, strangely, the same as Mina, "I don't know.".

One day, Kagutsu Genji suddenly appeared. With the power of "King", he destroyed neighboring antisocial organizations, absorbed the rest of the reconciliation, and "Purgatory" gained momentum.

No one knew where Kagutsu Genji was coming from and no one knew where he was going. He had no past or future, but he lived the present in a sensible and catastrophic way. That was the kind of existence that Kagutsu Genji created.

The words that Mina muttered clearly expressed that.

"That person is a bakemono." (Synonymous with yokai.)

Takechi nodded slightly, but opened his eyes at Mina's words.

"Or maybe Kamisama?"

"What?"

A God. Takechi didn't know anything else to express about Kagutsu Genji.

Mina didn't mind his comments, but in a light tone she said:

"I was so scared, I was very strong, I don't know what he was thinking, but that person saved me."

Takechi couldn't understand the concept of being saved by Kagutsu Genji. Confused, he said what he thought.

"But Kagutsu Genji probably killed your lover."

Mina's eyes glared at Takechi with thick anger.

"The guy who sold me and made money, he's not my lover."

"......"

"Well that's it. I'm different. I had nothing else to do. I couldn't help it because I wanted to live, but…"

Taking her burned fist, Mina laughed as if she was tugging at her.

"Now I have 'this'. If I have 'this', no one can make fun of me. I won't let you use it. I'm a member of 'Purgatory'. That person did that for me."

Takechi involuntarily pinched his mouth.

"Kagutsu Genji didn't give you power to save yourself. It's just a whim, that's all."

Mina laughed, "Haha.", and she looked at Takechi in a silly way.

"I don't understand. That's why it's fine."

"What?"

"Whether he has money or not, is smart or bad, whether it helps or not it helps. Others would think that way. But that person doesn't do that, he hasn't seen it in the first place. What kinds of things are right and what no? I have learned it equally."

"Equality?"

"Yes, that."

With a tense index finger, she pointed at Takechi.

"For that person, we, you, everyone and him are all the same. He is no different from the ants and the waters that surround him. That is fine. In front of that person, they are all the same."

Mina took her burned right hand many times and opened it again, as if to confirm.

"We're not special. I've seen a lot of guys who died like they were exploding with the same power. We just happened to survive. I know that better than anyone. Without 'this', my life would be crap and shit."

"I don't think that's the case."

Mina had a soft, resigned smile.

"Haha. You're a good guy. But..."

She covered her face with her raised knees.

"You don't know anything about me, you should stop."

There was no word to return.

"Let's go, I already rested a lot."

Mina stood up and Takechi did the same.

"Ah…"

Then they started walking in that dark place again.

Mina's words contained part of the truth about "Purgatory".

Why was the number of people in "Purgatory" not exhausted, stripping all societies of their fangs and, therefore, being persecuted by all societies? Although the organization should have almost collapsed since Operation Kaume, the amount of black clothing had not decreased, instead it seemed that the damage spread and the amount had increased.

From the testimony of Mina and the captured clan member it was clear that Kagutsu Genji himself had a mysterious charisma. However, Takechi believed that that was not the only reason why "Purgatory" continued to exist.

Members of the "Purgatory" clan consider their lives worthless.

Society, property, life. They don't respect what most humans should focus on. They recognize that their lives are nothing more than a decaying young lady. This is why it is possible to wield the power granted by Kagutsu Genji to the fullest, and even if they destroy themselves, they can lay waste.

Only the moment that they burn life and shine, is valuable to them.

Currently, there is a stable moment. Under the reign of the "Golden King", the people sing prosperity. Still, there are those who find their life useless. As long as human beings are human, such things will never cease.

What if this was an unstable society in a more chaotic era? If Kagutsu Genji appeared there and empowered those who are casually dissatisfied. Imagining tens of thousands of members of "Purgatory", Takechi felt goose bumps on the back of his neck.

"And you?"

Mina's voice made Takechi recoil, who had been caught up in his thoughts.

"What?"

"Why did you go into 'Scepter 4'? Did your parents tell you to do that?"

Mina said that moaning. She may have remembered it when she got up and started walking. They are blue and black, and they have to kill each other when they reach the surface.

Takechi responded to the provocation with a calm voice.

"I am an orphan. I have no parents."

"......"

"I immediately joined the military after leaving the facility because I didn't have the money or the head to get into a good school. I am grateful to my parents for being strong."

Mina awkwardly averted her gaze and then said:

"Sorry."

He wanted to tell her that she didn't need to apologize, but what came out of his mouth was a different word.

"Do not worry."

Then there was silence again.

The tunnel was so long that they still couldn't see the exit. Even so, the night lights continued without being exhausted.

The light that was placed at regular intervals was hypnotic. As he walked and vaguely gazed at the light, Takechi was suddenly caught up in mere imagination. He and Mina were already dead when they fell into the well, and that channel was the Sanzu River, and now they were silently heading towards the afterlife.

If they were dead, at least they wouldn't have to kill each other.

Realizing that he was thinking that way, Takechi frowned.

"Is the same for me."

Suddenly, Mina opened her mouth.

"I don't have parents. One passed away, then the other went to the hospital and I was taken by a relative."

"......"

"They suck. I couldn't take it, ran away and got picked up by the guy I mentioned earlier."

Then Mina looked at Takechi and...

"I wonder if I should have put up with it. Or maybe I should have been born with a big body like you. So, by now, I could have been wearing blue clothes."

Several laments arose.

He shouldn't have helped Mina. He shouldn't have offered a truce. He shouldn't have asked her why she went into "Purgatory".

The blue clothes and the black clothes kill each other. They can kill each other because they don't know each other. The opponent's life can be killed because is just an icon of an obstacle to remove and an enemy to defeat.

Even knowing what kind of person she was and how she lived, it was unlikely that Takechi could take her life.

"Ah…"

Mina screamed. Then she realized that he was looking at the ground. When he raised his face, Takechi saw it.

The white light that illuminated the end of the tunnel.

It was the outside.

The two of them continued walking in silence. Stepping on the path that led to the exit. They both knew what was to come, but they would never stop.

Mina stopped.

"Mina?"

"No, sorry. Somehow."

She said that scratching her red hair.

"Yes, that's right. Let's go out."

"......"

"It sucks. I just wanted to get out as soon as possible. Now I hope it's a little later."

With a slight smile, Mina looked at Takechi.

"I ended up getting along well with you. I wish I could do it a bit more."

It was the same for both of them.

But they had to move on. As Takechi walked silently, Mina began to move her legs without object. The light outside gradually grew stronger and the two figures disappeared from the darkness. The blue clothes that go through and the black clothes that are darker than blood.

Takechi said, squinting at the growing light.

"I have to say one thing."

"Hmm?"

"I said the runners didn't have the key to unlock the ability suppressor, but that's a lie."

Mina's legs stopped again.

"It is hiding in a confusing place; in case it is stolen by the enemy. I am healthy. It's here."

Takechi put his hand on the collar of his uniform. From a cleverly hidden pocket, he pulled out the release key that was thick and long as his index finger, and showed it to Mina.

Mina shook her voice.

"You lied to me?"

"That's right. It was better for you to walk to the surface than to kill yourself there. I thought you'd be easier to control in that state. I'm a few steps higher in terms of physical disparity and ability."

Takechi looked at Mina. Mina was looking at Takechi. Her hair, shoulders, and eyes trembled with anger and hatred. No, it was more intense because they shared time together and she got to know him.

Takechi said, looking at her.

"But I cannot do it."

"Eh?"

"I heard your story."

Capture her and take her to headquarters just as she is. Then what will happen?

Mina will be sealed forever. She will be taken to a detention center dedicated to talented people and she will spend a lot of time there. For Mina, who found value only in power and said that her life could not be anywhere else, it would be more painful than death.

She was a criminal. Whatever the circumstances, sin must be punished. As a member of "Scepter 4", Takechi had never questioned that. Do chores. That should be so.

That should have been it.

"I can't kill you. I can't take power. I can't let you go. I'll regret it all the time if you sin again."

"So what will you do?"

Takechi laughed at Mina, who revealed her mistrust.

"Unlock you."

"......"

"Then you and I will return to the same state as before we fell into the well."

Mina swallowed hard. Takechi turned to the front and started walking.

"Then you can kill me without hesitation. Forget everything until now. We have never had the time to walk through the tunnel."

"You're stupid?!"

Mina screamed as if she couldn't bear it.

"It's not like that! It's not so easy to forget about the boy I care about! What you've done so far, if you take off the handcuffs, you won't be able to do it!"

Takechi didn't object and nodded silently.

"I don't think so. Maybe so."

The light outside already enveloped the entire body of the two. They could hear the sound of the rain. The cool air outside caressed their skin. Taking a deep breath, Takechi looked at the cuffs on his right hand.

"However, nothing can be done as it is now. If the situation is resolved, a change is needed. If I remove the key, it will change."

"You, up to that point...!"

Mina gritted her teeth and shook her voice.

"Do you want to kill me that much, Takechi?!"

Takechi slowly shook his head.

"No, Mina. I just want to correct my mistakes."

What they had talked about, helping each other, reveal their emotions. That was a mistake.

They shouldn't have done that. It couldn't be Takechi and Mina. They had to be blue and black. Otherwise, if they didn't think of the other person as a human being, they couldn't kill them.

Takechi inserted the key into the suppressor for different abilities. Mina screamed in fear.

"Stop! That's not true!"

Takechi slowly turned the key. Mina wreaked havoc and tried to annoy him, but Takechi, who was physically superior, forcibly advanced with his finger. Tears spilled from Mina's eyes, and she stomped on the ground many times, like a child with tantrums.

"This is because I will kill you! When the handcuffs are removed and my strength returns, I will kill you! I will burn you! I really will! Okay?"

"Yes."

Takechi smiled calmly and replied.

"That's right."

The ability suppressor came off and fell to the ground with a thud.

[jelly-pies]

Dancing From Now On

Read on AO3

Pepper remembered their first dance. Contrary to public knowledge, it had not been at the annual Stark Industries gala.

Tony and Pepper's first dance took place months before that, alone at the mansion, late after a long day of work. The music had been Pepper's idea, to relax. But the dance had been Tony's.

"Getting better, Potts." Somehow cheerier than usual, he spun her slowly around the workshop. "Nobody will ever know you had two left feet. Hardly believe it myself, if my toe wasn't still throbbing."

Pepper huffed. "Not all of us could afford dance classes, you know."

"Well, it's not that hard, see? We're just swaying." Tony pulled her in, an inch closer, meeting her eyes. And for one moment, Pepper was purely dancing with the friend she was secretly in love with—not the boss who depended on her, or the playboy whose one night stands she escorted out of the mansion every few weeks. Just Tony. "Just dancing."

Their casual flirting was one thing. But this was getting dangerously close to something else—so Pepper ended the moment. JARVIS stopped the music, and when Pepper looked back after collecting her things, Tony suddenly looked away as if he'd been caught staring.

Maybe he had.

"So, you're good?" Tony asked casually, hands fiddling with some tools he picked up. "No stumbling over anybody's feet at the next gala?"

"We're good." Pepper matched his light tone. "Thank you, Mr. Stark."

"You're very welcome, Ms. Potts."

"And Tony... " She paused at the door. Did she imagine that expectant look he sent her way, or was it just the lighting? "Um… that contract you still have to look over. Don't show up tomorrow without it."

"Which one?"

"Tony."

He chuckled. "I got it. Have a good night."

Maybe it was just the lighting.

"Good night," Pepper answered, and exited the room with deliberate steps.

She turned back before the landing. Tony was facing away, bringing up holo-screens, flexing his hands—and suddenly she remembered the feel of those calloused fingers against her own, drawing her closer.

Tony looked up. Pepper turned away, determined not to be caught staring.

But maybe she had.

Pepper remembered their first dance. And she remembered how it led to much, much more.

-

Their second dance, that one was at the Stark Industries Firefighter's Family Fund benefit. A backless blue gown, a little banter, an almost-kiss on the roof. Another moment Pepper ended before anything could begin, even though she half-wished something  would begin—had been wishing it those dreadful three months of Tony's disappearance.

As Tony left to get them drinks, Pepper turned away to hide a growing blush. She didn't see the way he looked back at her from the door.

Tony reentered the building, and didn't see the way Pepper looked after his retreating back, either.

-

Years later on another rooftop, after a disastrous Stark Expo, the kiss became real.

They even had a witness, who deadpanned, "You guys look like two seals fighting over a grape."

Tony put his arm around her as they faced Rhodey, and Pepper couldn’t help thinking how that gesture must make them look like a real couple. She found she didn’t mind. All of a sudden, plans of her resignation as CEO didn't seem so urgent.

Tony turned back to her as soon as Rhodey left and challenged, "How are you gonna resign if I don’t accept?"

Pepper laughed, letting the action release her anxiety and near-death stress and girlish romance. "I…" And Tony was leaning close. She stopped him with a finger on his lips. "Tony, if I don't… we can’t…"

"Come on, it’s us. We’ll figure something out." And there was that look again. Pepper wasn’t so quick to blame the lighting this time. "Ms. Potts?" Tony took both her hands. "Pep?"

It was too late to stop this moment, and Pepper knew it. But the doubt must have still shown on her face because Tony took one look and continued, "Remember when we danced? The first time, Malibu? You crushed my toes about a hundred—"

"Please let that go."

"—but we made it work."

Pepper took a breath. "We did."

Tony smiled, eyes shining—that's how Pepper could always tell if his smiles were real. She could also tell that both of them were done holding back… whatever this was.

"We are pretty good at dancing," Pepper replied.

Tony couldn't see her face as they embraced, but if he did, Pepper was sure he could tell her smile was real, too.

-

A private night at Stark Tower after the New York attack, that was the third dance. Or fourth, or fifth, maybe. Pepper wasn't sure she needed to count anymore.

She was only sure of two things. Swaying together in their home, with JARVIS playing soft music overhead, her arms around the love she had almost lost—and had accepted she would come close to losing, over and over again, for the sake of saving the world—Pepper was only sure of these: that she wanted herself and Tony to have a thousand more dances to come.

And that she could never know which one would be their last.

-

They danced that night on yet another rooftop, after the events with the Mandarin.

They didn't dance after Ultron.

Or for several months after that.

But the next time Pepper and Tony finally held each other in their arms, they held on tighter, and neither let go for a long, long time.

-

This wasn't how Pepper imagined it, for several reasons.

Tony’s smile was different. There was a sadness in them that lingered like ashes, but he smiled anyway, holding her close—which was a feat with Pepper's growing belly, but they made it work.

There were fewer guests. Several seats they left vacant on purpose, scattered around the lakeside like lonely souls. Some people held the belief they were there, in spirit, and that's what mattered. Pepper wasn't so sure; pure sentimentality had prevailed on her to leave the seats out.

Apparently sentimentality ran high this evening. The band played the song she and Tony had first danced to, oh so long ago, in a mansion long since blown to bits, by an AI, a friend, long since gone.

There was no publicity in what had once been anticipated as the event of the decade. A single ray of sun through gray clouds instead of all-around sunshine, in what was supposed to be the happiest day of Pepper and Tony's life.

But the people they loved—those that were left—celebrated with them, and that was enough. A simple reception at their new house, and the wedding was over.

After the lake grew quiet and the stars came out, the newlyweds slow-danced through the night, just the two of them.

This wasn't how Pepper imagined their new life would start. But start it did, with a dance.

"Getting better, Potts," Tony whispered beside her temple, their heads pressed together.

"Not so hard without the floor length gown. I know that was my idea, but God, don’t let me do anything like that ever again."

Tony chuckled and spun her slowly until she faced away, then wrapped his arms around his wife, their four hands interlocking on top of her belly.

Pepper had long lost count of their dances. But she knew this was one she would always remember.

It was Tony who broke the silence. "You guys still here? Scoot."

Pepper turned where he was looking: Rhodey’s wedding presents on the mantelpiece, staring at them—two plushie seals. And she laughed. Tony could always make her laugh.

“Fighting over a grape?” Pepper recalled.

“I never really got that image, to be honest.”

“Hm.” She turned back to Tony, cupped his cheek, and leaned in. “Let’s see about that.”

-

"That’s it! You’re doing it!" Tony spun their daughter around until the song ended, and Morgan collapsed in giggles on the floor. Tony scooped her up and tickled her with his stubble, making the giggling grow louder.

"Dad!" Morgan laughed. "Mommy, save me!"

Pepper swiftly rescued the toddler, only to drop her on the couch and blow raspberries on her stomach a second later. "In this house—" another tickle, and Morgan squealed— "nobody—escapes—dancing!"

Morgan finally succeeded in pushing her away as FRIDAY started the next upbeat song, and soon all three were back on their feet.

-

“Not that it's a competition.” Tony walked in. “But she loves me three thousand.”

“Oh, does she?”

“You were somewhere on the low… six to nine hundred range.”

Tony could always make her laugh.

Even the night after the Avengers came to visit. The night their new life, that Pepper knew in her heart could never last long, started to melt away.

Tonight there was no music, no dancing. Only the crackle of the fireplace, the weight of the future, and Pepper’s words hanging in the air— "But will you be able to rest?"

Tony didn’t answer her. He didn’t need to.

But Pepper held his hand, and Tony kissed her cheek. And when they finally went to bed, they held each other tighter.

-

Tony held her hand, and Pepper kissed his cheek. "You can rest now."

Tonight there was no dancing.

-

Two cylindrical compartments stood along the garage wall, one of them forever to be empty. In the other, Pepper put her Rescue suit away by herself. Crossing the room, her fingers couldn't help lingering over Tony's reserve helmet—Tony's desk—Tony's tools—Tony's presence. She could always feel it in his workshops.

Their first dance had been in his workshop.

