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awellboiledicicle · 5 years ago

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TMA Statements In Chronological Order

But, not by when the events happened, by the order when the Statements were entered to the Institute. Because that wasn’t on the wiki timeline.

Below the cut because i’m not a monster.

Format is:

Episode // Entity // Statement Giver// Statement Given // Event Date

• #140 The Movment of The Heavens // The Dark // John Flamsteed // 1715 • #116 The Show Must Go On // The Stranger // Abraham Janssen // 2 November 1787 • #23 Schwarzwald // The Eye // Albrecht von Closen // 31st March 1816 // Winter 1815 • #127 Remains to be Seen // The Eye // Jonathan Franshawe // 21 November 1831 // April – November 1831 • #152 A Gravediggers Envy // The Buried // Hezekiah Wakely // 1837 - 1839 • #50 Foundations // The Buried // Sampson Kempthorn // 12th June 1841 // 1836 • #58 Trail Rations // The Flesh // Mrs. Carlisle // 10th November 1845 // October – November 1845 • #105 Total War // The Slaughter, The Eye // Charles Fleming // 1862 • #98 Lights Out // The Dark // Algernon Moss // 14 May 1864 • #138 The Architecture Of Fear // The Eye // Robert Smirke // 13 February 1867 • #7 The Piper // The Slaughter // Clarence Berry // 6th November 1922 // 1917-18 • #133 Dead Horse // The Hunt // Percy Fawcett // 27 June 1930 • #99 Dust to Dust // The Buried // Robert E Geiger // 20 February 1952 // April 1935 • #137 Nemesis // The Slaughter // Wallis Turner // 3 July 1955 // Winter 1942 • #29 Cheating Death // The End // Nathaniel Thorp // 4th June 1972 // 17th June 1775 • #60 Observer Effect // The Eye // Rosa Meyer // 12 July 1972 // April – July 1972 • #95 Absent Without Leave // The Slaughter // Luca Moretti // 2 November 1977 • #44 Tightrope // The Stranger // Yuri Utkin // 2nd March 1979 // November 1952 • #85 Upon the Stair // The Spiral // Unknown // 1980 – 1990 • #86 Tucked In // The Dark // Benjamin Hatendi // 2nd March 1983 • #84 Possessive // The Corruption // Adrian Weiss // 1 December 1990 • #125 Civilian Casualties // The Slaughter // Terrance Simpson // 19 July 1993 • #77 The Kind Mother // The Stranger // Lucy Cooper // 15 September 1994 //August 1994 • #93 Contaminant // The Corruption // Lester Chang // 5 March 1995 • #96 Return To Sender // The Stranger // Alfred Breekon // 15 May 1996 • #53 Crusader // The Eye // Walter Heller // 5th September 1997 // November 1941 • #2 Do Not Open // The Buried, The Stranger // Joshua Gillespie // 22nd November 1998 // 1996 -1998 (?) • #46 Literary Heights // The Spiral, The Vast // Herbert Knox // 21st December 1998 // September 1997 • #17 Boneturners Tale // The Flesh // Sebastian Adekoya // 10th June 1999 // 1996 • #66 Held in Customs // The Buried // Vincent Yang // 22 February 2000 // January 19 2000 • #78 Distant Cousin // The Stranger, The Web // Lawrence Moore // 12 June 2001 • #21 Freefall // The Vast // Moira Kelly // 20th October 2002 // 3rd-5th or 7th June 2001 • #35 Old Passages // All // Harold Silvana // 4th June 2002 // June 2002 • #9 A Father’s Love // The Dark, The Hunt // Julia Montauk // 3rd December 2002 // 1990-95 • #155 Cost of Living // The End // Tova McHugh // 3 December 2002 • #68 Tale of a Field Hospital // The Corruption // Joesph Russo // 3rd June 2003 // 1st June 2003 • #27 A Sturdy Lock // The Spiral // Paul Mckenzie // 24th August 2003 // July 2003 • #146 Threshold // The Spiral // Marcus Mackenzie // 1 September 2003 • #88 Dig // The Buried // Enrique MacMillian // 4 November 2003 • #70 Book of the Dead // The End // Masato Murray // 9th December 2003 • #52 Exceptional Risk // The Dark // Phillip Brown // 9th April 2004 // 1st November 2002 • #24 Strange Music // The Stranger // Leanne Denikin // 17th Jan 2005 // August 2004 • #59 Recluse // The Web, The Desolation // Ronald Sinclair // 29th November 2005 // Early to Mid 1960’s • #134 Time of Revelation // The Extinction // Adelard Dekker // 22 January 2006 // 2005, 1867 • #75 A Long Way Down // The Vast // Stephen Walker // 7 November 2006 // Early October 2006 • #139 Chosen // The Desolation // Eugene Vanderstock // 30 November 2006 • #115 Taking Stock // The Flesh // Michaele Salesa // 4 January 2007 // Autumn of 1999 • #8 Burnt Out // The Web, The Desolation, The Spiral // Ivo Lensik // 13th March 2007 // November 2006 • #67 Burning Desire // The Desolation // Jack Barnabas // 18 March 2007 // October – November 2006 • #3 Across the Street // The Stranger, The Web // Amy Patel // 1st July 2007 // 7th April 2006 • #51 High Pressure // The Vast, The Buried // Antonia Hayley // 7th January 2008 // August 2006 • #106 A Matter of Perspective // The Vast, The Eye // Jan Kilbride // 10 February 2008 • #49 The Butchers Window // The Flesh // Gregory Pryor // 11th March 2008 // June 2007 • #62 First Edition // The End, The Eye // Mary Keay // 3rd July 2008 // 1955 • #154 Bloody Mary // The Eye // Eric Delano // 21 July 2008 • #130 Meat // The Flesh // Lucia Wright // 19 December 2008 • #18 The Man Upstairs // The Flesh // Christof Rudenko // 12th December 2008 // 22nd October 2007 • #156 Reflection // The Extinction // Adelard Dekker // 4 January 2009 • #5 Thrown Away // The Flesh etc. // Kieran Woodward // 23rd February 2009 // 8th August 2008 • #97 We All Ignore The Pit // The Buried // Jackson Ellis // 3 March 2009 • #57 Personal Space // The Lonely, The Vast, The Dark // Carter Chilcott // 4 April 2009 // September 2007 • #145 Infectious Doubts // The Desolation // Arthur Nolan // 2 February 2009 • #114 Cracked Foundation // The Web Shtranger or Extinction // Anya Villette // 22 April 2009 // 23 April 2009 or 9 April 2009 • #37 Burnt Offering // The Desolation // Jason North // 6th August 2009 // August 2009 • #108 Monologue // The Lonely, The Stranger // Adonis Biros // 20 August 2009 // August 2009 • #144 Decrypted // The Extinction // Gary Boylan // 3 October 2009 // August 2009 • #126 Sculptor’s Tool // The Spiral // Deborah Madaki // 11 October 2009 // Spring 2004 • #72 Takeaway // The Flesh // Craig Goodall // 20 October 2009 // 27 September 2009 • #107 Third Degree // The Desolation // 1 February 2010 // January 2010 • #48 Lost in the Crowd // The Lonely // Andrea Nunis // 25th March 2010 // September 2009 • #10 Vampire Killer & #56 Children of the Night // The Hunt, the Web // Trevor Herburt // 10th July 2010 // 1959 (first event), Winter 2009 • #69 Thought For the Day // The Web // Darren Harlow // 18th November 2010 • #31 First Hunt // The Hunt // Lawerence Mortimer // 9th December 2010 // 30th November - 1st December 2010 • #33 Boatswain’s Call // The Lonely // Carlita Sloane // 2nd January 2011 // Late November 2010 • #45 Blood Bag // The Corruption // Thomas Neil // 9th February 2011 // Spring 2010 • #148 Extended Surveillance // The Eye // Sunil Maraj // 3 April 2011 • #14 Piece Meal // The Flesh // Lee Rentoul // 29th May 2011 // Early 2011 • #19 Confession & #20 Desecrated Host // The Spiral, The Web, The Desolation (Hilltop Road) & The Spiral, The Flesh // Edwin Burroughs // 30th May 2011 // November 2006 • #112 Thrill of the Chase // The Hunt // Lisa Carmel // 13 November 2011 • #113 Breathing Room // The End // Adelard Dekker // 2012 • #12 Page Turner // The Desolation, The Eye // Lesere Saraki // 11th February 2012 // 23rd December 2011 • #153 Love Bombing // The Corruption, The Flesh // Barbara Mullen-Jones // 2 March 2012 • #110 Creature Feature // The