The memory jolted her, pulling Pepper's eyes back to the last gift Tony left: her Rescue suit slumped in its compartment, looking as battered as she felt. Pepper remembered what it was like to take the suit to battle. To fight side by side with her husband, gauntlets firing in sync, guarding each other's back. A team to the end.

Did that count as a dance? Because otherwise, Pepper realized, she didn't remember the last time she and Tony danced.

She remembered their first, though—would always remember it. JARVIS’s song, their wedding song, strained in her ears—she could almost feel Tony's calloused fingers around hers—dancing in his workshop late at night.

But in this workshop, on this night, Pepper could only cry.

-

Pepper still danced.

She danced with Rhodey, and they leaned on each other, the way they had learned to do long ago.

She danced with Happy, bouncy little head bangs as they cooked Christmas dinner together, and for a moment the house was full of music again.

She danced with Peter, years later at his wedding, whispering "We’re so proud of you" in his ear.

She danced with her daughter. Morgan always pulled her to her feet whenever a lively song came on the radio— "In this house, nobody escapes dancing!" And they laughed. And they danced.

Pepper still danced. Just not with the one person she most wanted to dance with again.

-

When years had passed, and Morgan was grown, and the house was quiet most hours of the day, Pepper developed the habit of sneaking out on the balcony on clear nights, and looking up at the stars.

Some of her favorite dances with Tony had taken place under the stars. Like the rooftop. And their wedding.

Pepper didn’t remember which dance had been their last. But she remembered the first. And the second. And the thousands that came after that. Maybe that was enough.

In the quiet of the lake house, with only the strains of their wedding song echoing in her ears, and the stars above her, forever her witness—Pepper danced.

-

-

- "Ang Huling El Bimbo (The Last [Dance])," The Eraserheads

Lahat ng pangarap ko'y bigla lang natunaw

Sa panaginip nalang pala kita maisasayaw

(All of my dreams are suddenly gone

Only in dreams can we dance from now on)

[skiimmiilk]

A/N: Another long ass ride timestamp. I’ve been a little too inspired by the NCT 127 seasons greetings and the new YouTube video they posted X_X. Will this be my first full series? Who knows :”D

[7:41PM]

“Absolutely not.” Doyoung doesn’t even look up at you from his computer which he is noisily typing away at. 

“Why the hell not Doyoung?” You raise your arms incredulously, “I’m not going to sit around and watch you put your life in danger all the time. Especially in the name of our trash excuse of a father.”

“But you? Joining the Underground Services?” He raised an eyebrow at you, “I’m not letting you get involved in the black market.” 

“Please, you already know I’m better than half of the other useless employees in the circuit.” You roll your eyes, “I can’t just sit here and get a regular job knowing all of this.” 

He lets out a frustrated sigh, closing his eyes in hopes that you would stop talking, “I shouldn’t have let dad tell you about it..” He mumbles under his breath. Doyoung closes the laptop before shoving it into its holder, “This is the last time we are discussing this.” 

You raise your eyebrows incredulously, letting out a scoff of disbelief. You follow him out of the office and down the hallway, “You’re kidding.” 

“Don’t you get it y/n? You get a chance of a normal and safe life.” He looks at you, almost enviously, “Mom wouldn’t have wanted either of us in this business but our ‘trash excuse of a father’ left us with his position that needed to be filled.” 

“Then why not both of us shoulder that burden? You don’t like it either.” You protest, hopping into the elevator.

“...I’m fine with it.” Doyoung says in a clipped voice. 

“More like you tolerate it.” You mumble.

He sighs, “Fine, I tolerate it, but I don’t think you can. You already know what the black market is known for. Do you really want to put yourself at risk?” 

“If it means that you don’t shoulder all the unresolved business our dad left us with, then yes.” The elevator doors opened once again and you two step out. 

“Look, I appreciate it y/n. But as your brother, I literally can’t let you.” 

“Smells like bullshit.” You roll your eyes.

“Then don’t stick your nose in places you don’t have business being in.” He chuckles, flicking your forehead, “Take out tonight? Or do you want me to cook?”

“Our fridge was empty last time I checked it so let’s do take out today.” 

“Alright, I’ll order it. Can you pick it up and get some groceries on your way home?” He asks, flipping open his phone to answer some texts. 

“Yea I guess so.” You sigh, “You’re not gonna come with?” 

“I’m being called into HQ. We have a big transaction coming up so..you know.” 

You roll your eyes, shaking your head in disappointment. Your brother greeted the clueless workers on the floor that you walked out on. The office that your brother worked at was a set-up by the mafia group he worked with. NCT was just a highly successful electronics company in the face of the general public, but behind closed doors, they were one of the big names in the Underground Market, otherwise referred to as the UM. Your father was one of the founders of this company and a member of the Underground Services, Unit 127, so upon his death, it was natural for Doyoung, and eventually once you convinced Doyoung, you would shoulder his position. Doyoung walked you to the exit before waving goodbye to you.

“Do you have your mace y/n?” He asked and in response you dangled the neon green cylindrical device in front of him. 

“All good Doie~” You teased, to which he shoved you playfully in response.

“I’m still at work y/n..” He groaned, feeling the stares of the other floor members on his back. 

“Yea, yea.” You smirk, shooing off his cries of displease, “I’ll see you at home!” You turned around, shoving your hands into your pockets with a little jump in your step. 

“Text me when you get home!” 

“Yes MOM!” You yell back, rolling your eyes at his antics, “I swear, it’s like I’m still 2 years old in his eyes.”

You squish your arms closer to your body, feeling the bite of the winter night against your skin despite wearing a jacket. It was decently lit with a couple people walking about along the streets, probably returning home from work or getting take out like you were. As you walked down the lit path, your hairs on the back of your neck stood for a second and you turned around only to find the street empty as you left it. 

Weird..I thought I heard someone. 

You gripped the mace in your pocket a little tighter as you sped up your pace. You reached the outside of a plaza you and your brother usually ordered from when you widen your eyes in realization.

“The idiot never told me what or where he was ordering from.” You groan and shake your head as you whip out your phone to call Doyoung.

~Back at the Office~

“Alright boys, so we have a couple candidates for possible new members to join the unit.” Taeyong, leaned across the long conference table at his members intently, “Doyoung, pull up the files on the screen.” 

“Taeyong, I don’t really get the benefit of adding someone else to the team.” Yuta leans back in his chair, clearly not pleased with the idea of a new member, “I thought we were handling things just fine here.” 

“Just listen to me. We need to have fresh faces every so often in our unit to keep our enemies guessing. I have two people I’m keeping an eye on right now.” Taeyong pushed himself off the table, “Show the first candidate Doyoung.” 

Doyoung stood in the corner at the podium with a laptop shining in front of him. With a couple clicks, the first profile blows up on the big screen. 

“Lee Haechan. 20 years old. Agile, quick on his feet and thinks even faster. Originally associated with local low tier gangs and was known to be the best of the best when it comes to strategic fighting.” Doyoung clicks through the presentation, showing Haechan’s profile and some videos of him fighting. 

“What’s stopping him from going back to those gangs?” Jaehyun asks, his chin resting on his hand in thought, “How do we know where his loyalties lie?”

“All his previous gangs are dead. No associations or ties as far as my team knows.” Doyoung answers, “He doesn’t have any other ties currently, which would rule out the idea of him betraying us for an alternative group that he’s apart of.”  

“It’s like he has a curse of death following him..” Mark whispers over to Jungwoo, still not entirely convinced either. The group murmurs amongst themselves as they let the idea of Lee Haechan in their unit. 

I thought there was only one candidate.. Doyoung thinks to himself as he stares at Haechan’s profile and then back at Taeyong. What are you planning..?

“Now,” Taeyong clasps his hands together as he walks across the floor, “I know your waiting anxiously in your seats to see who the second candidate is..” His eyes flicker to Doyoung briefly before, setting down a manila folder from his bag on the table, “Kim y/n.” 

“What?” Doyoung raises his voice, almost dropping his laptop, “Taeyong..I never approved of this.” 

“You didn’t need to. She came to me herself with the proposition.” Taeyong shrugged, flipping through your files, “She’s pretty skilled herself. Her only flaw is lack of experience in this field but she’s a quick learner and smart.” 

“I’d like to keep it that way.” Doyoung walks up to Taeyong, almost getting too in his face, “Take her off the list.” He growls. 

“I agree with Doyoung here.” Taeil speaks up, sitting back in his seat after looking at the file, “She doesn’t know what she’s getting into. I’m pretty sure she only knows surface level information about what we do and the risks we take. Can she handle the potential consequences that we face whenever we step on the field?”

“Thank you!” Doyoung gestures to Taeil in exasperation, “She’s not meant for this.”

“I like her ambition and her anger.” Taeyong knocks the table before leaning back from the table, looking Doyoung in the eyes, “Gentlemen, look at the screen.” 

Everyone’s attention is diverted to the screen as it switches to grainy CCTV camera footage of a dark street near a small plaza. To Doyoung’s horror, you walk onto the screen, stopping at the corner before the plaza. 

“Taeyong, you are overstepping the line.” Doyoung hisses, grabbing the man by the collar, “What are you doing?!” 

Taeyong’s eyes lazily make its way to meet Doyoung’s furious ones, “Relax, I’m simply testing something. Just watch the film.” 

~Back on the streets~ 

You speed dial Doyoung’s number on your phone and you place the machine to your ear, waiting for him to pick up. You look at the call screen, curious as to why he hadn’t picked up already. Usually his hyperactive ass would pick up in half a ring, but maybe he was in a meeting? Your thoughts were interrupted when you felt a dark presence behind you and your first instinct was to elbow whoever or whatever was behind you. To your surprise, you felt someone’s ribs and the sound of someone’s breath escaping their lungs registered and you immediately ducked and swung your feet at his heels. Your perpetrator, however, dodged and jumped over your legs, landing a foot away from you.

“Do you..” The stranger groans in pain, “always leave people breathless when you first meet them?” His face finally shone in the light when he lifted his face into the streetlight. 

You whipped out your defensive items and clicked a button that turned a small metal tube into a long staff, “You need to fuck off right now before I turn you into shades of blue and purple.” 

“Ooo~ They gave me such a feisty target. I like it.” He grins, cracking his knuckles, “I like a challenge, so let’s last more than 5 minutes please.” 

“Who..” You charged at him, swinging your staff at his direction, “are you?! And who the hell do you work for?” He neatly dodged your first swing, narrowly shifting out of range of your second one. 

He tsks, jumping in place a little before diving for your mid and knocking you down to the icy concrete, “Classified information, sweetheart. I just gotta bring you in.” 

You curl your feet beneath his abdomen and shove him over your head as you tumble over into a crouching position. You blow a stray strand of hair out of your face, pursing your lips in annoyance. He stops his fall and lands almost gracefully on the street. You go after him again, swinging all your strength at him and like a dance, he mirrored your moves easily dodging your moves. You purse your lips, wanting to get him off your ass quickly. A nice blow to the head should do it, but he was predicting you too well. 

“Alright, it was fun playing with you but I have a deadline to uphold.” His eyes change and it’s his turn to attack. He flicks out a switch blade, the light reflects into your eyes off the shiny silver coating as you barely dodge his swipe. You wince, feeling the cold air meet the fresh cut on your temple. Your senses heightened and a wash of fear came over you as you dodged and weaved his blows. The fear of getting stabbed and getting hurt scared you because you didn’t want to leave your brother alone. If you were going to get out of here, you’d have to think of something and quickly. As you dodged his blows a blinking red light caught your attention from the corner of your eye and you glanced up at it. 

The cameras are never on usually. The fleeting thought came to you and you almost shook it off when realization knocked into your thoughts.

“Come on, sweetie. I don’t have all day, let’s just get on with it~” The stranger giggled as he slashed forward to you. You bumped into a trashcan, knocking it over as you dodged his blow. He quickly turned around and dashed towards you, a determined look on his face. You made no move to dodge until the very last second. His breath hitched in his throat as he crashed into the knocked over trash can, tumbling on the ground. You slammed your pole onto his wrist, making him yelp in pain and let go of his knife which you kicked away in one full swing. The stranger growled, angry now that you pulled such a trick on him, but as soon as he looked up to face you again, he was met with an obnoxious green tube and a horrible burning sensation to his eyes. He screamed in pain as he doubled over, rubbing his eyes. 

You relax a little letting out a shaky breath of relief and shoving the mace back into your pocket, “Rubbing makes it worse, idiot.” You hop on top of him, securing his hands with your belt and using your weight to keep him down on the ground. 

“Taeyong! If this is some kind of sick joke, I don’t really get the punchline.” You yelled out in the seemingly empty streets. You heard a vibration coming from your captive’s pocket as he squirmed around underneath you, still groaning from the burning pepper spray that he received to the face. You pulled out the sleek black device and answered the number.

“y/n~ You make for good entertainment.” You could hear Taeyong’s amusement through the line, “We ordered some food already and had it delivered, so you and Haechan can come back to the office. We need to discuss some matters.” 

“What-” 

“What does it look like?” He glared up at you, eyes bloodshot and wild.

“See you in five.” He hangs up and you scoff shaking your head at the dark screen. You get off of who you could only assume to be Haechan.

“Are your eyes okay yet?” You ask blankly.

“You heard Taeyong, gotta go back to the office now. You dragged him up and started walking, “The red brings out your eyes. It’s a nice look, sweetheart.” You mock his tone of voice with the previous nickname he gave you. 

“The hell.. Take your damned belt off of me.” He ran to catch up to you, trying to rip the fabric. 

“No-pe” You pop the P at the end of your response, “Not gonna happen. I don’t really trust you to not jump me.” 

A dark car pulls up next to the two of you and flashes its headlights at you. You stop watching the passenger door window roll down to reveal Johnny in the drivers seat and a very pissed Doyoung in the passenger seat. 

“Both of your asses. In the back. Now.” 

“Sheesh alright.” You open the back door and climb in, Haechan following suit.

Johnny glances back at the two of you, both ruffled and battered with an amused smile, “Looking good back there two.”

You both roll your eyes and Doyoung interrupts, “I don’t want to hear it.” 

You turn to Haechan and nudge him, “My name’s y/n by the way. I don’t think I got the chance to introduce myself.”

Haechan raises an eyebrow, dryly laughing at your horribly timed self-introduction, “Haechan. I would say it’s nice to meet you, but I can barely see you right now.” 

“Good.” 

[exactlyenoughglitter]

Tea

Modern 20th century AU, political allegory, vague communal apartment aesthetic. Warning for dubious consent

She should have never taken that last gig. She should have never fallen through that last door, despite the pickings having been slim with death at her heels. She should have never gotten into the habit of talking to strangers.

All of this, Ciri realises, when she hears the knocking on her door.

But this world itself, this regime is a stranger. And hindsight is 20/20.

-

Three knocks.

Dust hovers above oilcloth in a beam of dusky light penetrating the lace curtains of the kitchen. The former communal apartment in the four-storeyed, grey-brick house located on the dead-end street is dark. A single street lamp erected, as per regulation, in front of the kindergarten has lit up five, maybe six minutes ago. The children have gone home.

In the small kitchen – squashed between the cylindrical washing machine and the refrigerator, where the bucket with old newspapers usually goes – sits her who is not at home. With her knees drawn against her chest, she sits on a three-legged stool, and listens. The refrigerator has gone quiet and with it the rest of the two rooms that she can call her own.

A bedside clock ticks behind the wall.

This is the only place in the apartment where you would not be able to see a person should you decide to check through the windows. Facing the street, the ground floor windows are not very high off the pavement. If someone wanted to, they could support their foot on the protruding line of bricks above the grated cellar windows and pull themselves up by the windowsill. They would not see between the refrigerator and the washing machine though, not unless they decided to enter through the window.

They have not decided to enter through the window.

They have decided to knock.

Gently-gently, on and on, rolls and steams ahead, the light blue wagon.

Dull pain reminds itself to her in the lower abdomen. The silence presses down upon her windpipe, spreading nasty, prickling warmth down her arms and chest. This is a mistake. This is simply someone who did not notice the uncollected mail downstairs, who has confused the dates, perhaps even the addresses.

The clock ticks.

The light fades.

Three knocks.

Ciri closes her eyes. Exhales. Carefully, she lowers her legs to the floor.

Half the infernal heat that has gathered in her throat falls away when she stands – there’s no one on the window. It picks up again when she takes a step and hears the beginning of a creak of the floor board. Clutching the knife hidden behind her forearm, she lifts the crappy, yellow oilcloth, and slides the blade in-between the table top and the drawer. The kitchen window does not have grating, the frames have not been taped – she can clear out in five moves, and then...

She makes it into the narrow hallway and they have not knocked again. The girl holds her breath, eyeing the padded front door: the chain, the rim lock, the lower one. They have not knocked again. Slowly, silently, she breathes out. Perhaps they have realised? Perhaps they have left?

The lower lock emits a strange sound.

The door handle presses down.

They simply won’t knock for the third time. She walks up to the door, flips the upper lock, and places her hand on the handle, pulling. The pressure on the other side of the handle lets up, the chain rattles. She yanks.

‘Who are you looking for?’ she demands loudly, ready to run.

Silence.

She pushes against the door, but feels a foot apply pressure from down below. Five moves. But they’ll just take the stairs and catch her outdoors. It will not work, unless they press in first.

The yellow light in the bleached turquoise corridor blinks rapidly and she hears the stranger move as the pressure applied to the door intensifies for a moment. A shadow appears in the gap she has created. In the low light, she catches a glimpse of strands of blonde hair tucked behind the edge of a sharp ear, sharp features sunken behind a raised collar.

The girl’s stomach jolts as she hears the familiar voice:

‘Are you alone that you would rather pretend not to be here at all?’

Through the lamp’s buzzing and her blood pumping in her ears she hears Ninsk-15 start up in the kitchen. Not here. Not now. How? How did he find me? Her insides churn as she stares at the intruder from the darkness. A gloved finger rises to the thin chain. Five moves. Fifteen? Forty-five... She should not have returned here today, Ciri thinks, lifting a shaking hand to the chain and sliding it out of its socket.

‘There you are,’ the elf says, smiling down at her and twining his hands in front of him as the door opens before him with a creak. ‘Good evening, Ciri.’

 My name. My true name.

The stairway looks deserted. A faint smell of sausage and burnt meat-sauce lingers from earlier, but the veteran who cooks this does not seem to be hosting the local tipplers in his bootleg-liquor den tonight. No clatter of the third-floor window. No radio that usually plays incessantly, drowning out the fighting. It’s sickeningly quiet for once.

Under low ceilings, in the cramped corridor of this grey-brick building, he is even taller than she remembers. Tailored overcoat hangs off broad shoulders, a web of melted frost gleaming off dark green wool and long black boots under the ugly yellow light dripping off the walls. There is no one else. He has come alone. Perhaps then...

‘Well,’ the man says softly, too softly, the leather of his gloves creaking. ‘Will you invite me inside?’

An aberrant fever conjoins with the adrenaline flushing under her skin at his request, and her thoughts begin running on twin tracks, as always happens in times of meltdown. She does not want him to come inside. She does not want anyone to come. However, for the moment, she lacks a clearer plan.

Wordlessly, she shuffles aside, and the elf smiles.

‘You left so suddenly, my dear girl. I admit, though we still know each other only so briefly, I already feel responsible before you. Will you not share with me, what scared you off?’

She closes the door, leaves the chain down, and slides her fingers along the padding, listening to the floorboards creak under the weight of his steps. Everything sounds terribly loud. Everything sounds like an accusation, admonishing her for her folly.

 Iskra was right. I should have never taken that gig.

Words of the overheard conversation in the witching hour before dawn ring in her head and fill her with dread. Does he know? About her, about her parents? Has he come to –?

 What does he expect?

‘I had work,’ she lies, turning. ‘People depend on me.’

‘To recognise one’s duty to one’s country at such a tender age. How fine! If only more people were like you, Ciri,’ there is amusement in the man’s voice. ‘How was work?’

Ciri swallows.

‘Tiring. Rewarding. Full of screams and charges,’ that part is true. ‘I work at the kindergarten.’

‘The very same across the street?’

She nods.

The elf stands silently in the narrow hallway between the living room and the front door, taking up most of it in the twilight. Shadows move on the triangular face, gaping with darkness where she remembers eyes and a mouth. A shiver runs down her spine, and the dull ache in the lower abdomen re-appears.

The clock ticks.

‘You have no idea,’ he says at last, ‘how happy it makes me to hear this, Ciri.’

She doesn’t. Neither does she care.

‘Shall we sit?’

Brushing against the lapels of the elf’s overcoat she presses past him. In the kitchen, she flicks the switch and the bare light bulb under the ceiling buzzes to life, lazily gathering strength. No use in pretending there is no one around anymore.

Ciri sits down with her back to the window, on the side where she has hidden the knife under the crappy yellow oilcloth.

The elf does not follow instantly. He strolls through the space of the entire living room – the little there is of it – slinking beside the carpeted walls, stopping briefly before the rickety divider screen in front of her bed and before the double doors with glass inlay. Ever since the owner to three quarters of this apartment reached a settlement in the common property separation case, these doors have remained firmly locked. You can see the outlines of chairs piled on top of each other through the glass. The other lodger – a distant relative of some sort – hasn’t been back to get his things. Perhaps for reasons on occasion of which they would eventually notify third parties. Perhaps for reasons about which they don’t expect you to ask questions.

 Shouldn’t he know if these walls have ears or not?

Eventually, Avallac’h joins her. He picks up the three-legged stool on which Ciri had perched earlier and sits behind the rectangular table between the girl and the doorway, facing the street. The oilcloth is grimy on his end – she filleted a fat mumps there before all things went to pot.

For a minute, or two, the man studies her intently. Like looking for an epiphany among tea leaves. It’s uncomfortable; she averts her gaze. Then, a few words fly off the elf’s tongue; nicely.

Ciri frowns.

It sounds like a variant of Elder Speech – a dying language – but faster, sharper. Just when she thinks she gets the meaning, the grammar somersaults and garbage takes its place. She is confused. Eyeing her closely, he repeats himself, and the only thing Ciri understands this time is her own name; elven in origin. Perhaps her birth-parents thought it would make things easier for her. Perhaps they didn’t think anything at all.

Aquamarine eyes look at her with pity.

‘What?’ she bursts, forgetting herself for a moment when he is about to repeat himself for the third time. ‘What are you saying? You see I cannot understand you.’

‘I asked if you are not cold in here.’

‘The boiler broke down,’ she replies. ‘I’m used to it.’

‘But it was nicer at mine, wasn’t it?’

Her throat burns, and her collarbones. She blinks slowly, biting the inside of her lip.

‘I am not surprised,’ he continues. ‘I am not at all surprised, Ciri, that a pretty girl like yourself would arrive at the capital and hope for something more than... this. These post-war cubicles – I would not keep a pack of half-breds in pens like these, believe me. Much less a young, sensitive girl.’

‘It is not that bad,’ she says tightly. ‘As I said, I’m used to it.’

‘It is truly fortunate we get to live at this latitude, isn’t it? They do not make them much better in the far-east, I hear. Do you know what it’s like, Ciri, at the end of the tracks?’

 At the end of the tracks, where asphalt ends. Where the guard pushes us onto a road of bones.

‘Cold?’

‘Yes, Ciri,’ he nods solemnly. ‘Very-very cold. White. Silent. And cold.’

For a moment something reverent and hallow, almost holy, enters his pale aquamarine eyes, and he reminds the girl of a teacher or, perhaps, a priest? A priest to what? Such thoughts are criminal. She does not think such thoughts. Those who think such thoughts are not at home – they went out in the morning and never came back.

‘Offer me a drink.’

‘What kind of drink?’

‘Rosé.’

‘I don’t –’

‘Of course you don’t, sun. Is there seltzer?’

‘There is no seltzer.’

‘Then what is there?’

Ciri shifts on the chair, thinking.

‘Apricot soda.’

‘An herbal infusion will do.’

She begins to rise, hesitating – barely noticeably – over leaving the table where the knife sits securely hidden, but rises just the same. She’ll make tea. She doesn’t understand why he calls it an infusion. She doesn’t understand many things elves insist upon. It does not matter. Her head hurts. Tea. That puts her by the window and with her back to him.

‘You should know I was not trying to make fun of you when I asked if you were cold in here,’ she hears as the tap splutters water into the kettle with chipped enamel. ‘I have heard you speak our language. You understand what I am saying. You just don’t... you have forgotten. Forgotten what was never taught to you.’

‘I think it doesn't make sense to forget what one hasn’t learned in the first place,’ she replies. ‘I speak basic Elder very well.’

‘You are certainly a very smart girl. However,’ she hears a quiet snort, ‘there are limits to the expectations we can have of kindergarten teachers in the districts.’

Ciri fishes out a box of matches from behind an aloe pot, hoping, no, praying, the elf does not pursue the lie. She wouldn’t be able to cover for herself, unless the school director is lacking in something she can “procure” for them overnight.

 What does he want from me?

Blue flames spring up in a violent hooray.

‘Careful now, sun.’

He speaks to her as if she was a stupid child. He did not speak to her like this at first. She sets the kettle down on the blue blossom, staring out into the street through thin lace curtains. At the single lamp in the gloom.

‘How do you feel today?’

‘Fine,’ she replies quickly and on instinct. ‘I am fine, thank you.’

‘I am glad to hear that. Would you believe if I said I felt very sad to discover you gone?’

She grips the edges of the stove, trying to block out the familiarity with which he addresses her. Somehow it had not bothered her earlier. Somehow she had thought this idea would be as good an idea as any other she had tried so far.

‘It’s very fortunate I know how to find you, Ciri. When you took off in such unnecessary hurry you see, you left something I thought you would appreciate having returned to you.’

There is a faintest, muffled sound against the faded oilcloth. She looks over her shoulder, trying to ignore the bright eyes that she knows observe and absorb her every move.

Her breath hitches.

She looks away.

 He knows...

The teapot begins its rattling. She lifts it off the flames, turns off the gas, and reaches for a cup. Brown, crumpled tealeaves fall to the bottom, steaming water pours on top. The kitchen window has begun to fog over. Leaning across the table, she sets the cup down in front of the elf a little harder than necessary; it spills and the droplets hit the wolf-head medallion.

Ciri sits.

‘You look so scared,’ the elf notes, smiling like a friendly neighbour returning a cup of sugar. ‘Is there reason to be scared of me? I don’t bite.’

‘What do you want?’ she demands.

‘At the moment, I would like a drink.’

‘You have it.’

He does a thing with his lips. ‘Let us not argue, Zireael.’

It has a lost elegance to it, the way her name sounds on his tongue like this.

‘Do you know anything about him?’

‘Perhaps.’

Her heart skips a beat.

‘Is he alive? Whe-where is he? When will –’

‘Gently, gently now,’ he hushes her and she feels her nails digging into her palms, her neck warm – the anxiety scraping her throat having escaped its boundaries at last. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. For starters, you should learn to ask me for these things nicely.’

He covers the silver medallion with his palm and pushes it toward her. The moment he lifts his hand she snatches it, cradling it against her chest. It’s all she has left.

‘I, too, do not like to lose things,’ the man says surprisingly warmly. ‘Dear, precious things into which one has invested a big part of themselves.’

 We have not lost each other. We will meet again. I am sure of it.

‘It is interesting to me how strong your attachment is to this... killer.’

The leaden knowledge solidifies; he knows. He is not what he seems.

‘You don’t know him.’

‘He taught you, did he not? Took care of you in his own way in your most vulnerable years. He must be something like a father to you,’ he tilts forward a little, as if about to share a secret. ‘Much more so, certainly, than the man who sired you.’

And Ciri feels like she has been drenched by a passing van on the corner of Victory and Commandant’s.

‘How do you know about... about my father?’ she whispers, curling her legs around the worn stool legs.

 Imperialist father.

‘Oh, Ciri!’ he laughs. ‘Do you honestly believe our paths would have crossed if I did not possess the answers to all of your problems?’

She doesn’t know. She thinks... she thinks they met because his had been the nearest door. Because it had been cold and the streets ice-capped, because busses wouldn’t run anymore, because her friends’ plans had gotten too ambitious, and the system’s contempt too voracious, and there had been nowhere else. They met because his was the nearest door to somewhere the Skeleton on her tracks could not follow. She had no idea...

He fishes out a small purple vial from the hidden pocket of his coat and uncorks it with a pop. The black gloves make a crinkling sound. One, two, three, four drops fall into the steaming cup.

‘What is that?’

‘This is what you will have, Ciri.’

‘What is that?’ she repeats, planting her feet firmly on the floor; leaning her weight on the right one.

‘So curious,’ playful dimples appear in the corners of his mouth. ‘So many questions. To learn, to learn, and to learn! Well, that is good. I had almost begun to think I had only imagined that bold-looking young lady who crashed my looking glasses amidst her pirouettes.’

‘I won’t drink it.’

‘You wound me, sun. May I have a spoon, please?’ he asks. ‘Oh, never mind, I shall help myself.’

The elf rises abruptly. The floorboards groan. Ciri tugs at the table drawer, opening it and pulling it out almost against her belly, knowing that he sees the carving knife that slides out with it in the process. It’s better than him finding it on his own. It feels like barbed-wire sprouts around her skeleton; it feels like being driven to the train station in the middle of the night. She picks a teaspoon from its compartment – one with a small, pink dwarf at its tail – and lets the blade drop into the drawer, where it belongs. As if nothing was amiss, she closes the drawer and sets the spoon on the table, looking at him looking at her from above.

The light bulb buzzes.

 Don’t look away. Don’t look away now.

‘Please make me another, Ciri.’

She hears him move around as she re-fills the kettle with icy water.

The spoon clinks against the cup; black leather gloves flip onto the table. No longer making any attempts at hiding the glances she is now constantly throwing over her shoulders, she glances at the small smile that wounds across the elf’s lips as he closes the kitchen door. Ciri hits the lid on the pot and wipes her hand into her thin trousers. Floor boards creak. Out of the corner of her left eye, she sees him stopping before the foggy kitchen window.

‘I can tell you right now that as of three months ago your adoptive father was still alive,’ he says and unbelievable hope sprouts within Ciri’s heart, despite and in spite of seeing him secure the lock on the window frame. ‘It’s cold at the end of the tracks, but hopefully... Hopefully, Ciri. We must all hope, mustn’t we? Nobody denies the peril of securing virgin lands for our people, you understand, but in the name of our great struggle, sacrifices must be made. And Geralt – he volunteered.’

They all say that. They say they all “volunteer.” Yet another match breaks between her fingers. Mummy did not. Mummy...

‘At least that’s what my colleague tells me. He can be believed on counts – usually.’

 ... mummy is not here.

Footsteps.

A whiff of sulphur and blue flames bloom under cheap lace curtains.

‘Here, let me help you see how this goes.’

She is too frustrated, too expectant of a blow, too caught up with imagining an entire world of possibilities in place of the single, unspeakable one now that she knows Geralt is alive. Too frozen because of that junk boiler that will never get fixed, and because of the constant fear that overworks her. Too everything, in short, to register the breath against her numb ear, to protest against the loose half-embrace in which the elf envelops her.

He clucks his tongue, long fingers reaching around hers toward the blue ring of fire: ‘Who would have thought you would not know how to make one, hm? Who would have thought in a bleak and lonely place like this, you would not allow yourself small comforts.’

Her comfort is a filleted mumps, a heart of a katakan shrivelling into the size of a prune, a moneylender who ruins little girls falling from the fifth floor. Her comfort is not herbal tea!

She wants to say.

But she does not say.

‘Self-preservation is an important skill, Ciri,’ Avallac’h says quietly behind her ear, and the girl blinks as the flames reduce, then grow as of their own accord, warming the kettle. ‘I know it was not work that made you run from me.’

She is not seeing right, surely? A shiver descends along her back, her eyes widening, and she is certain he can feel it too, touching faintly, as he is against her slender back.

‘Particularly the kind of work you would have me believe you do,’ he chuckles. ‘It’s alright, Ciri. I understand, I do. We are all victims of our pasts, of ourselves. Aren’t we? You, for instance, cannot possibly believe in being able to raise children in a way that saves them from becoming what you hunt. What you are drawn to. Monsters, Ciri. Am I right?’

‘Are you going to take me away?’ she whispers. ‘Are you here to finish –’

‘Do you want me to take you away? Turn you in?’ he sounds a little surprised. ‘Silly. Why, I only just found you!’

‘Then what is it that you want in exchange for... for –’

She doesn’t know which of her wishes should take priority at the moment. Remembering the look in the elf’s eyes, she doesn’t know if one of those wishes isn’t contrary to what he might wish to name as the price.

Five moves. Fifteen. Forty-five. Hundred and thirty five. Four hundred and... It’s too much for her. Mother. God. The angels must be drunk. Mother. God. When will the summer start?

‘For my help, sun?’

Small blue flames under the kettle dance merrily. Pale puffs of her breath join with thin streams of steam rising like smoke from numerous small chimneys along an avenue of cold suns. It’s a pretty illustration on the enamel – chipped, imperfect, and unattainable. Cold suns aren’t suns – they’re as stars on Earth; dead.

She doesn’t hear more from him for a while.

The clock ticks behind the wall.

Fingertips touch behind her ear, stroking softly along the small, soft ashen hair that curls along her neck.

She flinches and the elf mutters something, inhaling her scent. A name? Not hers, she thinks. She doesn’t understand. She cannot parse this. It only works to tug stronger at the bottom of her stomach, which remembers better the things that never happened than she remembers words that she never learned.

‘I don’t –’

More words.

‘I don’t understand –’

‘I know you don’t,’ Avallac’h snaps.

Fingers tangle in small hair, pinching the skin of her neck.

‘I know you don’t,’ he repeats much more tenderly. ‘You should eat more, Ciri. You should keep warm. You should not talk to strangers. Such is a recipe for a long and pleasant life.’

To the rustling of fabric, she feels the elf’s arms move around her, pressing her against him, and the charged, heavy silence of sparrows impaled on barbed wire that has gathered inside her rushes upward, uncontrolled. His smell is everywhere around and inside again, mingling with the nasty aroma of burnt cooking from the stairway. Instinctively, her elbow jerks sharply back, connects, and she throws her weight against his left arm, which, to the girl’s dismay hardly budges from its hold around her.

Someone somewhere unreachable switches on the radio.

‘Gently, gently, my sun,’ he whispers into her hair with vaguest notes of displeasure. ‘I will not do anything unusual. Tell me, where does it hurt still? Here?’

‘I am not your sun!’

‘And why not?’ the elf’s palm is warm as it slides under the cardigan, over the tender skin of the girl’s abdomen. ‘Here?’

‘No! I – ah!’

‘Behold: an “ah”.’

Long fingers press down, rubbing patiently and methodically under her waistband. She remembers it had felt as good when he had sat with her: listened to her story, fed her dainty, tasty things, and covered her in thick, soft blankets. When he had, at first, drawn her near.

‘You don’t have to do this. Really. Please –’

‘Hush, silly. I can, and I want to.’

 But I don’t even know you!

It had truly seemed to her that the elf had been even more bewildered than her – high on adrenaline, substances, and mad with fear as she had been that night. And still he had played her music. And still... in a high-ceilinged, warm room with twelve mirrors for windows.

Slowly, Ciri feels the same burning heat rise to her cheeks as seems to be emanating from the touch of his hand. It’s embarrassing. It’s disorientating. It casts a net around her spirit akin to how it traps the unpleasant sensations his fervent embraces have left behind, and the tugging discomfort that has dulled over the day at last begins letting up in earnest.