Web // Alexia Crawley // 14 March 2012 • #1 Anglerfish // Stranger //Nathan Watts // 22nd April 2012 // March 2010 • #38 Lost and Found // The Spiral // Andre Ramao // 6th June 2012 // March 2012 • #36 Taken Ill // The Corruption // Nicole Baxter // 19th November 2012 // August – September 2011 • #136 The Puppeteer // The Web // Alison Killala // 1 December 2012 // 2012 • #124 Left Hanging // The Vast // Julian Jennings // 11 December 2012 // 2012 • #149 Concrete Jungle // The Extinction // Judith O’neill // 13 May 2013 • #54 Still Life // The Stranger // Alexander Scaplehorn // 23 June 2013 • #4 Page Turner // The Vast, The Spiral, The End // Dominic Swain // 28th June 2013 // 10th November 2012 • #90 Body Builder // The Flesh // Ross Davenport // 7 August 2013 • #157 Rotten Core // The Extinction, The Corruption // Adelard Dekker // 14 August 2013 • #30 Killing Floor // The Flesh // David Laylow // 1st September 2013 // 12th July 2013 • #129 Submerged // The Buried // Kulbir Shakya // 4 September 2013 // July or August 2013 • #83 Drawing a Blank // The Stranger // Chloe Ashburt // 19 October 2013 // September – October 2013 • #42 Grifter’s Bone // The Slaughter // Jennifer Ling // 3rd November 2013 // Autumn 2013 • #32 Hive // The Corruption // Jane Prentiss // 23rd February 2014 // Pre-2014 • #63 The End of the Tunnel // The Dark // Erin Gallagher-Nelson // 31st March 2014 // 26th March 2014 • #102 Nesting Instinct // The Corruption // Francois Deschamps // 4 June 2014 • #103 Cruelty Free // The Flesh // Dylan Anderson // 2 July 2014 • #135 Dark Matter // The Dark // Manuela Dominguez // 14 July 2014 // 2007 • #87 The Uncanny Valley // The Stranger, The Desolation // Sebastian Skinner // 10 October 2014 // September 2014 • #15 Lost Johns’ Cave // The Buried // Laura Popham // 9th November 2014 // 14-15th June 2014 • #150 Cul-de-sac // The Lonely // Herman Gorgoli // 9 November 2014 • #6 Squirm // The Corruption // Timothy Hodge // 9th December 2014 // 20th November 2014 • #122 Zombie // The Stranger // Lorell St. John // 1 February 2015 • #11 Dreamer // The End // Antonio Blake (Oliver Banks) // 14th March 2015 // 12th March 2015 • #16 Arachnophobia // The Web, The Corruption // Carlos Vittery // 9th April 2015 // Early 2015 • #25 Growing Dark // The Dark // Mark Bilham // 19th April 2015 // January – March 2015 • #64 Burial Rites // The End // Donna Gwynne // 20th May 2015 // 2012 • #74 Fatigue // The Spiral // Lydia Halligan // 8 June 2015 • #123 Web Development // The Web // Angie Santos // 1 August 2015 // January 2015 • #13 Alone // The Lonely // Naomi Herne // 13th January 2016 //30th & 31st March 2015 • #22 Colony // The Corruption // Martin Blackwood // 12th March 2016 // March 2016 • #26 A Distortion // The Spiral, The Corruption // Sasha James // 2nd April 2016 // 1st April 2016 • #28 Skintight // The Slaughter, The Stranger // Melanie King // 17th April 2016 // January 2015 • #34 Anatomy Class // The Stranger // Lionel Elliot // 12th July 2016 // January – March 2016 • #39 Infestation // ATTACK ON THE INSTITUTE // 29th July 2016 • #40 Human Remains // Post Attack Debrief// 29th July 2016 • #41 Too Deep // Buried and Dark suspected // 2nd September 2016 // mid-august – September 2016 • #43 Section 31 // The Desolation, The End // Basira Hussain //19th September 2016 // August 2011 and 18 July 2014 • #47 The New Door // The Spiral // Helen Richardson // 2nd October 2016 • #55 Pest Control // The Corruption, The Desolation // Jordan Kennedy // 3rd November 2016 // 2011 & 2014 • #61 Hard Shoulder // The Hunt, The Stranger, The Buried // Daisy Tonner // 1st December 2016 // 24th July 2002 • #65 Binary // The Spiral, Extinction // Tessa Winters // 7th January 2017 • #71 Underground // The Buried // Karolina Gorka // 25 January 2017 // 6 January 2017 • #73 Police Lights // The Dark // Basira Hussain // 11 February 2017 // 10 February 2017 • #76 The Smell of Blood // The Slaughter // Melanie King // 13 February 2017 • #79 Hide and Seek // The Stranger, The Spiral // 16 February 2017 • #80 The Librarian // All // Jurgen Leitner // 16 February 2017 // 1994 • #81 A Guest for Mister Spider // The Web // Jonathan Sims // 18 February 2017 / 1995 • #82 The Eyewitnesses // The Eye, the Slaughter // Daisy Tonner // 18 February 2017 • #89 Twice as Bright // The Desolation // Jude Perry // 24 April 2017 • #91 The Coming Storm // The Vast, The Spiral // Michael Crew // 28 April 2017 • #92 Nothing Beside Remains // The Eye, The Lonely // Elias Bouchard, Barnabas Bennett // ? [Possibly 28 April 2017] • #94 Dead Woman Walking // The End // Georgie Barker // 29 April 2017 • #100 I Guess You Had To Be There // The Desolation, The Dark, The Spiral, The Web, The Lonely // Lynn Hammond, John Smith, Robin Lennox, Brian Finlinson // 2 May 2017 – 26 May 2017 • #101 Another Twist // The Spiral, The Stranger // Michael // May-June 2017 // October 2009 – 2011 • #104 Sneak Preview // The Stranger // Timothy Stoker // 14 June 2017 // August 2013 • #109 Nightfall // The Dark, The Hunt // Julia Montauk and Trevor Herbert // 29 June 2017 // July 2010 • #111 Family Business // Multiple, The End // Gerry Keay // 30 June 2017 // September 2008 • #117 Testament // The Eye // Jonathan Sims, Basira Hussain, Melanie King, Martin Blackwood, Timothy Stoker, Daisy Tonner // 2 – 4 August 2017 • #118 The Masquerade // The Stranger // The Unknowing Begins // 6 August 2017 • #119 Stranger and Stranger // The Stranger // The Unknowing Ends // 7 August 2017 • #120 Eye Contact // The Eye // Elias Bouchard // 9 August 2017 • #121 Far Away // The End, The Web // Oliver Banks // 15 February 2018 • #128 Heavy Goods // The Stranger // Breekon // 3 March 2018 • #131 Flesh // The Flesh // Jared Hopworth // 20 March 2018 // 2016 – January 2018 • #132 Entombed // The Buried // Jonathan Sims and Daisy Tonner // 24 March 2018 • #141 Doomed Voyage // The Vast, The Spiral // Floyd Matharu // 11 June 2018 • #142 Scrutiny // The Eye, The Buried // Jess Terrell // 12 June 2018 • #143 Heart of Darkness // The Dark // Manuela Dominguez // 16 June 2018 • #147 Weaver // The Web // Annabelle Cane // 20 July 2018 • #151 Big Picture // The Vast, The Lonely, The Extinction // Simon Fairchild, Martin Blackwood // 14 August 2018 • #158 Panopticon // The Eye, the Extinction, The Lonely // Martin Blackwood, Peter Lukas, Basira Hussain, Jonathan Sims, Daisy Tonner, Elias Bouchard, Gertrude Robinson // 25 September 2018 • #159 The Last // The Lonely // Peter Lukas // 25 September 2018 • #160 The Eye Opens // All // Jonah Magnus, Jonathan Sims // 18 October 2018 • Vigilo, Audio, Supervenio. The World Ends • #161 Dwelling // No // Sasha James, Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood, Elias Bouchard, Jonathan Sims, Jurgen Leitner // No Longer Applicable // Unknown • #162 A Cozy Cabin // No // Gertrude Robinson, Gerry Keay, Sasha James, Timothy Stoker, Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims // No Longer Applicable // 2013 – 2015 • #163 In The Trenches // The Slaughter // Jonathan Sims // No Longer Applicable • # 164 The Sick Village // The Corruption // Jonathan Sims // No Longer Applicable • #165 Revolutions // The Stranger // Jonathan Sims // No Longer Applicable • #166 The Worms // The Buried // Jonathan Sims // No Longer Applicable • #167 Curiosity // The Eye, The Web, Others // Jonathan on Gertrude Robinson // No Longer Applicable • #168 Roots // The End // Oliver Banks // No Longer Applicable