‘Silly-silly girl. Running at the first rustles in the underbrush,’ the voice in her hair comes in-between his own quickening breath. ‘You are so fortunate, Ciri. So, so fortunate. You have no idea.’

‘Fortunate to not have a bullet in my head? To not be packed and parcelled and on my way – I heard you! I saw –’

‘Oh, how menacing,’ grinning lips hug her pulse and long, knowing fingers dip down to where it’s hot and soft and moist. ‘Don’t chirp so loudly when all you know are your own impaired expectations. You did not hear anything. You did not see anything. You, Ciri, were asleep and stuffed and safer than you had ever been in your short and dicey life. You are still asleep, given how little gratitude and how much indignation and mindless fear I see.’

‘I only jumped through the first door. I did not ask you– s-stop. I – I don’t want – ah...’

‘But I missed you. I worried for you. I looked for you,’ the elf’s sardonic tone shifts abruptly, obtaining strange, so far entirely unheard of notes. Dripping with unfamiliar familiarity and... hurt? ‘Not much, Ciri. Not much for my help. I don’t want much at all. Only what is fair.’

She is pushed against the stove. The round metal handles press into her thighs, leaving her only one way to fall toward. His kisses have teeth, and the heat that had healed her circulates, calling for nervous impulses to fuel the arousal emerging under deft, strong fingers circling her pearl.

A plastic bag with milk and butter rustles outside the window.

 His hands are so warm.

‘A communal? A carving knife? Oh, you people,’ contemptuous laughter blows across her cheek. ‘Priceless treasure rolling from pen to gutter, killing scum and beasts for profit. Unknown and unknowing even before herself. Toiling to get to where nobody returns from in order to rescue a killer already on his second lease. Oh, Ciri!’

Against the contrast of metal and his body, she shifts unconsciously more and more securely into his lap, and senses the elf gets a great deal of pleasure from it. His arousal is distinct through layers of clothes – quality on his side and bottom shelf necessity on hers – and he sighs.

‘Truly, you are a gem. That you would have found me and not someone more opportunistic. That you would have found your way to the one who can make all your nightmares go puff. Wouldn’t that be nice, Ciri? Wouldn’t we like that? Wouldn’t we like to put these days running relentlessly as a rat in its wheel behind us? Ah... that’s it, my sweet, just there. A half-life – high time you left it behind.’

Fingers that have been stoking her pleasure slip, tracing the folds of her skin and falling into her briefly, and Ciri wriggles. Only to have the touch disappear altogether in the next. The pressure against her back eases up. The hands disappear. He lets go of her.

Floorboards creak.

She breathes rapidly and clings to the rusting stove, pulling at the waistline of her trousers. Rapidly she regains sense of the sounds of the outside world. Of the count in her head: five steps. Fifteen... The clock ticks behind the wall. The pipes belch.

‘Pour me water.’

‘It has gone cold,’ she replies.

‘Just as well. I despise tea.’

The girl’s fingers unclench and clench painfully around the handle of the heavy kettle. That’ll have to do, she thinks. But either out of momentary sense of vertigo resulting from the stabilising circulation, or from the general malaise in her head, the swing she executes lands only half-way decently, knocking the lid off the kettle and spilling a fair amount as she hits the elf in the arm that is reaching out to support her.

‘Such manners,’ he sneers. ‘Be good, drink this. Calm yourself a little.’

Cheap porcelain presses against her lips, pushing her head upright as a palm comes to support at the back, and Ciri opens her mouth, accepting the bitter liquid and swallowing several mouthfuls before she can spit. Tiny brown leaves get stuck in her teeth. She realises it’s the cup the elf had tampered with. Blackcurrant? She splutters and coughs, and this time, through tears in her eyes, her swing lands as intended, kicking the mug out of his hand.

‘What the fuck do you want of me?�� she mumbles, tripping while pressing the kettle into his solar plexus as hard as she is able. ‘Why? Why did you follow me? If turning me in is not, then why – I have nothing –’

A wet kiss blesses her forehead.

‘Ah... Ciri,’ the elf whispers. ‘You awaken in me such... Perhaps you remind me of someone. Perhaps, someone dear. Once. How strange is fate, Ciri, have you ever thought?’

He pulls away from her and says the rest in a dying language’s lost dialect, and the girl presses her nails into her palms in despair.

 I wish I had never gone through that door. I wish he would stop saying my name. I wish...

‘But I very much like your name.’

Tick-tock the clock goes; tick-tock.

Ciri stares, and a pair of eyes in which the aquamarine has almost entirely receded stare back.

‘How did you do that?’ she whispers.

‘How did I do what?’

‘How did you – how did you know... what I was just thinking. How do you know all these things about –?’

‘– you?’

The walls have ears – everyone knows that. If he is who she thinks he is then his loyalties grant him access to those ears. But... A nasty prickling sensation roars up in her as the man averts his eyes for the first time, licking his lip.

‘That, Ciri, was magic. Naturally, terrible black magic,’ he chuckles, looking at her conspiratorially. ‘You can think of me as of somewhat of a professor, if you like.’

‘There is no such thing as magic.’

‘Oh no?’

‘They’ll put you away for it,’ she shakes her head, which has begun spinning. ‘When I tell them, they’ll lock you up! They will shoot you dead.’

‘Who will shoot me?’

‘The higher echelons.’

‘Oh, Ciri. Cirilla. Zireael.’ A row of straight, white teeth lacking in canines flashes unpleasantly. ‘No echelons beyond the stars.’

He is mad. He is touched. This is a chantage and he is the charlatan. An agent only to himself! He doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know anything about Geralt – where he is, why, or if... if he is still alive. He is just an opportunist taking advantage.

When she pushes at him with all her force and runs, she knows, dizzyingly, that that's not true. It is she who doesn’t know enough, who doesn’t know what she has gotten herself into, but she doesn’t care; she doesn’t want to know. She wants out. She wants to get away. Now!

The kitchen door springs open, and the floorboards groan.

Somebody somewhere unreachable listens to the radio.

The girl moves faster than the clock ticks.

Three locks.

Three locks await the girl at the padded front door, in the dull dark of the evening. She runs up to it. The chain’s dangling already, her fingers forget. Her heart tears at her throat. The locks open. She yanks.

And steps into a narrow hallway between the living room and the front door.

 No...

The hallway is tiny. Even from here she sees: the elf stands before her short bed and, with his back to her, is removing his overcoat. He runs his hand through his hair, loosens his collar. Allowed some privacy by the rickety divider screen, in the faint light of a single street lamp erected, as per regulation, in front of the kindergarten, slender legs dangle off the cot.

Ciri’s hand searches blindly for the door handle.

Three locks.

Three locks await the girl in the dull dark of the evening. The chain’s dangling already, her fingers, they just forget, when her heart tears at her throat. The locks open. She yanks.

And a large, warm hand falls against her icy cheek, stroking, gliding, very softly, over her imperfection. Just so, until the elf’s fingers begin to squeeze the disfigurement, and force Ciri to open her eyes. Shadows move on the triangular face, gaping with darkness where she remembers eyes and a mouth.

‘Well, will you invite me inside?’

She takes him in against the door.

There is no undressing. There are arms under her body and spread thighs and a twitch, and she is unable to suppress a sob that tears from her throat; tender as she still is.

‘Shh-shh, let it happen. You can take me, sweet girl,’ the elf whispers. ‘You will like it a lot.’

She is not certain. She thinks she will hit that spot in his side raw by the end.

‘Yes, it hurts a little now. It hurts a little later,’ he squeezes her sides, holding her still as he pushes deeper inside; in search of parts of her that are not cold and battered and imbued with contempt for the world. ‘But in-between, there is only bliss.’

Her curses are more than alright, because he covers her lips with his in a moment, tearing at her through the choking gasps beyond which she will hear nothing of the world around anymore. It simply does not exist. Only this overwhelming, sick passion through which he seems to want to inflict as much pain on her as fits within himself. Of which his words speak not, but of which his teeth do.

Unlike formerly, he is not at all gentle. It’s not normal to be like this, she thinks, and she thinks of how little what she is and has seen is normal. His hands knead her tender with flushing marks, his lips and pleasant voice pressing wet promises of help, protection, and suns warmer than yesterday’s into hers. He doesn’t ask much in return – she will see. She has no idea. She feels Avallac’h wants to paint her with himself until she glistens, until nothing of her remains, so no one can find her. So no one can take her. She guesses it’s a selfish desire. She guesses he has no children of his own. She guesses it doesn’t matter much.

Silver threads skate along the high collar, glinting merrily under the meagre fare from the street lamp – as if from another era, and fading dim as an ember. He wants her to satisfy herself. To chirp. She wouldn’t mind, but she thinks he is being absurd. Hot palm lays down on her lower abdomen: it gives her surprising pleasure in conjunction with her fingers on her soaking lips and his relentless thrusts pressing her into the padding. Soon she moans into the man's mouth and feels him tremble. At her attempt to touch his face her hands receive a slap, though. A sharp jerk with his hips draws a pained whimper. She falls against his shoulder. But does not give up; she wants. So the elf gathers her wrists against her chest, clucking his tongue, and holds them in-between her breasts as his other hand crawls around Ciri's neck and presses down, strangling slightly. She listens to him move within her one wet slap at a time. His voice is like honey, smearing her with the heat that floods between her legs.

She imagines the poison accumulates in parts of him at intervals, and right now she touches upon its sources all at once through his stifling, devout embrace. With abrupt jerks he pulls her young body toward him as if wanting to weave her together with him. No further. Only further down his cock, until she sits nestled in his lap, straining and attempting to keep moving. Safe, stuffed, and warm. Up and down his cock deep-deep in-between her slick, tender insides. Where there’s sound. Where they are both warm. Where the tracks should end if their world was not already long sick of itself and of its children.

But gently-gently, on and on, rolls and steams ahead, the light blue wagon.

The plastic bag with milk and butter knocks against the window.

Outdoors, a small east wind is picking up.

[grim-faux]

21 - Hall of Rorschachs

The lift gave a harsh clatter against the steel rails, as the cables jerked the empty container back to the ground floor.  I twisted around and lunged at the underside in some pitiful attempt to latch on and ride up, or drag it back down if I must.  Even if there was doubt I had the strength to hold on, I was desperate.  But it was not to be, I was far from grasping the cart as it faded into the dark gullet of the chute.  The clatter of the carriage grew distant as I stood in the shadows gazing up, hand outstretched.  Begging.  My thoughts pleading.  No one was listening.  I returned my focus to the short corridor with the lamps that buzzed and dim whenever a surge slid through.  I was so set on getting out.  Ready to say my goodbyes.  I let my fucking guard down.  How typical.  How fucking typical.

I tried the call button beside the chutes entrance, but it required a magnet key.  I recalled the Asylum, and the numerous trials I endured to locate those damn cards.  I didn’t believe I would stumble upon one down here, since it was ‘Father’ Martin that had planted them for me.  God, even in death he’s still giving me shitty fetch quests.

New Objective:  Find another way out. I didn’t know what awaited down here, lurking.  Didn’t feel prepared to continue.  It couldn’t be worse than the twins or Trager, could it? I crossed to the set of doors and pushed one open, and was nearly blinded by the sterile light blazing over the pristine walls and floor.  Bright glaring lights, that reminded me of His cell.  I blinked the dryness away as I stepped into the hall, I could detect an immediate change in pressure.  Aside from the air having a dry and clinical property, I couldn’t explain the sensation, but I didn’t like it.  Bravo for intuition. The floor was polished and as bright and white as the cylindrical walls curved around the hall.  I wasn’t a geologist so my knowledge was limited, but if I had to guess I would say it was all chiseled from natural stone, from the mountain itself ”…something that had been waiting for them in the mountain.”  What the hell was this place? Now that I thought back on it, a colleague of mine had tried to relate a scientific matter to me concerning specific ores, and how it attributed to supernatural occurrences.  Truth of the matter I had been a piss poor student, and constantly teased her as she tried to educate me.  But I had listened enough. The paranormal was a genre she was interested in, and she was thrilled to tell me about a place she visited in Colorado (not Mount Massive).  Some ritzy Hotel, the Overlook I think was the name, its location built upon a cash of natural limestone.  Scientific observations were utilized to support theories, that paranormal occurrences could be attributed to high concentrations of limestone in the mountain.  Something in the mineral conducted electricity. It sounded a little too fantastic to me, but here and now, I was beginning to wonder if Murkoff had premeditated these findings.  Someone believed them.  In that case, the Asylum wasn’t target exclusively for the history or the seclusion.  It was elected due to the qualities of the region itself. Or maybe I was just tired.  I looked up at the symbol printed above the next set of doors.  I’d seen it before.  No, not the lockers in prison block.  The video the Priest had forced me to watch.  That symbol was on the floor when the MHS tacticals were throttled like chickens.  The atomic, molecular design?  Or could there be further religious affiliation? I pushed the doors open and stepped into a fresh scene of horror.  I knew this room, and my anxiety increased tenfold.  Blood streaked the floor, splattered on the white stone walls.  Bullet marks decorated steel and glass in random areas, the pieces of a gun had been scattered over the floor with black splatters.  Muscles and entrails glistened under the light as I moved from the doors.  Red had dried to the large crescent desk fixed at the rooms center, two large screens sat behind it, bright and cheery in contrast to the stew soaking into the stone.  One read Murkoff Corporation, the other sported the trinity Molecular design along with WALRIDER PROJECT in bold.  And the symbol on the floor streaked with blood.  That symbol was everywhere. With a sigh, I took out my camera and filmed everything.  It was giving me low battery warnings, but I had at least a half hour left if I didn’t run out of power for the night vision.  Unfortunately, there seemed to be plenty of light in this place. “Fuck.  Fuck, fuck, fuck.   Whoever finds my corpse – trust no one and tell everyone.  I am not crazy.  I know, I know, only crazy people say that.  But I am as sane as this world allows, with a camera full of evidence.  Don’t call it a gospel.  Call it a mockery of reason, let the world know it is Murkoff’s fault.  Bury these bastards with my mutilated dead body.” It took a few minutes for me to write.  My hands seemed steady at first, but when I put pen to paper, well….  Aside from the difficulty of holding my pen against my middle finger, it was almost unbearable to apply pressure to my index finger.  I dated the note and leaned back to view murder and rot surrounding me while I wrote.  I needed to get my priorities straight. A few plants dotted the room, but I knew they were fake without a glance.  Polished gray pillars encircled the lobby, they didn’t resemble any specific mineral.  Just general grade cement to support the dark blue ceiling.  The far side was comprised of a glassed portion of the wall, with thick pipes behind.  Water, gas, electricity, I didn’t care.  Beside the wall sat a short desk, out of place among the red streaks.  Two chairs had been set facing one another, and two mugs of coffee still sat on the brown wood. I averted my gaze to the opposite wall, where a purge chamber stood open to the room, black blood washed down its sides and soaking the floor.  The images came back clearly as I had seen them, despite the drugs swimming through my brain at the time.  I could envision the panicked militants shrieking as their bodies were ripped through the tiny crevices in the doors, and holes of the glassed in wall.  One man’s legs still lay a few feet from the pile of meat, a string of organs dried to the stone.   I stumbled back into the large desk and sat down on its surface.  My hand touched a folder beside me, and I looked down to flip through the pages.  It was nothing remarkable, nothing relevant I decided. From the personal records of Dr. Wernicke.  The Modern Prometheus Document: The Pride of Wisdom Schrodinger Wolfram “FRANKENSTEIN, or The Modern Prometheus” by Mary Shelley, published anonymously in 1818. Chapter 23, excerpt –  “Man,” I cried, “how ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom! Cease; you know not what it is you say."  I broke from the house angry and disturbed, and retired to meditate on some other mode of action. Well, it appeared they created man’s monster.  And it hath a wraith unlike no other being in our world.  I closed the folder and pinched the bridge of my nose.  It was apparent I had dug in too deep, I didn’t know if I could claw out of the grave I had lain in.  I suppose I had one choice.  Keep digging.  I didn’t know exactly where I was, but I had a strong estimate.  I was in the Basement of the Asylum. I looked to the security operative slumped in his chair, near where I perched.  Briefly, I wondered what would become of the remains of all these people?  Even if Murkoff wasn’t the shady bastards that they were, it was impossible to gather up the pieces to return them to their families.  The investigation? I slid off the desk and approached the blood splattered door of the cold purge chamber.  My breath hitched as I tried to inhale gently, but the pain in my rib couldn’t be negotiated with.  I didn’t know if I could do this all over.  I might need to find someplace to rest and if fate allowed, I would awaken before I died. The door panel sparkled embers from the torn wires, probably motion sensors detecting my approach.  The doors held silent, an eerie howl raised from the dark depths.  I raised the NV and reassured myself there was nothing, I was alone except for the dead.  The hair bristled along my brow.  God, why did I put that image in my head?   I shuffled forward into the cradle of the dark.  Above wires and cables ran the length of the tunnel, the walls were as they were in the entrance, chiseled and polished stone with occasional gaps that had been glassed off where additional paneling and vital equipment or systems were nestled.  The camera flashed a familiar image, I tensed as static buzzed through and waited until it cleared.  Nothing but shredded bodies, nothing but the secrets these people died with.  I listened to the silence.  For so long I was accustomed to the distant shrieks and mutter of people, behind doors I hoped to never open.  Now, I was buried deep in solid rock, with only the pulse in my bones to alleviate the sterile peace. Murkoff personnel were everywhere, lined against the walls, bodies torn inside out by a force I could never have a want to comprehend.  I doubt any two were slain in the same fashion, or the method of death so violent it was impossible to replicate.  As always, never footprints.  But what ghost had feet? Guts and lungs splattered up walls, I was unsettled by how fresh it appeared to be, but attributed it to the NV.  Thin lines marked the floor, I knew these prints that made long red through copious puddles.  I’d seen the same when I was pushed off an elevator by a lunatic.  They turned when the tunnel curved, ahead light swept into the shadows.  I clicked off the nightvision but hesitated to emerge.  I refused to trust the helpful presence of light, but for now it was welcomed while my camera demanded a fresh battery.  I dropped the old one and set the new one in.  The distant clatter that echoed was a solitary thing throughout the corridor. The wall along my right had the natural mineral trimmed away into flat walls, reinforced with cement, and steel in some areas.  The metal portions were fitted with slates, or shields, that same symbol from the lobby was printed besides the shields.  I stared down, the marks.  Those lines went through these panels, curving around the edge.  I debated the meaning as I took a deep breath and squinted my eyes. They looked like portals or panels that could be moved.  There was a set of powerful looking hydraulic hinges, but otherwise no handles or switches that could gain access.  Probably wouldn’t do me any good anyway.  I fit my fingers along the edge testing for a draft, but judged they were airtight.  Pressure sealed.  This facility was dedicated to science and clinical procedures, despite the butcher of the upper floors.  If there was a way out, hopefully I didn’t need to access it within there.  I could come back, once the rest of the Block was explored. As I resumed on my way, something came to my thoughts, it was a bit random.  In the report it was stated Billy had spoken to the Dr. Wernicke in a white room.  I spun around checking the walls and surrounding surfaces.  This place was pretty white.  But…that wasn’t possible. I looked up and watched a camera connected to the cables in the ceiling revolved slowly, catching all the action as it happened.  I glanced back at the doorway before I continued down the hall. A Block.  The large plate on the wall identified this as A Block, or the whole hall was?  There wasn’t much to it.  I was reminded of the Cell Block’s of the Asylum above – C Block, D Block.  Clearly this was as a part of the Asylum as the condemned sections of the Female Ward.  This didn’t surprise me.  But it could have been coincidence as well.  I’d go with that, since I was done with the conspiracy theories.   The next set of doors had pop marks across the glass and metal, bent out in small boils where bullets had lodged.  The bullets were fully visible in the glass, surrounded by the star shaped impressions that commemorate the battle.  I felt the shadows around me as I huddled in the garden, the branches cracking as something swept through.  That inhuman shrill.  In my ear screaming as the thunder laughs, and my vision fills with white.  Then I’m curled up in the room, the dry wood and cold plaster on either shoulder as I tremble and listen to the ringing in my ears.  The sensation that crawls through me, I can’t explain it.  I’ve lost something, yet, nothing is amiss.  I don’t feel right. I barely glimpsed the panel at my left.  Morphogenic Engine.  I stopped with my hand on the door and bent my head around studying the hall I had moved through.  You know what?  Fuck that.  I can’t conceive what it would look like, what exactly it’s supposed to do.  I don’t care.  I’ll come back!  I promise.  I’ll come back if I have too. That was probably a hollow promise, but my obligations had faded since I stepped off that damn elevator.  I had no luck with elevators. A series of large canisters greeted me on the other side of the doors, pressed to the wall on my left and out of the way.  The label read ‘saline’ substitute.  That sounded kind of weird, wasn’t saline a substitute?  I took in details of the hall, my camera held in no specific position as I walked.  The ceiling retained its natural rock, but the walls on either side resembled the interior of medical labs.  This all looked like existing cave before Murkoff came along and filled it with their nightmare science.  The idea brought me back to the theory of the mountains as the target rather the Asylum, and I wondered about the files I had found dating back before Mount Massive was shut down.  If not for the limestone, then the isolated region was more than worth the resources to insure the quality of their uninterrupted studies. I touched the wall on my left as I neared the doorframe.  The material was metal and possibly reinforced.  I don’t think it was meant for militaristic operations, though they clearly took precautions for their work.  For an invasion or ‘terrorist’ attack, a lot of good it did them. A thin red streak slipped between the open doors I peered through, blood was spread from ceiling to floor.  I blinked, staring.  The air was thick with copper and rot.  I was so tired of that smell, but I just couldn’t get away from it.  It was soaked into my clothing as it was soaking into the walls around me.  I stepped inside, careful of the pieces beside the counter that had once been one or two people.  Maybe three.  All of them spattered over the floor, organs hung in ribbons on counters, pieces of bone scattered over metal cabinets.   I scanned the labels visible through the glassed in shelves.  Most were filled with vials of fluids, many of which sported long, four syllable words with –ine or –phen on the end.  Files were scattered over the sinks and floors, reminders for injections and progress with patients identified by numbers.  I stood beside the rolling chairs and scanned over the room, debating if it was possible that materials remained that I could patch my hands with.  Something actually medical, rather the spare shirt that would be waiting for me in the jeep.   Pipes twisted around the edge of the ceiling.  I followed the sections around the room trying to recall something about pipes.  They were pumping the recycled air throughout the facility, they had to.  Couldn’t risk foreign contamination.  It sounded ridiculous in my head, but I preferred it that way. Revisiting the hall, I turned left.  The black stains of yet more Researchers coated the gray metal of Nitroglycerin tanks, scattered beside the wall.  He was probably in the midst of transporting them when it all happened.  A few tanks managed to stay on the wrecked cart against the wall.  I poked into the next room, the remains of staff had all but painted the walls.  I stumbled as I leaned on the door, just… everywhere I looked, the broken pieces of tissue and body parts was all over.  I have to emphasize the ALL OVER aspect.  I thought the Asylum itself was gruesome, but this was something else entirely. I looked from the doors of the room, shot up by bullets, to the large tank of unmarked gas or fluid.  At the other corner was a medical waste bin piled high with black bags, stuffed with unknown rubbish.  It was a clear violation of sanitation, but for whatever reason Murkoff began to lack in strict policies during its final days.  I was curious to what could be crammed in those bags but they sagged and were covered in unknown gunk, and the smell of residual chemicals did not encourage me.  It was subtle evidence of distress, though at the time this room from a glance gave the delusion of order and regiment.     I stared up as I leaned on the autopsy table bolted to the floors center.  Above, an arm hung from one of the pipes that lapped around the ceiling, dried muscle had peeled back to reveal white bone.  Threads of intestines stuck to files stuffed into the shelves, the jaw of someone was lodged into the space between a drawer and the countertops edge.  It looked like the fleshy tissue of the throat had remained attached. I shut my eyes and rested my weight to my free arm, when I opened my eyes, I noted the pages that had scattered from a folder stained with blood.  Under the harsh lamps the fluids looked fresh, almost new.  The battery in the camera itself was holding strong, I used it to snap the pictures as I skimmed through.  PROJECT WALRIDER  POSTMORTEM PRIMATORY REPORT MM1300921  (form note: all material herein to be transcribed and revised to fit legally binding requirements of Murkoff Corp. records. See form 4083)  AUTHOR: Jennifer Roland  NOTES: My fourteenth autopsy of a Walrider patient, showing no more signs of accepting the therapy than any of the others. There have been slight gains in cell migration and morphogenesis (including effects similar to Human Growth Hormone), but nothing to suggest the stable creation of a sentient, independent swarm. So tired. Doubting my judgment. Will submit another request for leave. The psychological cost of using such far gone and further provoked patients is more than I feel I can handle.  May suggest hanging less hope on the far-flung theories of a senile Nazi and move towards using a simpler mechanical engine based on major sperm protein.  Will definitely suggest harsher chemical restraints. Murkoff Security killed patient 923 after he overcame enough tranquilizers to put down a hockey team. I’m afraid the Hormone Therapy is interacting with our chemical restraints in a counterproductive manner. This file.  This file was very important.  It gave insight that had not been present in past documents.  The use of words in her text made it sound like…. Dr. Wernicke was still alive. I stared at the phrase she included which made the doctors status current, if it was not a mistake of word use.  But that would make him ninety years old, at the least.  I set the file down and looked upon the carnage, the violence, the death.  I corrected myself.  Wernicke had been alive.  I couldn’t imagine him surviving this.  I tossed the file aside and ventured through the door, turning to the corridors end.  Expulsion of gooey innards spread high on the wall, long red lines slid down before the liquid dried. More death, more bodies that had at one time been living people.  I pressed my hand to the wall as I took the right corner, avoiding the skin stretched across polished white floor.  I don’t know why I was self-conscious now, after I had traipsed through mounds of bodies in the Asylums halls.  I couldn’t even come up with a cheap theory.  Every corner, I saw red and wet entrails, black skin and orange puss.  The air was filled with its rancid vapor, from the methane released as the meat soured.  What would they do with all these bodies?  Where could you put them all? I didn’t reach the doors in my path.  I had to stop and lean on the wall, gazing at them.  Doors and more doors.  What would be behind them?  My liberation at last?  I didn’t care, I had to lie down, rest.  The ache in my skull was unbearable, if I took one more step I would fall.  I couldn’t go on like this.  I just kept seeing bodies and faces, images I couldn’t explain.  What was I seeing?  I wasn’t even hiding in the shadows.  The shapes were no longer trapped in my camera. The room spun, I kept myself from stumbling with my hand on the wall as I lowered down.  There was a shallow slant beside the floor, I propped my good side on this to keep the pressure off my ribs.  I kept the camera in my right hand and set it beside me.  I wasn’t planning on sleeping, just needed to give myself a chance to cut the ache.  The floor was cold but it felt so good to lay my head against it.  It didn’t even matter how bright the bulbs were above, I could turn my face into the collar of my coat and shut my eyes. Almost at once I felt my mind descending into a thick blanket of sleep.  I tried to stir from the tempting lull, but I couldn’t resist.  I was surrounded by the corpses of dozens of unnamed scientists but I didn’t give a damn, it was too hard to stay conscious.  I escaped the pain, I escaped the world, and I escaped the cold halls churning in my mind. As I felt my body slip into the illusion of safety, a painful spasm shot up my spine.  I was paralyzed.  The sensation was horrible, my muscles locked up and I couldn’t will them to relax.  It was as if the concept of mobility was ripped from my brain.  I was a prisoner in my body, fully capable of detecting the environment around me but unable to react to it.  I felt the camera in my hand as I slowly regained consciousness, but… I remained unable to rip free of the powerful vice that had seized my chest.  It was too painful to do anything less pathetic than cringe.  I whined as my ribs shifted in my side and gagged.  I was suffocating!  My eyes open drunkenly, dots whirling in my vision as my brain craved oxygen.  I saw something.  A dark shape leaning over me, staring into my face. I barked out a terrified sound and swung my arms out, clipping the wall with my left hand as I thrashed.  I scrambled over the floor struggling to escape thin air, until I was pressed back into the doors.  I stared wild eyed, disturbed and gasping for air, despite the odd tickle in my chest.  There was… Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  The lights blazed down as fierce as when I had dropped, my head pulsed the same as before.  No change.  There was no demon here. The sharp sting returned to my finger as I recalled, I’d just smacked a stone wall with it.  I clutched the shaking hand to my chest, and curled my other arm around it and barred myself in with my knees.  I sat for moment fighting to forget the pain, while my filthy pants soaked up red drops.   “Nothing is here,” I whispered.  “Just a nightmare.”  My voice rattled against the walls, impossibly loud, overpowering briefly the dull buzz that hung over me.  I uncoiled and trusted weight on the bleeding hand to push me upright.  My body was uncooperative but my mental brawn won over. I shut the door behind me and scanned the long corridor ahead.  To my eyes it just went on forever.  Probably wasn’t too far off.  A thick pipe extended overhead, I saw no other visible wires and took this might have been the main electrical.  Beside it metal cabinets jutted from the walls, though the natural stone work remained in this tunnel, along with various protrusions.  Additions, such as flues were burrowed into the rock on either side, and another thick gray pipe extended along the ceiling. Electricity was in the air, I could feel it like the hum from a television when you first turn it on.  But it’s forceful, charged in the empty space but not in the walls themselves.  Maybe it was the lamps overhead.  I set my hand on the gray pipe testing the vibrations but felt none.  I ignored the marks of blood I left behind, as I walked and swayed around the huge tanks.  Many stood my height but none held clear labels, just a serial label printed on the metal top.   The sides of the floor were marked with caution strips, and other more descript warning lines marked the floor every few feet.  I skimmed over the large pipes bent and twisted along the corridor walls, of what they transported I couldn’t say.  Looked like aqueducts, but I doubted this.  Pallets stacked high with bags and covered with a blue tarp, had been abandoned in the hall. I tried to peel back the plastic cover and record what was beneath but the material was thick.  I also lacked the patience.  I slipped over the top rather crawl around. Judging by the layout of this tunnel, I could deduce this was not a main wing but dedicated to temporary storage hall.  Plans in the schedule might have included park the pellets in a more particle space, but that was before the shit storm hit.  Or this was another example of a lapse in protocol.  I winced when another thought hit.  Files existed that made note on the cutback in staff costs.  The man I had seen playing the piano.  Had he been a patient? I jumped when the camera sputtered, the noise echoed from the chiseled walls.  Damn it!  That scared the shit out of me!  I held it away as the visor cleared, and continued walking.  The files would be corrupt, I decided.  But I could still salvage them, I had equipment for that.  My shoulders shook on the thought of reviewing what I had recorded.  The sounds I made when I ran from Trager.  It didn’t even sound like me.  Was that really me? I said that allowed, and paused to glance around wondering if it was I that had spoken.  I barely began walking when I noticed to my left, a window.  I skid to a stop and backed up.  A window!  Transparent hand prints of red stained the surface, but beyond that sunlight.  Sunlight!  From the outside!  It was all clear golden sky, rolling hills.  No more storms filled with monsters shrieking with the thunder!  The outside world was still out there.  It was waiting just for me.   I was staring into a militaristic hangar, a few vehicles parked under the steel structure ceiling, the walls stretched around appeared reinforced.  Most important of all, there was no sign of life, no movement.  Just equipment, materials, large barrels of god knows what.  And that beautiful sunlight washed across the military jeep wedged in the doorway.  If I was viewing it from the correct angle, no one was going to close that door unless they packed some powerful explosives.  Or, had the key to the jeep.  I held the camera up and filmed what I was seeing, while trying not to get too close to the Plexiglas.  There had to be— Ah. Over there!  Far right wall, lit up like Christmas.  A purge gate.  From the distance and discoloration of the window, I couldn’t validate if it functioned or not.  But it didn’t matter, it was the first entrance/exit I had come across.  There didn’t seem to be any difficulty in dismantling those purge gates though.  How did I get over there? I tracked the hall that continued before me, with my eyes.  If I had a map, no doubt it’d have an arrow indicating this way led to the exit.  Large blue barrels sat in my path, I could view traces of blood on the walls just beyond them. Directly behind me, another set of doors clear and featureless.  Above the frame a green bulb, indicating they were unlocked?  I stared into the white hall within, while my mind hunted for escape.  I had visions of myself entering that small hall and an alarm going off, a steel shutter lowering like in some James Bond film and me stuck inside forever because I just couldn’t let go. Or maybe I was afraid to?  Could that be it? The doors parted automatically upon detecting my movement, the plastic panels issued a soft hiss as frigid air swept out.  I paused in the entrance, not doubting my fears, whichever ones I had.  I debated turning away and just leaving, working on that gate and my inevitable freedom.  But I really couldn’t have too much evidence. I said that once before.  But maybe I was right.  I was afraid. The short hall was cold, the air crisp, fresh.  One of the two doors was left open, which explained the drop in temperature.  It was a small room filled with freezers, all below zero temperatures.  I stepped around the right side trying a few of the doors, but they required access codes through key panels.  At the left side of the room a door had been smashed, the locking mechanism no longer active allowed numerous clear vials to spill across the floor.  Whatever the contents, they had dried and converted white limestone into varying shades of iridescent.  I kicked a few away with my foot and listened as the glass crinkled as I turned.  Along the back wall of the room sat lesser refrigerated cabinets, the contents exposed through foggy glass.   Beside them, a dry erase board.  I stood before it, my camera giving its usual complaint as I waited patiently for it to quiet.  It was some form of chemical engineering algorithm, exponents and a formula function I did not recognize.  All in blue marker, except for the title at the top, which was a simple label written in black.  

Morphogenic Engine

[morphopath-blog]

🗜- ;!!!!!!!

What is the taste of fear?  Acerbic?  Bitter?  Like sinking beneath the waves of the dead sea?

She could taste fear now, it was thick as honey- and echoed with a dissonance that was senseless, it held the acidity of agitation, the bitterness of pain and the salt of distress.  There was a despair too, a tormented ghost screaming silently- the soundless voice drifting across the salt dunes.

Poisera struggled- again.  She desperately attempted to slip free of the silver chains entangled around her body and limbs.  There was a hum that vibrated around her and a spear of electricity sliced into her bones, it coiled along her flesh and smelted into the surface of her skin, the current’s venom coursing through her heart.  Though she opened her mouth to scream, there was no breath enclosed in her lungs and a soundless agony contorted her frame like crumbled origami.  

Her fists were bound clenched by her side, fingernails broken into the flesh of her palms.  She had bitten her tongue more than once and dark blood trickled down the corners of her split lips.  The embedded hooks along the chains had dug into her skin and latched onto sinews and muscle tissue, they were impossible to dislodge without precise surgical removal- unless she was willing to tear off most of her flesh.  

There was nothing she could do.  She was trapped.  

“So here we are, finally caught you- you little monster.”  Her captor cackled with a savage grin.  Then, with a skeletal mechanical hand, the hunter wrenched Poisera’s face towards her- claws digging into the girl’s pale cheeks.  

It was the nefarious bounty hunter- Araneida, or otherwise known as the Red Widow.  She was once quite a renowned beauty for her fiery red curls and kingfisher blue eyes, now her bald scalp was a foamy mess of bubbled skin and swollen pink scars.  Half of her face was melted and had unfortunately healed that way. Her nose was a gaping hole and one remaining blue eye drooped within the cavities of her deformed left cheek.  The other eye was an implant and both eyes, one of flesh and the other of glass and plastic, now stared in feverish, maniacal hatred at Poisera.  