#tma #the magnus archives #timeline #tma meta #eldritch bingo au #tma reference #tma ref

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cheshirelibrary · 5 years ago

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5 New Books That Inspire Activism

[via Shondaland]

There’s never been a better time to dive into a deep read about what you can do to make a change in the world. These new releases will give you a great place to get started, from an actionable guide by Jane Fonda to a revealing look at American’s invisible hierarchy. Read ‘em, and then get to work!

Caste by Isabel Wilkerson

What Can I Do? by Jane Fonda

Our Malady by Timothy Snyder

Thank You For Voting by Erin Geiger Smith

One Life by Megan Rapinoe (Nov 10)

#Cheshire library #activism #reading recommendations #book list

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tazzytypes · 5 years ago

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Apocalypse: Sanctuary - Chapter 7

See more chapters on the Masterpost or read on AO3

CONTENT WARNING: self-harm described in the last scene of this chapter. Right after a scene with Mead and Venable talking. See end of chapter notes for a brief overview of what happens on AO3 without all the triggering details.

“I’m still not sure if this is a good idea,” Timothy whispered.

Their Pictionary diversion had worked wonderfully. Venable and Mead using it as their own distraction to talk away from prying eyes. Emily had overheard Grey’s talking about the rendezvous as they did laundry.

“If you don’t want to come you don’t have to,” Emily hissed, doing nothing to hide her annoyance with the man.

Em, on the other hand, was quite done with both of them. Their whispering would make them look even more suspicious and took away any element of surprise they had. “Would you two shut up?”

As they got to the end of the hall, Em paused and listened for sounds of life around the corner. One thing about living with her father had taught her was how to listen for footsteps and breathing to give away someone’s position.

Em motioned to Timothy to put out his light, plunging them into darkness save the few candles Venable let burn for the Greys.

The meeting between Venable and her head warden lasted hours according to Emily’s intel. This would give them ample time to search one of their rooms and hopefully find answers. Emily had wanted them to split up and search both, but Em had convinced her to succeed at one job before they went on to something larger.

So there they stood, outside Mead’s room and praying this went as well as they had planned it to. Emily and Timothy went spread out to Em’s right and left, keeping an eye out for any incoming traffic. Her job was to pick the lock. She had practiced for hours on her bathroom door. Hopefully, it would take less time for her to get it down this time.

Channeling the focus she had while sowing, Em set to work on the door and shoved out any distractions. Time meant nothing. If she focused on time she would mess up. Slow and steady won the race… she only hoped nursery stories she heard a million times as a child proved true.

“How long is this—” Timothy whispered, quickly cut off by a scathing look from Emily.

Em was starting to wonder if she’d be better off doing this alone.

Finally, the lock clicked open and Em twisted her wrist to turn it. With a sigh of relief, she pulled her tools out, heart leaping to her chest as the hairpin remained stuck in the lock. Yanking a few more times, she eventually let it stay where it was pursing her lips and turning the handle.

Timothy started towards her, Emily mirroring his actions as they came to stand by the door. Em looked to Emily who simply nodded at the pair.