“…I’m guessing you found out.”  The girl managed to choke out, she attempted to crack a smirk but it came as crooked and deranged as she felt.  

“Oh it wasn’t hard, and believe me- I am going to make you wish you had killed yourself when you had the chance.”  Araneida growled, a guttural sound like a voice scrapped together from a tangled knot of skin and bones.

“If you had been more focused on your career rather than hunting me down for your own purposes- such as a torturous, slow death- maybe you would have earned enough for plastic surgery by now.”  

Araneida’s fist lashed out and struck Poisera across the jaw, dislocating it.  She swallowed the pain with a flush of anger and spat out the blood collected in her mouth.  “…  Trust me…  You need it.”

If she was going to suffer and die, she might as well keep the attitude.  

There was a pause, the pointed edge of the Widow’s gleaming red heel swung up and came close, too close, to Poisera’s left eye.  The girl forced herself not to blink.  

“I know what you are doing.  But I’ll let you know I won’t kill you- no matter how angry you make me.”  

“Turned over a new leaf towards cultivating inner beauty I see.”  

Her captor laughed humorlessly, a sporadic clogging sound that was cringe worthy in Poisera’s opinion.  Then she reached for the tall black suitcase she carried with her and unlocked it using fingerprint scanner.  The steel case opened with a hiss.  

Inside was a cylindrical transportation tank filled with sustenance fluid.  The tank was empty, hooked up to synthetic cords, twisting tubes and a miniature bio-monitor screen.  Through the glass- the liquid glowed an ominous orange hue, Poisera could see her own distorted reflection from the scattered light upon the opaque surface.  

“….  You are missing some fish in that tank.”

“It’s a herpetarium~” Araneida growled, grinning with lopsided malevolence.  

She felt sick, especially as her eyes unwillingly trailed towards the other half of the case where a head cage encircled by a surgical platform was embedded.  A circular scanner was centered on the headrest, once the specimen has been placed in position the scanner would conduct diagnostic measurements before commencing the operation.  Within an hour, her skull would be sliced open and her brain and essential nervous components removed.  

Brain extraction surgery in a kit- the travel friendly edition, just what I need.

“Exactly~ Here’s what I thought, why torture and kill you once when I can do it a thousand times?”  

“Just a thousand times?  Thought you were way more obsessed with me than that.”  

Before Araneida could respond, Poisera twisted her body and launched herself at the open suitcase.  From the movement, new electrical current tore through her body and she cried out.  This time, the scream was as raw, agonized and furious as she felt.  

I will die by my rules, and mine alone.  

Surprised, Araneida dropped the case as the girl slammed herself towards it.  For a moment, the pain that scrapped at her consciousness made her freeze- but she forced herself to twist and the electricity slipped from her, across the steel case and into the carefully wired machineries stored inside the sealed compartments.  

It only took two seconds, and when the Widow realized what she had meant to do- the woman snarled, deactivated the electrocution net and grabbed Poisera by the hair to drag her off.  The cabling within the suitcase however, was already singed.  

“You think this will save you?!”  Araneida screeched.

No, but death will.

The world flickered in and out, darkness bleeding into her vision- or perhaps it was her blood in her eyes.  She felt herself being dragged.  She felt time slowing, each second morphing into an eternity.  She felt bones break, from fingertips to her arms.  She felt the splintering and crackling resounding like thunder in the storm of her mind.  She felt cold steel piercing her stomach and inching upwards, bit by bit.  

She was sinking, drowning in the dead sea.  As pain was incinerated from her senses, death felt cold.  

[talyn-the-warlock]

(Little idea I had based on the Chronicon! Let's assume it's mostly true for a moment, shall we?)

MCLXXVII, Forthcoming

Two years and seven months after City-fall...

Talyn was grateful they were moving again. 

The system was on fire. Cabal in Loyalist colors were all over the Sol's celestial bodies and their satellites. They must have consolidated the core worlds by now, Legionaries in shining gold gunning down anyone who stood in refusal of the Emperor’s delighted nihilism. Even without the might of their fleet, the universe’s fate had been sealed. Decided in the end by a single Guardian. The Hero of the Red War, the...Shadow of Earth, was power-mad. They had been fully seduced by the offerings of the opulent Emperor of the Cabal. Shiny trinkets and bits and baubles and wine had been more than the home they had done so much to protect. Regardless, their fury was still undeniable- and they were on a rampage. Ikora Rey had almost destroyed Mars in her blaze of glory, and Zavala had accepted his end in bitterness. Without leadership, with a foe from within, the City had been reduced to ashes in days. Earth was lost. Nowhere seemed safe, but Talyn and the fifty souls in her command had an option they were willing to gamble on. She had been certain if they stayed away from the carcass of the Reef, a freighter of their size would be able to slip by unnoticed in the asteroid fields between her dead home and the Jovians. She was wrong. Calus had sent his hunting parties far wider than she had anticipated. No matter her cunning or her care, they had found her. It embittered her to no end. 

She knew the hounds had her scent. There was no way the Shadow of Earth hadn’t given his new minions every single Tower override frequency, Dead Orbit’s included. Part of Talyn relished the idea of a fight after all this flight. Her Light still burned as bright as the setting sun, but she was alone in it. With only one Lightbearer aboard and limited ammunition for their meager forward cannons, the Fermi Paradox wouldn’t have lasted a picosecond against a heavily-armed Cabal carrier. If it was only her life to lose, she’d have tried. But fifty precious souls with only one death apiece hadn’t the teeth she did. Running and hiding was all she could do to keep them, now. The only way they could evade the Loyalist’s advanced sensor grids was to set down in a hollow asteroid and kill all power except the bare minimum needed for life support. The last ninety-five hours had been a hell of nervous waiting. They were no more than prey. Barely-cycled air hung stiff and thin in the frieghter’s cabins, each breath only just enough to fill the lungs. Slow suffocation had married in misery with tight rationing. Any hope of scavenging the Awoken’s ruins or harassing Fallen skiffs had been dashed by the Cabal’s harsh sensor sweeps. The ship was only stocked with enough food for a week, if each crewman ate one slim meal a day. Each of them had lost a frightening amount of weight, faces growing gaunt and constantly plastered with anxiety. None more than Talyn herself. She refused to partake in any of the freeze-dried delicacies aboard. If hunger took her men, they were a life snuffed forever. If it came for her...she still had her Ghost. Talyn had decided she would starve a hundred times before a single one of her people did. She continued to commit to it, even as the Cabal gave up and warped away to harass other, fatter prizes. 

The clawing pain in her stomach shot through each of her thoughts as she tried to stay awake. Fatigue was a beast the Light had no hope of pushing back. With zero caloric intake and barely a wink of sleep, Talyn was approaching her limit. Even as the engines coughed back to life and her ship limped the long black in search of opportunity, she struggled to maintain her grasp on conscious. Perhaps she was grateful she couldn’t see herself, for she looked just as she felt. Her hair had grown long, unbrushed and knotted behind her head in more of a tangle than a bun. The starlight eyes that used to be bright and full of wonder now barely stayed open, ringed in dark circles. Her fieldweave’s blue had faded, the armor dented and scratched from a hundred thousand final blows she had suffered. Even the cloak laid over her shoulder had grown to fray at the edges. Talyn had grown to rub it between her fingers as a ritualistic comfort, which did nothing to help its state. It was the least of her troubles. So long as she could see the sigil emblazoned on it, she was satisfied. The Broken Nomad had given her this last gift, after all. Her end had sent Talyn away to drift the old paths. Her best friend’s sacrifice was all she had in her knapsack. Perhaps it wasn’t just this piece of herself Soren had given, but the title as well. Talyn certainly felt the namesake. Perhaps she could ask the original Broken Nomad If she was worthy, when she saw her again in her dreams. 

A voice cut the tense quiet just as restless sleep threatened to overtake her. “Captain, we’ve got a vessel on sensors!” 

Talyn snapped herself back to awareness, rubbing one of her eyes with the back of her glove. Where was she? Settled in her captain’s chair, raised just slightly above a dozen or so bridge crew. A bulbous viewscreen showed the night before her, plastering the entire far wall with the light of stars they hadn’t the fuel or food to travel to. It was one of her officers who had spoken, a woman with mousy hair and a dark complexion. She had thrown Talyn a look of anticipation over her shoulder. What do I do now?, it said. These people still looked up to their only Guardian. They trusted her, took her orders, followed her guidance. No matter what state she was in, Talyn would die her last before she dissuaded these people of the last of their hope. She had to speak, even if her voice was cracked and edged. “On screen.” 

The view of the stars before them zoomed in, dialing closer to a vague shape nestled in the Milky Way. As it came into clearer view, Talyn recognized it as a ship. Not just any ship. This was a vessel she knew all too well. One she had ransacked on behalf of a spy order long-dead. One she had visited for game after game of Taken-hunting and Dredgen-slaying. The cylindrical shape and fins on the front making it look like a polyp were all-too familiar. The absence of its peculiar cargo was not. It floated still, hanging suspended in the vacuum like a fly stuck in molasses. Without the Haul, the thing looked so small. A tin can, kicked along dusty sidewalks like a piece of forgotten trash. She sought confirmation for what she already knew. “Is that…?” 

“The Derelict,” the mousy woman assured in a grimace. “Looks like she’s stalled out, we’ve got zero engine readings.” 

Her curiosity piqued. Was he gone? Had he abandoned his little mobile home? It looked next to new, not a ding or scrape in sight. Talyn needed answers for the questions it raised. “Structural integrity?” 

“Hundred percent,” her helmsman piped up in a gruff Exo crackle. “I’m not reading any damage, but...her fuel line ain’t running. She’s running on empty, ma’am.” 

The thought made her smile. It was petty, but the idea of Eli being stranded and out of luck like she was filled her with awful delight. His plan to outrun the end had been for nothing, after all. He’d run out of steam, unable to persist forever in the ways he always postured he would. She hoped he was hungry. 

Just as she was about to inquire further, her comms officer spoke up. “Ma’am, we’re...getting a hailing frequency,” the butch Awoken said. “I'm...pretty sure it's him. Should I put it on screen?” 

Talyn had been so numb since she’d lost everything. Trying only to keep strong for her crew, she’d refused to feel anything but grim determination to see another day. It changed in an instant. Something struck a match inside her, and ignited a pile of long-collected kindling. It turned from a spark to a holocaust of barely contained rage in seconds. He wanted to talk, did he? Why? To make platitudes at her, lay smooth words across a dagger-tongue before running it through her chest? To call her “sister” again and again, even though they shared no kinship? He would act as a snake when at such a disadvantage, plucking her fragile heartstrings like a harp. He would lie, just like he lied to Orin. He would make excuses and play to her sympathies. Talyn could already hear him tell her that he was right. Eli would say that they were all drifters now, and in the end he foresaw they were one in the same. If only he knew this Talyn wasn’t the same woman he’d tried to play all those lost years ago. This one was wiser. Stronger. Angrier. More, this Talyn knew precisely why the City hadn’t been able to stand against the onslaught of Calus and his betrayer Shadow. Any great empire falls when it fractures. Eli hadn’t cared in an iota what lines he was drawing in the sand when he enticed prospective Dredgens with shiny toys. He didn’t give a damn how it had all fallen apart when nobody was there to keep the disillusioned from dropping everything and running. It was all his fault. His selfish hubris had brittled the unity they’d used to slay Crota, and Oryx, and Ghaul. Now he was alone again, and he was a fool to believe he’d find quarter with someone he had stolen everything from. Her eyes grew dark, hands gripping the sides of her chair white-knuckle. Her crew were waiting for orders, and she gave them in a shaking hush. 

“Reject the hail,” Talyn shuddered. “And divert all power to weapons.”

The Exo tapped his console quickly, and a pair of cannons went live and locked on with an alarm flourish. He almost sounded sad. “...say the word, ma’am.” 

She only hesitated as long as it took to try and remember the Broken Nomad’s face. When she couldn’t find it, the words were effortless. 

“Open fire.” 

[msktns]

Cylindrical Blue Screen of Death via Digg http://ift.tt/2sQR4QI

[danganmos]

Ch 7 Execution

The Fall of Eve

Ultimate Female Model Takano Shion’s Execution: Executed

Shion is standing at the start of a long catwalk in a typical premiere-esque setting; faceless mannequins are packed into the stands in place of adoring fans and paparazzi, bright flashes of white light illuminating her face and the floor that extends before her. Instead of the normal tastefully designed stage board where models slipped in and out of the public eye, a giant megatron splays out in bright neon. The text on the screen reads [PUBLIC RATING: 100%]. It’s basically business as usual for Shion. Just another day on the catwalk. Thus, the model begins to take graceful strides forwards, face perfectly even and doll-like— almost as still as the mannequins that frantically snapped their cameras.

Just as Shion moved off of the main stage, however, the floor of the catwalk itself split open to reveal a grated surface below. A nightmare to walk on top of in high heels, but that didn’t stop her- she was a trained professional, after all. Once she was several feet away, a board rose up from below the stage behind her and began to slowly follow Shion’s footsteps. It was decorated with long blades akin to those which adorned an iron maiden- motivation to continue walking down the seemingly endless path. But it was fine, she kept walking; a tried and true model indeed, Shion didn’t let these distractions hinder her. At random intervals, razor sharp spikes prodded out from the openings in the ground, one finally piercing through her foot clean and ripping an anguished shriek from the girl. Blood gushed from the wound and dripped down into the abyss beneath her, but she somehow tore away her foot from the spot and continued to walk. The blades pursuing her back wouldn’t relent, after all.

As a consequence, her public rating suffered; the most minute contortion on Shion’s face dropped the megatron’s numbers to 92%, and the imperfect limp in her once-perfect form only continued to coax the number downwards. 90%, 87%, 86%...

When the second spike hit Shion’s other foot, the model collapsed onto the ground in pain, screaming as two holes were torn into the palms that cushioned her fall. The mastermind’s dress was quickly becoming stained with bright pink, and her score began to plunge even more. An international model falling at a famous exhibition, what a scandal… the flashes around her only grew until it was registered as nothing but a bright white sea. 72%, 56%, 22%...

Behind her, the iron maiden wall had completely caught up; it towered over Shion’s collapsed figure for one, two moments, before teetering and falling at a startling speed. The point of the knives dove towards her back, set on impaling her. 

[PUBLIC RATING: 0%]

Right at that moment, the floor completely opened up, and instead of meeting the business of several sharpened spears as the model expected, she was dropped into a cylindrical tank full to the rim with some glowing blue fluid, the top of which was sealed as soon as she was completely submerged. Right in front of the cylinder was a golden plaque embossed with a single word: EVE. Gasping and struggling did Shion no favors and instead filled her lungs with liquid, and she pressed her fingers desperately against the glass prison while wild golden eyes searched the figures of the students just mere feet away from her. The blood from her previous injuries poured out in beautiful pink swirls around her dress and feet, thin silken waves decorating her aquatic prison. From the bottom of the tank upwards, they began to freeze into place.

The liquid was crystallizing.

Beyond the glass, none of her cries were able to go through. First her feet, then her calves, thighs… all the way up, the blood within her flesh slowly turned to solid, encased eternally in a twisted form of what the museum defined as art. Eventually the model accepted her fate, closing her eyes as her entire body turned to stone agonizingly slowly. The pillar of pure crystal stood in front of the remaining students, still as death.

Shion is Eve, and Eve is art. Untouchable by human hands, forever.

[latenightskid]

Wacorra Under

Kathryn was helping Ethan cover himself with a special plastic to keep his wiring away from the water. Mark, standing in the doorway in his wetsuit and helmet, arms crossed tightly, tapped his foot impatiently against the floor; it made a faint clank that was beginning to bother Tyler, who stood next to him.

“Can you stop tapping your foot?” he asked, partially annoyed. Mark grunted as he forced his foot to stay still.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, turning away slightly. “I’m just… nervous. How do we know these Waccorans aren’t going to try to drown us, or kill us, or make us one of their undersea statues?”

“Because they asked us to come and help them with their planet,” replied Kathryn. “They’re not going to hurt anyone, and they won’t let us get hurt.”

Mark mumbled something else under his breath, but no one heard him. They all assumed it was another complaint. Amy walked up to him and placed one hand on her hip, the other wrapped around the helmet at her waist.

“Are you too angry to give us a rundown of Wacorra?” she asked him. He sighed and pulled out the panel they needed. It turned on and pulled up a holographic image of the planet. It was entirely covered in water, except for some small patches of land dotting the surface, including the one they had landed the Barrel on.

“The entire planet is an… organism,” explained Mark, shivering at the word. “Nothing good’s been coming from it, as would be expected from under the ocean. The Waccorans said they would have more information for us when we got here.” A short, three-toned beep ran through the ship.

“That’s them,” said Tyler. Amy walked over to the door and pressed a button. The metal door slid up, and a staircase deployed to let them step out. The group stepped onto the smooth, teal terrain of the island. A pair of brightly-colored people stood in front of them. Their legs transitioned at the knee into large pieces of coral with flat bottoms, like lumpy, porous feet. Their skin was composed of patches of different shades of their main color; these two were light blue and peach, respectively. Their shoulders and ears branched into smaller pieces of cylindrical coral, and their hands each included three webbed fingers. Flat noses sat on their faces, and their eyes were mostly black. The blue one’s hair was short and yellow, and it looked to be partially crystalized. The peach Waccoran’s red hair was a bit longer, reaching his neck. Their lower halves were covered in rags that matched the color of their hair. They both looked happy to see them.

“You are the crew of The Barrel, yes?” asked the blue one.

“Yes,” replied Amy. “I’m Amy. This is-”

“We know your names,” interrupted the peach one. “You are very popular on Waccora. Great heroes. I am Lesp. My partner here is called Miern. We are happy to have you.”