“I’ll tap the wall three times if anyone shows up. Be sure to hide.”

Mead’s room was just as Em had imagined. Everything had its proper spot and not a single speck of dusk was out of place. Without saying a word, Em and Timothy set off to opposite sides of the room to hunt for anything that would enlighten them to the inner workings of the outpost.

While Timothy rustled through her desk, Em opened the closet. Her hand felt along the bottom, shoes and boxes. She pulled one out to see its contents only to find an old medal of honor and an embroidered decoration with a goat with the words “devil mama” around it. Inside joke? Did Mead have goats before she joined the Cooperation?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t important and Em continued to investigate. Finally, she felt a latch near the back of the closet. Moving a few more boxes, Em revealed a secret compartment that revealed exactly what they were looking for.

“Timothy!” Em hissed, quickly looking through the notebook. He hovered over her shoulder as she flipped through the pages — random notes with no coherent organization. They were marked with military time.

One entry was on the day of Stu’s death. Nothing of importance was written — more about the settings of the Geiger counter than anything else. Em pulled out her phone and captured a picture.

“Where—?” Timothy whispered, Em cutting him off as she continued to hunt.

“I got here before everyone else, remember?”

She snapped a few pictures of notes on different residents, mostly status reports of Greys and Wardens — who was doing the best, who could be trusted with which tasks and so on. The back of the journal was the most informative, listing exit procedures for Wardens in case of a breach as well as a small booklet no doubt given to Mead by the Cooperative itself.

Em took as many pictures as possible, not really reading over the notes. There’d be time for that later.

A knock came to the wall. Then two. Then three.

The pair threw what they had found back into the closet, only making sure the secret compartment was where they had found it. Timothy stood, wide-eyed as he looked for a place to hide. Em scanned the room and pulled him towards the bed, shimmying to get under.

She had just enough time to pull her skirt out of view just as the door began to open. Her heart leapt in her chest as she held onto Timothy’s hand. She spared a look behind them to make sure they were properly out of view.

Em had always made fun of her mom’s insistence of putting a skirt on the bed frame. Now it was the difference between survival and the gallows.

The door froze for a moment, a small sliver of light coming from the hall as well as the muffled sounds of conversation.

“I just wanted to talk to you about the interviews,” they could hear Emily say from the hall.

“I don’t know anything about those,” Mead responded, short and obviously wanting to leave the conversation.

“I just felt like I was so nervous I completely blew the first one and it’s my life on the line… literally.”

The older woman sighed, “when Langdon wants to talk to you he’ll let you know.”

“But—”

“Goodnight.”

Em smiled to herself. She was proud of her friend for putting on such a good performance. Timothy’s reaction was much more panicked, looking to Em with wide, horrified eyes.

She flipped his hand over so his palm was to the ceiling… or, in their case, the mattress. His brow furrowed, but he made no move of disagreement. What could they do? Jump out and yell, “surprise?”

Her own heart was hammering in her chest as she felt the bed press down above her. She wondered how Mead couldn’t hear it, the sound like a drum in Em’s ears.

Mead sighed, a tired and defeated sound before muttering to herself, “damn kids.”

A shoe landed with a thump than another which sat in front of Timothy’s face, far too close for comfort. His hand reached out to push it away, but Em pinched his hand. His jaw was tensed as he looked at her, expression asking her what in the fuck he was supposed to do.

Em simply shook her head. If they wanted Mead to believe they weren’t there, they had to act like they weren’t there.

The woman didn’t even look down as she grabbed her shoe. The sliver of an opening between the bed-skirt and the floor gave Em just enough view to see the woman’s hands grasping for the boot before stalking over to the closet and throwing them in. The sound of something falling in the closet made the woman curse.

“Stupid boxes,” She grumbled, Em watching her feet as she opened the closet door. There was no sign of the woman seeing anything out of place, but Em still held her breath.

They laid there under the bed as Mead straightened up the room, finally meandering to her dresser where she poured herself a drink. Another knock nearly made Em gasp, biting her lip until it hurt to keep the sound from escaping her.