“Happy to be here,” replied Ethan with a friendly smile. “Well… most of us.” Miern gazed at them, giving an approving nod as he looked each of them over.

“You can breathe underwater, yes?”

“With these suits,” replied Kathryn. Miern nodded rapidly, and he and Lesp exchanged an approving smile and nod.

“Please, follow us.” The two turned and stepped into the water, side-by-side. Kathryn, Amy, and Ethan didn’t hesitate to follow them. Mark approached the water’s edge slowly and peered in. It was a teal color that matched the land -- the land he wished he could stay on. Tyler gently poked him in the back, causing him to inch forward. He flinched and turned to see Tyler giving him a smirk.

“Come on,” he stated. “We’ve got to help these people.” Mark sighed and started in after the group.

The water was surprisingly clear. They were able to see a good distance ahead, mostly of rocks and several colorful varieties of kelp rising from the floor. The ground wasn’t sand, but rather a smooth rock surface. Miern and Lesp led the group.

“The Wacorra is our parent,” began Lesp. “We came from the coral beds of the valleys within the Wacorra. But recently, the Wacorra has been mistreating us. They release toxins into the water that have killed many a village. They have swallowed villages whole, and we are dying by the dozens. We must ask you to embark on a dangerous quest, heroes.” The two stopped and turned to the crew. In the distance, they could see spires and tall structures grouped together. “We ask that you dive into the mouth of the Wacorra and find what is causing them so much distress.” Lesp and Miern seemed uneasy; they knew that their request was a lot to handle.

Mark wanted to say no. He wanted to tell them how their quest was a death sentence, that they were putting his entire crew in jeopardy for something they could do themselves, but he didn’t. He wanted to help. He saw how upset the two had been while talking about it. Everyone did. They were terrified for the future. That’s why Mark said, “Alright. Give us everything we need to know about the Wacorra. We’ll help any way we can.” The group nodded in agreement. Lesp and Miern gave each other large grins, and Miern took one of Mark’s hands in both of his.

“Thank you, heroes,” he began. “We are very, very grateful.” Mark patted his hand gently, feeling the rough coral texture against his skin.

The group finally made it to the village. Spires of crystal-covered stone sat around the outskirts of the village, creating a border. The buildings were rough boxes, carved from stone and decorated with paint that was made to withstand the water. Many more Wacorrans walked across the square, each with their own bright color scheme. Some of them looked over at the group and seemed to recognize them, growing excited and mumbling to each other. Some of the buildings had open fronts to allow for quick shopping, but they couldn’t see much more of the village for the Waccorans surrounding them. Lesp and Miern stopped at a structure and motioned for them to step in. They all piled into a small room with crystallized chairs that seemed to have once been made out of a different material, but none of them could tell what. A table sat in the middle of the room in the same condition, with a small panel inside a large bubble in the middle of it. Miern reached his arm in; the bubble didn’t break as he slid into it. He pressed on the panel’s screen, and a holographic image appeared.

“This is the mouth of the Waccora,” he explained. “It is just beyond the border of our village.”

Miern and Lesp explained the entire plan of action with the group. The Waccora themself was made of more than just a mouth, but comprised different caves and underwater bodies of liquid. Once the plan of action had been discussed and everyone was in agreement, they started out the doorway.

“Thank you again, Barrel crew,” said Lesp. “We owe you our lives.”

The mouth of the Wacorra was anything but a mouth. It was a wide cavern that fell into darkness as far as they could see. Mark had been brave so far, but this was insanity. “There’s no way,” he mumbled.

“Mark,” prompted Kathryn, “we need instruction.”

Marked looked around at the group to see they were all looking at him. He took a deep breath and returned their stares. “We have to check on the six different areas,” he began, “all of them with a different function. There’s three passages that connect two of the areas. Once we reach the bottom” -- he stole another glance into the pit -- “if there is a bottom to this, we break into three groups. Kathryn and Ethan, you two will head to the filtration lake and the crystal support. Tyler, you find the root garden and the crystal core. Amy and I are going after the disposal pit and the coral reef. Everyone got it?” They all nodded. “Great. Keep your comms at the ready, and report in if anything happens.” Ethan was the first one in, already jumping in as Mark finished talking. Kathryn followed him quickly with a small chuckle. Tyler patted Mark on the shoulder and began to float down next. Mark crossed his arms and watched the rest of them drift down. The darkness encased them once they got deep enough. Amy grabbed Mark’s shoulder and looked down at the mouth.

“After you,” she said. He shook his head quickly and began to turn. Before he could start walking, she pressed on his shoulder and pushed him down into it. Before he knew it, he was dropping head first into the belly of the beast. Amy floated beside him, and he quickly grabbed her waist. She chuckled and let him hold her. Once they reached deep enough, they were trapped in darkness. They floated for a couple more minutes until finally, Amy touched down. Faint lights came from down two other corridors, which she assumed were the rest of the group.

“Are we at the bottom?” asked Mark.

“Is Mark clinging to you like a baby?” teasd Kathryn.

“Wha- no!” Mark quickly let go of Amy and allowed himself to drop to the ground. He quickly pulled himself up and turned on his flashlight. A few quiet laughs rang through his comms, and he made a face. “Turning off team comms, if you don’t mind.” He switched his voice connector so only he could only talk to Amy. Everyone sounded off and did the same. Amy turned to the remaining tunnel of rock, and squinted, trying to see into it from where she was.

“Well, it’s now or never.”

“How many people do you think are left?” asked Ethan, scanning the area with his flashlight. Kathryn looked over her shoulder at him.

“I don’t really want to think about it,” she replied. “It’s a scary time for them.”

“I know… I feel so bad. Wait, up ahead.” They walked farther until the walls of the tunnel expanded into a circular room. In the center sat a large body of deep green liquid, surrounded by some smaller puddles of the stuff. The ceiling of the cavern was porous, with faint trails of gases escaping the holes. It was warm. Really warm.

“How does it work?” asked Ethan.

“Apparently it’s supposed to filter out the bad chemicals in the water for the people to live, but it’s been expelling them instead,” Kathryn explained. They looked around the room. Ethan squatted down and looked at one of the puddles.

“Hey,” he started, “does it take in any solid material?”

Kathryn turned to him from the other side of the room. “It’s not supposed to. Why?”

Ethan slowly reached his hand in and pulled out something rough and covered in the green sludge. “I don’t know. I just found…” He shined his flashlight at it to get a better view before screaming and tossing it into the air. It floated down and hit one of the small areas of land in between the puddles.

“Ethan? What is it?”

“Coral! There’s coral in here!”

Kathryn’s stomach dropped. “What?” she asked, beginning to move toward him. “Coral? Why would there be coral in here?”

“I don’t know! Why would anyone come down here?” Ethan pushed himself to his feet as Kathryn examined the piece of coral. She reached her hand toward the liquid, but felt intense heat before she even got close.

“What happened here?” she asked softly, to no one in particular.

Tyler wandered down the tunnel, scanning the area with his flashlight. The root garden hadn’t had any issues; in fact, was actually quite pleasant. It was a large room where roots had hung from the ceiling, all apparently healthy and vibrant. He couldn’t imagine what could be causing so much distress to the poor planet, but it wasn’t anything in there, he was sure. His flashlight reflected back at him, and he shielded his eyes. He had reached a smaller room. In the middle of it, connected to massive roots, floated a large crystal. The crystal itself was covered in the same crystal particles that coated the hair of all the Waccorans. He circled it, looking at all the sides. One caught his attention with a large, wide crack. He let out a small gasp as he shined the flashlight at the ground at his feet; there were shards from the break scattered around him. Tyler gently ran his hand over the edges of the break. It was created by something external, he knew that much; the crystal couldn’t have done this itself. What caused it, though, was what scared him. He placed his hand against the crystal beside the fissure.

“We’ll fix this,” he mumbled. “Alright?” A deep sound ran through the room, ending with a few clicks. It sounded close.

Mark stayed close to Amy, turning here and there constantly to make sure nothing was behind them.

“I can you feel you dancing the salsa behind me,” she laughed. “We’re almost there.”

“Hey,” he protested, accidentally bumping into her on another twist, “you don’t know what might be down here. The Wacorra is obviously distressed. How do we know it isn’t from some deep sea monster?”

“I mean, technically, it’s possible.”

Mark’s eyes widened at that statement. When he saw the room get larger, he turned forward. “Is this… the coral reef?”

They walked slowly past small, crushed piles of brightly colored coral. Pieces were everywhere, some large, others practically dust. They shined their flashlights across the ground.

“It can’t be,” mumbled Mark.

“What happened here?”

“Obviously nothing natural. I told you there was something down here.” They looked the room over once more. Amy let out a sigh.

“Nothing to find,” she said, turning to Mark. “We’ll have to head to the disposal pit. I can’t imagine what that’s like.” Both of them took one last look at the crushed coral around them. Neither of them wanted to think too hard about what it really meant. What all of the coral was supposed to be. As much as neither of them wanted to face what had caused all this damage, they had to move. They needed to help the Waccora, so things like this would never happen again.

The trip between rooms lasted only a short time. There was no exchange of words, except the occasional check to make sure the other was alive. Their minds were racing. They were in the dark, n the inner mechanisms of an ocean planet, n a place that they could easily be attacked by… something. Anything. Neither of them knew what, and neither of them wanted to find out. They finally reached the disposal pit, where Amy let out a sharp, “Oh my…” Her hand pressed over her helmet where her mouth was. Mark placed a hand on her shoulder, but he was equally horrified. Broken stone structures rested in large piles. They looked just like the villages above them had. The room stretched back farther than they could see, and neither of them wanted to move forward. Scattered across the debris was coral pieces, some composed of entire limbs, others shattered into bits. When Amy didn’t move, Mark pulled her closer.

“What did this?” asked Mark, more upset than scared. Amy pulled away, keeping a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “Are you alright?” She gave him a quick nod and turned to the rubble. They moved a bit closer; they needed more information on what had happened. They both had to constantly look away, as some coral parts were a little too intact for comfort. A sudden groan rippled through the rubble, and they exchanged a glance. They grabbed each others’ hands and flashed their flashlights toward the sound. They watched a small hand wave slowly in the distance. Their stomachs dropped, and Mark moved quickly.

“Hold on,” he called, climbing over the debris. Amy soon broke from her state of frozen fear and joined him in the climb. Mark tried to move the debris, but it wouldn’t budge. Amy pulled too, almost in tears. Nothing.

“Don’t,” came a voice. They both stopped, and Mark shined his flashlight down. The top half of a pink and purple Waccoran stuck from the debris. She lowered her hand onto the rubble, her eyes heavy and slow. “Heroes. I knew… I knew you would come. Eventually. You would come.”

“Is there any way we can help?” asked Mark, on the verge of panic. “Is there… is there any way we can get you out of this?”

Her long purple hair swayed slowly above her, strands catching on the debris behind her. She held out her free hand and placed it on Mark’s thigh. “I’ll be gone soon. But… you must find the beast. The Wacorra… the Waccora will not stop fighting. Fighting against the beast inside. Unless it is stopped, we all will crumble.”

“What is the beast?” asked Amy, tears in her eyes.

“I don’t know. Please. Amy. Mark. Save the Wacorrans.”

Amy held back tears as best she could as the Waccoran’s hand slipped from Mark’s leg and fell slowly to the debris. Mark helped Amy off of the debris and pulled her into a tight hug as she cried.

“We’ve got to find… whatever this beast is,” he told her quietly. “Did anyone bring any weapons?”

“I don’t think so,” she replied, slowly pulling herself together and pulling away from Mark. “How are we supposed to do this?” A scream cut in over their comms, and they quickly switched them to team communication.

“Tyler!” called Mark, motioning for Amy to follow him as he began jogging out of the room. “Tyler, is that you?”

“Everything checks out here,” came Kathryn’s frantic voice.

“Tyler!” screamed Ethan. “We’re on our way!”

“What’s happening?” asked Kathryn.

“There’s some monster in here,” explained Mark. “The Wacorra has been trying to get it out of their system, but can’t track it down. They’re pulling in anything from the surface in hopes of getting it off the planet.”

“Well, it’s not doing a very good job,” yelled Ethan. The pairs made their way into Tyler’s tunnel and joined together.

“I have an idea,” began Kathryn as they moved. “There’s a bunch of puddles of waste coming from the filtration room. Ethan was able to put his hand in, but when I reached for the liquid it was hot. Really hot. If we can lead the monster into that tunnel, we can kill it.”

“Tyler,” called Mark. “Are you still alive?” Grunting noises came from Tyler’s comm, as well as faint clicking and screeching noises.

“Barely,” he grunted. “But… I’m holding…”

“We’re almost there,” called Amy.

“Tyler, we’re coming buddy!” yelled Ethan. They reached the crystal core and were immediately met with a horrifying figure. Their flashlights revealed bony, black legs with long, sharp claws at their ends. Its back was hunched, with pieces of coral stuck to it. Its face was mangled and its deep red eyes were positioned haphazardly. A rough, black tongue hung from its mouth from between a razor-like teeth. It opened its mouth to let out a shrill screech, ending with a clicking sound. Everyone froze. Suddenly, Tyler pinned it to the ground.

“I heard the plan,” he groaned, as it struggled against him. “Get a head start. Go!” They turned and ran, some of them sooner than others. They raced down the tunnels as fast as they could underwater and turned down the tunnel toward the filtration room. The clicking and screeching grew louder, from echoes to a pinpointable origin.

“Almost there,” called Ethan. The beast’s noise was right on their tail, and when they finally reached the chamber, everyone jumped to the walls. Kathryn gave the creature one final push as it charged into the sludge. It let out an piercing, horrifying shriek as it melted into the liquid, marbling the green with deep black. Everyone panted, and Kathryn slid down the wall.

“Did you get it?” asked Tyler, over the comms.

“We got it,” Mark replied between breaths.

Miern and Lesp stood outside while the crew peeled off their wetsuits. Everyone but Ethan had wrapped towels around themselves. Kathryn and Tyler ate while Ethan described what their sections of the Wacorra had been like. Amy and Mark stepped off the ship to say their goodbyes to the Wacorrans.

“Thank you,” began Miern, almost in tears. “Thank you, heroes. We give our hearts to you. You saved our people.”

Lesp nodded at every word. “Yes, yes,” he continued. “We thank you. We have teams below now. They are working to repair and fix the damages done by the beast you have slain. Is there any way we can repay you?”

Amy was about to say something when Mark cut in. “Yes. Don’t ever let me go into the water again.” Miern and Lesp looked confused, and Amy gave Mark a hard smack on the shoulder.

“What he means,” she began, giving him a glare, “is that we don’t need anything, really. We were happy to help.”

Miern and Lesp nodded, not particularly torn either way about the refusal of their gift. “We wish you a safe flight.” The two groups parted ways, and Mark patted himself down.

“Ugh… where are my keys?” he grumbled. Amy held them out in her hand with a smart smirk. Mark gave her a sarcastically happy look and took them from her. “Thank you, Amy.”

[searchingwardrobes]

Chapter One of my Captain Swan Twister AU (assuming everyone doesn’t hate me for the prologue)

Rating: T

Trigger warning: major character deaths

You can read the prologue here Prologue Ao3

18 years later

It was a gorgeous spring day; at least most would think so. But Emma Swan, with a master’s degree in atmospheric sciences and meteorology, could see trouble brewing. It was subtle; the lack of a breeze on an otherwise pleasant day, the greenish-gray tinge of sky off in the distance, and the rumble of thunder so many miles away, only people attuned to it would notice.

But Emma wasn’t concerned with the weather. She was concerned with the man chasing it. Graham parked his Dodge pickup along the side of the rural Oklahoma road. He glanced over at her with a tentative smile, and she reached over to squeeze his hand reassuringly. She looked out the windshield at the beat up, brown 73 Ford sitting in front of her. Seeing it again flooded her with memories she wasn’t expecting. To push them back, she reminded herself of the past month and how many phone calls Killian had ignored. Resolute and sufficiently pissed, she opened the door of Graham’s cab and jumped to the ground. She clenched her fists as she marched across the sparse grass.

A cylindrical machine sat in the back of the truck, a machine Emma knew well, down to the circuit boards and wiring. Killian’s dark head popped up from behind it. He glanced her way, his blue eyes simultaneously widening and darkening. He then purposefully looked away.

“Hey, Rubes,” he yelled, “come check out the antenna. It seems secure, but last time we didn’t get decent connection.”

Emma put her hands on her hips and scowled up at him. “Don’t ignore me, Killian Jones!”

He took a step towards the open tailgate, his jaw clenching, but before he could say anything, a squeal pierced the air.

“Emma!” Ruby shrieked, and the next thing Emma knew, she was practically being tackled by the brunette. “I can’t believe you’re here! It’s been, what? Three years? You’ve got to go see Granny. We’ve missed you!”

Emma felt a twinge of guilt even though Ruby was smiling brightly without a hint of anger in her voice. “I know.” She glanced behind her at Killian. “I’m hoping things can be different now.” She stepped around Ruby to come closer to the truck. “If this stubborn asshole will actually have a conversation with me.”

Killian’s eyes sparked with anger, and Emma wondered if this whole thing was a mistake. She glanced behind her, catching Graham’s eye as Killian jumped down from the truck. He walked across the grass towards them, and she raised her hand surreptitiously. Killian would never hurt her, she knew this. But Graham didn’t, and Killian’s emotions could be volatile. The last thing she wanted was an altercation between the two of them.

“Being pissed about me ignoring you is a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?” Killian spat, getting into her personal space like he always did.

Emma glanced away, gnawing at the inside of her cheek. The comment was justified, she knew that. Especially since he didn’t have all the facts.

“I . . . had my reasons.”

“So why are you back?” He demanded, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I . . . uh, think I’ll check on that antenna,” Ruby muttered, scrambling into the bed of the truck.