“What now?” Mead huffed under her breath, uttering a few choice expletives and setting down the drink with more force than necessary. Em’s fight or flight instincts were going wild, but the action simply added to them.

She could see Mead walk to the door and saw the barest hints of a pair of polished shoes on the other side. Em could picture Mead’s shocked face as her voice betrayed her emotions.

“Mr. Langdon!” the woman said, quickly calming herself at his sudden appearance, “How can I help you?”

“I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time,” he said. Em could also tell he was smirking… only slightly. “I was told you had been in a meeting before.”

“Not at all. Is there something wrong?”

Em watched as Langdon leaned back on his heels. Really, he was so easy to read just by posture alone. “I’m here to collect you for your interview.”

“Interview? At this hour?”

Langdon took a step away. At least, she thought he did. He had moved out of her view, at the very least. “I could always come back.”

“No need. Just give me a moment.”

The door closed and Mead pulled her shoes out of the closet. Once again, the bed dipped as she rushed to put them back on. Em could feel her footsteps vibrate up her arm as the woman walked to the door, opening it and pausing.

She’d seen her make-shift lock-pick.

“Something wrong?” Langdon asked.

“Nothing,” Mead said, the door closing and muffling their voices. She hadn’t attempted to lock the door… not that she could.

Timothy moved to shimmy out from under the bed, but Em caught his arm.

“She’s gone,” he whispered.

“We need to wait at least five minutes.”

Timothy sighed, but relented into her demands. His lips pursed as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his pocket watch. They both stared at it, the seconds ticking by painfully slow.

Finally, they skittered out from their hiding spots. Em’s back popped as she rose, limbs protesting at being constrained and tensed for what felt like an eternity.

The door squeaked ever slightly and the pair froze, too late to hide. Em felt her head become light as she leapt towards the back of the door as if she could somehow slip out before it closed once more.

Emily’s head popped around the corner as her breath caught in her throat. Timothy sighed and leaned down on his knees.

“For fucks sake!” Em hissed, hand grasping at her heart.

“Just hurry up before anyone shows up!” Emily hissed, tugging the two out into the hallway and shutting the door quietly behind them. The three musketeers hurried back to the Purple’s living quarters as quickly as their feet could carry them.

“What did you get?” Emily asked, panting ever slightly as they made it back to safety.

Em’s smile was giddy, the adrenaline not quite worn off, “we’ll talk tomorrow.”

Timothy was almost as giddy as she was, laughing anxiously as he realized they had pulled it off. “Where?”

“My room,” Em said, nodding as she tried to collect her fractured thoughts, “anyone could listen in the library.”

“Where the hell did you get a phone?” Timothy asked, chuckling and leaning on his knees as he shook his head.

“A phone?” Emily echoed.

The brunette frantically shushed the pair, looking over her shoulder to make sure they were alone, “last thing we need is Venable confiscating the only evidence we have!”

The pair quickly closed their mouths.

“Tomorrow. My room. After lights out.” Em ordered, “I still need to look into some things.”

“Do you think it can help us?” Timothy asked.

Em shook her head, the high finally wearing off, “I don’t know, but it’s a start.”

They righted themselves as a shuffling was heard down the hall, disbursing and returning to their own rooms. Em leaned against her door once she was safely inside, not yet convinced they had really pulled it off.

Locking the door, she made sure to hide her phone in the compartment she had made in her bed frame. She sat on her bed, not quite ready to go to sleep.

Were Mead, Venable, and Langdon on the same team? Em could never discern a proper answer to that question. They belonged to the same organization, certainly, but where did their loyalties lie? They were definitely up to something. Those numbers listed on the date of Stu’s death… they couldn’t mean anything good.

Whatever was going on in Outpost 3, she was going to figure it out. Em would rather die with the truth than believing in a lie.

***

Others were starting to notice the frequency of Em’s visits with Langdon. They didn’t say anything, but she could tell from their gaze. Probably what the man intended, isolate and divide.

It certainly made her stick out like a sore thumb. So much so that the three musketeers had to halt any further investigation… or at least any that relied upon Em as a factor. They needed to be on the offensive.