Graham came up then, placing an encouraging hand to the small of Emma’s back. She was pretty sure Killian would interpret it as a possessive gesture. She glanced up, her heart sinking as she saw Killian’s gaze swing between her and Graham.

She took a deep breath, “Killian, this is Graham. We’re . . . getting married.”

Killian blinked, his head recoiling slightly at her words. Then his chest rose and fell rapidly as he hissed through clenched teeth, “So that’s why you’re here? To rub this in my face?”

“No,” Emma said, trying to rein in her own emotions. They had always fed off each other, joy, sadness, anger, but today she had to stay calm. “But there are . . . complications that I need to discuss with you. If you had answered your damn phone, or returned my calls, I wouldn’t have had to –“

“Seriously?” Killian cut her off with a sharp laugh. “What complications? We were never married, Swan, or have you forgotten the day you turned down my proposal?” He tilted his head as he gave Graham a vicious stare. “Let me warn you, she runs.”

The words cut Emma deep. Damn him, he knew just what buttons to push.

“I’m just here as emotional support for Emma,” Graham explained, taking a step away from her side. Emma knew it was his way of diffusing the situation and in no way meant he wasn’t one hundred percent behind her. His calm in the midst of chaos was what made him such a wonderful detective with the Atlanta PD, and Emma had to admit, that contrast with Killian’s mercurial personality had been a large part of the man’s appeal.

“Hey, Killian,” another voice called. This one came from the camper parked perpendicular to the road next to Killian’s old truck. The red head poking her head out of its screen door gasped when she saw Emma. She screamed louder than Ruby had as she raced to embrace Emma.

“Ariel,” Emma laughed, “you’re still chasing storms with this motely crew?”

Ariel shook her head, laughing as well. She gave Killian a playful shrug. “With you gone, someone’s got to keep this guy’s head on straight.” She and Killian immediately blushed, glancing away from one another, and Emma wondered briefly what that was all about.

“Ariel is the data analyzer for the team,” Emma explained to Graham. He smiled and reached out to shake her hand. Ariel glanced at Emma with a question in her eyes. “And Ariel, this is Graham, my, um, fiancé.”

“Oh,” Ariel said, her voice hesitant, and there was that awkward glance shared with Killian again. She shuffled her feet and brushed her hair off her shoulder after releasing Graham’s hand. “Um, so Killian, there’s a storm brewing over in Rush Springs. Looks like a good one.”

“Shit,” Killian swore, jumping back up into the bed of the truck, “Ruby, please tell me you’ve got that antenna working.”

“She’s all ready to go, boss,” Ruby assured him, slapping the top of the giant tin can.

“Dorothy II?” Graham noted. “I mean, I get it, but . . . I thought you hated that book?”

Killian finished tinkering with the controls on Dorothy II, then grinned down at her and Graham. “We both do, but nothing from Peter Pan really fits storm chasing.”

Emma couldn’t help sharing a tiny half smile with him. She remembered so many nights of him reading to her under the covers with a flashlight, both of them imagining what it would be like, as a lost boy and a lost girl, to live on a magical island. Half the time Granny would catch him in her room, and drag him out by the elbow, muttering about how they were much too old at 12 and 10 to be sharing a bed. Heat flooded Emma’s cheeks as her mind tripped forward to when Granny caught him in her room again four years later. Emma shook her head, cursing herself. It made sense at fourteen to be mortified caught making out with your boyfriend. She was a grown woman now who shouldn’t be feeling this heat deep in her core over long buried memories. She was young then, her feelings for Killian so pure and uncomplicated. So much had changed since then.

Killian jumped over the side of the truck and jumped into the cab. Emma dashed over, grabbing the edge of the open window with both hands.

“This isn’t over, Killian. We need to talk.”

“You had three years to talk, Emma. How many of my calls did you ignore when you left?” he glanced down at the diamond ring on her left hand. “And here all this time I thought you were just afraid to commit.”

He turned away from her, turning the key in the ignition. It made that clicking sound Emma remembered it making on a regular basis before finally starting. But this time, Killian tried it multiple times, to know avail.

“Come on!” Killian growled in frustration, smacking the steering wheel with the palm of his hand.

“Uh boss, we gotta get moving,” the plump, bearded man in the driver’s seat of the camper called out through his open window. When he saw Emma, his eyes brightened. “Emma! It’s great to see you! We’ve all –“

“Smee!” Killian barked as he jumped from the truck, slamming the door, “We don’t really have time to shoot the breeze, mate.”

“R-right, boss,” Smee apologized, fiddling with the red knit cap perched on his head. Emma smiled at the nervous man. Some things never changed.

Killian jumped up in the bed of the truck and started sliding Dorothy II closer to the tailgate. “You want to talk, Swan?” he said to her. “Let me use that shiny truck over there to transport Dot, and we’ll talk.”

Emma crossed her arms over her chest as she stared at up at him. She let out a deep sigh, then scrambled up with him. Graham rushed over to the truck, his face starting to go pale.

“You can’t be serious!” he exclaimed.

“It’ll be fine, Graham, really,” she grunted as they slid the aluminum machine to the edge of the tailgate. It was much lighter than Dorothy I, and was actually more cumbersome than heavy, but they didn’t want to risk damaging it before it could be transported to the sight of the storm.

“Fine?” Graham argued. “You’re talking about chasing a tornado, Emma! In my truck!”

She helped Killian lower Dorothy II from the truck then they slowly made their way to the back of Graham’s. Once they had shut the tailgate, Emma turned to her fiancé, grasping both his hands in hers. “Can you trust me, please? The crew has to take every opportunity to get Dot airborne.”

“This is tornado alley . . . “ Graham said, trailing off.

“If you’re scared, mate, you can stay behind in the camper.” Killian’s cocky grin was definitely a challenge.

Graham rose to it, literally puffing out his chest. “Fine,” he muttered, “just tell me what to do.”

Emma snatched the keys out of his hands. “Someone with experience needs to drive, babe.”

As the three of them piled into the truck, Emma’s fiancé sandwiched between her and her ex, Graham muttered, “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

Frankly, Emma couldn’t either.

@shipsxahoy @tiganasummertree @artistic-writer @kmomof4 @hollyethecurious @thejacketandthehook @shady-swan-jones @bethacaciakay @galadriel26 @teamhook @cat-sophia @coliferoncer @allofdafandoms-blog @pocket-anon @dassala @branlovesouat @flslp87 @snowbellewells @thislassishooked @yayimallamaagain

[guide-to-senwa]

Dummiye #2

Dummiye stands up, in a place made of hundreds, maybe thousands of brass pipes. He looks up to the looming darkness above him inside of this large cylindrical chamber, he lets out a deep sigh, admonishing his current location and situation, "Hmm. So... His majesty really kicked me out of the palace..."

He begins to wonder, miserable about the circumstances, "My own best friend... I guess he didn't see me the same way..."

Dummiye notices that his right foot is on an opaque dark blue dodecahedral crystal that looks a little like lapis lazuli. His mouth goes flat as a prompt pops up on screen, a dark grayish brown box with white text that says, Please press △ to interact.

Dummiye seems to just contemplate something, maybe his next actions or maybe the reasons he was forced to fall all the way down here, until △ is pressed. When the button is pressed, he kneels down and touches his hand on it, it turns transparent with a sphere of warm blue light coming from the center of the crystal.

The menu pops up on the side of the screen because this game is pretty much a soulsborne game, this is essentially the bonfire. He remarks, "Not even death is gonna make me go back..."

The menu on the side has the title Spirit Shelter. Like I said, bonfire, it allows those within this world to respawn after they disappear. The buttons the Spirit Shelter shows off is Save, Teleport, and two more that I will talk about later.

None of the buttons work when playing as Dummiye, except for technically Teleport, because it shows the name of his current location...

Deep Salivating Steamworks

Though, the area's name would still popup on to the screen when you get close to this particular chamber's exit.

[survivalistgear1]

Best Home Air Purifier For COVID 19 Survival

Airborne diseases spread really fast because of daily contact with people and objects.

The transmission rate tends to rise indoors and this puts you at a higher risk of contracting COVID-19. Fortunately, you can keep your air sanitized by getting one of these best home air purifiers for Coronavirus.

Helpful resources: https://survivalistgear.co/emergency-survival-blog/

Can HEPA filters remove Coronavirus?

Having a HEPA air purifier in your home or office is effective in preventing the spread of COVID-19. Scientific observation indicates that HEPA filters can trap particles as small as 0.01 nanometers. On the other hand, COVID-19 viruses are approximately 0.1 microns and this makes them too big to pass through HEPA filtration.

Here are 7 ideal air purifiers that can trap Coronavirus. 

Dyson Pure Cool Air Purifier

Internet control

You need sanitized air at all times to minimize your chances of contracting Coronavirus. Fortunately, the Dyson Pure air purifier comes with an app that enables you to operate remotely. This feature is necessary because it takes approximately 10-15 minutes to sanitize a living room. You can actually get clean air indoors by activating your air purifier on your way home.

Doubles as a fan

Moving currents of air pose a great risk indoors because they maximize the flow of airborne particles. Dyson pure air can provide you with a continuous breeze of sanitized air thanks to its 2-in-1 feature. All you need to do is detach the top part and HEPA filters.

Rotating feature 

Some air purifiers tend to be ineffective because they’re stationary. Dyson pure air purifier has a circular base that rotates 180 degrees. This feature enables your air purifier to draw in air at a higher rate than stationary brands with small fans at the bottom. 

Ease of setup

Setting up this HEPA air purifier takes approximately two minutes. It comes in three detachable parts making it highly portable. You can take it from one room to the next without requiring any tools.

Real time Filter monitoring

The Dyson air purifier app works with inbuilt filter sensors to give you real time updates on your HEPA filters. You’ll get alerts when your HEPA filters get clogged and require replacements.

HOMEDICS Oscillating HEPA Air Purifier

Two sides of HEPA filtration

This cylindrical shaped air purifier has two sections of HEPA filters. Each section contains a pair of medical grade HEPA filters to ensure you get the best air sanitization. In other words, it offers twice the filtration compared to other brands within a similar price range.

Large tower size

A large air purifier is better than a small one because you can use it in apartments and large living rooms. It can also double up as an office air purifier since it’s still effective in spaces measuring 600 square feet. 

Doubles up as a smoke air purifier

HOMEDics oscillating air purifier gives you more value for money because it doubles up as a smoke air purifier. You’ll find activated carbon air filters that trap smoke odor on both sides.

Easy to Clean filters

The HEPA filters in this air purifier are designed to last for one year. Fortunately, you can clean them using a vacuum cleaner before your next replacement. All it takes is just detaching the side panels to access your HEPA filters.

Overnight features 

HOMEDics air purifier runs silently even when operating at maximum speed. This makes it suitable for bedrooms because you won’t worry about noisy interruptions. In addition, it comes with a timer that enables it to operate for 8 consecutive hours while minimizing power consumption.  

Winix Plasmawave 5500

Remote control

A remote control comes in handy when you’re operating the air purifier from a different room. For instance, when you’re cooking in the kitchen and are mindful of certain odors lingering in the living room. Plus, it gives you convenience when you’re on the couch reading a book because you can adjust settings without waking up. 

Simple menu

Winix Plasmawave is so easy to use that even older generations can operate it without assistance. The menu layout is divided into three sections for ease of use. Also, you don’t need to consult your manual when replacing HEPA filters because the side panels detach easily.

Four stage filtration

Winix gives you extra protection compared to other brands in its category. You’ll notice two different air filters above your HEPA filter, each serving a different purpose. The first layer is a HEPA-like filter designed to trap pet hair and small particles that cause allergies.

Next, is the activated carbon filter that neutralises odors such as cigarette smoke. Beneath all of them is a HEPA filter that traps all airborne bacteria and viruses. You can also kill airborne viruses using the plasmawave technology. It operates by using a special ultraviolet light that disintegrates smoke particles and organisms.

Air pollution sensor

Winix Plasmawave 5500 contains internal air sensors that control fan speed. This determines the rate at which your air gets sanitized. Automatic air sensors ensure you get a continuous supply of clean air at night when you can’t regulate the settings.

Limitation

Winix launched the Plasmawave 5500 back in 2016. However, the improvements since its debut have been quite minimal. Most brands in this price range are compatible with smartphone apps for remote control. Winix is still hesitant to adapt this technology.

Coway AP 1512HH

No setup required

Coway AP 1512HH doesn’ require any assembly. After getting rid of the cardboard box, simply plug in your air purifier and switch it on. The automatic air sensor controls your fan speed based on the amount of pollutants detected.

Inbuilt ionizer

Ionizers kill odors and airborne viruses effectively and you don’t have to change filters. An ionizer emits negatively charged ions that attach with bacteria and viruses. This contact breaks down the virus outer body leading to death.  

Automatic shutdown

People tend to worry about high power bills as a result of running air purifiers overnight. Coway manufacturers have ensured that you can breathe sanitized air day and night affordably. When the air sensor detects zero pollution, it switches off your purifier. 

Ideal for apartments

This unit will deliver the best results in spaces measuring less than 500 square feet. It’s also compact and square shaped, making it suitable for corners. Plus, the affordable price range and low maintenance costs makes it ideal for college students.

Limitations

Noisy at full speed

It might be hard to sleep soundly or read a book in peace when the Coway AP’s fans are operating at full speed. This can last for an hour if your indoors are heavily polluted with smoke.

No remote control

Coway has manufactured the AP 1512HH for more than three years but haven’t made any improvements. You still have to get up on your feet anytime you need to switch it on or change the settings. 

Levoit LV H132

Ideal for small bedrooms

If you’re looking for an air purifier for a small bedroom, then Levoit LV H132 is what you need. It’s almost the same size as a bluetooth speaker and easily fits on desktops. The maximum size recommended by Levoit is 200 square feet.

Designed for night time use

Levoit LV H132 has a small powerful fan that draws in air from your room. What’s amazing about this unit is that it produces a faint buzz when fans are propelling at maximum speed. Plus, it has a deep blue LED light that adds color to your bedroom.

Highly portable

You can move this air purifier easily from your bedroom to the reading den. This air purifier weighs approximately 6 pounds making it an ideal travel air purifier when sleeping in hotel rooms. 

Low maintenance costs

Owning this unit won’t make your power bills surge. You can run it everyday because it uses less power than a refrigerator. Are the HEPA filter replacements expensive? No, they’re not because you’ll change them after every 6 months.

Limitations

No remote control

All the controls are laid out on a touch screen panel. Unfortunately,You can’t activate this air purifier remotely using a cellphone. This means you risk breathing contaminated air when returning home from work.

No air sensors

At this point, air sensors are a basic feature in every air purifier you come across. They play an important role in adjusting fan settings and power saving. However, the Levoit LV H132 lacks this important feature.

No timer

When you don’t have a WiFi enabled air purifier, you can still operate your air purifier remotely using a timer. This works when you leave home in the morning and plan to return much later. Unfortunately, the Levoit H132 requires personal attention because it lacks a timer. 

Crane True HEPA Air Purifier EE-5068

Ideal for living rooms 

Crane True HEPA gets rid of all airborne particles in less than an hour when operating in spaces less than 300 square feet. It actually gives the Coway AP 15HH a run for its money. You can also use it as a small kitchen air purifier since it’s housed in tough plastic. 

Silent operation

You can watch movies while your Crane purifier runs in the background at maximum settings. It uses a patented fan and motor technology to maximize air inflow efficiently. It’s also highly portable so you can use it at night to prevent asthma attacks or sinus inflammation.

Designed to withstand pet damage

The wide and heavy base is designed to ensure your Crane air purifier doesn’t topple over when pets try to nudge it. The tough plastic exterior is slippery to prevent claw and bite marks. It’s also too tall for curious kittens to hop on the LCD menu. 

Germicidal UV Light filtration

Count this as a bonus filter that doesn’t require any maintenance. After air leaves the HEPA filters, the germicidal UV (ultraviolet) rays come into contact with all contaminants that might have slipped through.

Limitations

No Wifi

It’s relatively large size might make you assume that it’s WiFi enabled. It’s quite a disappointment because most brands within its price range come with smartphone apps. 

Dyson Pure Cool Me BP01

Air purifier & fan combo

Dyson Pure Cool Me is the only unit on this list that comes with an inbuilt fan. You can carry it to the office because it operates silently for eight consecutive hours. The fan also comes in handy at home when it’s too hot to sleep.

Personalized airflow control

This air purifier has a unique dome that enables you to control airflow in any direction. It works by using a dome to change the direction of air vents. 

Ideal for spaces measuring upto 200 square feet

Dyson Pure Cool Me delivers best results in small bedrooms, kitchens, and living rooms. You can also use it in reading dens because it won’t disrupt your silence. The tall cylindrical shape ensures it occupies minimum space. 

Remote control fan

Do you often forget where you placed the remote? Dyson Pure Cool Me comes with a magnetic remote control. Just place your air purifier remote on the polished square surface and it will stick firmly. 

Limitation

No Wifi compatibility

It’s quite disappointing that the Dyson Pure Cool Me lacks WiFi compatibility. Especially when you consider that it costs twice as much as a HOMEDICS Oscillating Air Purifier. 

Tips on Keeping Your Indoor Air Clean 

1. Change your HEPA filters on time

Once you see your filter light turn red, get new HEPA filters immediately. A clogged HEPA filter puts you at great risk because the accumulated dirt forms breeding ground for bacteria and mold.

2. Clean your home with disinfectants

Most viruses can remain active on metallic or wooden surfaces for more than 24 hours. These harmful organisms get airborne when you open the windows. The best way of getting rid of them is by using strong disinfectants to clean your furniture and floors. 

Get an air purifier today

Purchasing an air purifier ensures that the air you breathe at home is always sanitized. Especially when you’re living with people who have a greater risk due to chronic illnesses. Do you need help purchasing any of the air purifiers we’ve reviewed? Feel free to call us or send an email. 

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source https://survivalistgear.co/best-home-air-purifiers/