Honestly, she was far too preoccupied with her new advances to care much about the last interview. If she was able to collect information from Mead she could most certainly survive another interview. It was almost a trip now, the adrenaline. Something to live for.

Em took a moment outside his door to collect herself. She was a purple… she didn’t know about how the outpost was run… she didn’t know anything beyond the threat of looming death. Like a mantra she repeated it in her head, hand raising to knock.

“Come in,” Langdon’s voice sang from the other side, his eyes meeting hers as she slipped into his office and settled into the chair, “Hello, Emily.”

“Langdon,” She greeted, a small smile coming to her lips, “this is my… third interview? What else could you possibly want to know.”

“You know I can’t divulge the criteria I must assess you on,” He said with a smile, knowing she already knew his response.

“Maybe one of these days you’ll slip up,” Em noted, “worked on my mom when I wanted a cat.”

“Oh?” he asked, “you badgered her until she said yes.”

“Actually, my grandmother went behind her back and took me to the animal shelter,” Em admitted with a smile.

A smile of his own formed on his lips as he looked at her, “why am I not surprised?”

Her eyes avoided his, dragging down to her skirt which she suddenly became preoccupied with.

“I doubt you brought me down here to reminisce.”

He sighed and started looking at his file, “Always to the point.”

“I’m certain you have other interviews to conduct.”

“None as interesting as your own,” He noted without thought, more preoccupied with her file than what he was saying, “What skills could you offer to a new society.”

Em sighed and straightened up a bit. He never did come with easy questions.

“I’m no scientist or engineer,” She admitted, “I’ll admit my skills come into need much later in a society’s development, but I’d argue the recording of history is important.”

“Is it?”

“If we are to learn from our mistakes.”

“And look where it got us,” he noted, “a land of nuclear waste.”

“I could sit here and argue the effects of revisionist history,” Em said before sighing, “but that would bring up an argument of the cycle of corruption and I tend not to think about that these days.”

Langdon leaned back in his seat, “you think we’re bound to repeat ourselves.”

There was something about the brunette today that caught him off guard. She was lighter, less fidgety. The restraints she had put upon herself were almost… gone. He didn’t know what to make of it.

“With this lot you’ve chosen there is no doubt of it, sir,” she said, leaning forward in her own seat, “this situation seems to be the hollowed-out shell of a plan.”

Langdon cocked his head, “how so?”

“A self-sustaining society is not too far-fetched.” She noted, arms coming to rest on those of the chair, “ The Cooperative is supposed to have planned to wait out a nuclear winter and all they have is a few shelters with no way to sustain life past a few years?”

She scoffed and shook her head, “Unlikely.”

He hid his face as he smirked. So she was playing her cards. Her interviews were always much more fun than those of the other residents.

“Timing was not in our favor,” He noted, raising his gaze from the file, expression unreadable. Em could see the glimmer in his eye. If he was going to put a target on her back, she might as well make it large enough to shield Emily and Timothy.

“Then why give false hope?” She probed, “I think I’d have rather been blown to hell than wait patiently to starve to death.”

Her head cocked to the side, eyes narrowing as she seemed to read him like a book. Recognition dawned on her and she leaned back in her chair.

“Unless that’s what you’re hoping for,” she noted, “to have us tear each other apart and the survivor be taken to salvation.”

“The Cooperative’s mission is to sustain the lives of people underground until it is safe enough to go above.”

Em shook her head. He sounded like some Utopian commercial selling the idea of paradise. “I find that very unlikely at this point.”

He stood and wandered over to the fireplace, hands behind his back as he stared at the flames.

“You’re quite brazen,” He noted, smiling at the flames before turning to look at her over his shoulder, “I could fail you simply for challenging authority.”

“Then fail me,” Em said, standing and coming to rest next to him. She stared into the flames as he had, but made no move to look away. “I would gladly take a death-like sleep.”

Langdon took a step back, eyes almost worried as she continued to stare at the fire. Finally, she turned to him, hand held out expectantly.

His hand raised as if he would give in to her demands, faltering as he did so. Instead, he curled his hand over her own and gently pushed it down.

“You are quite fascinating, Emily,” he admitted, so close she could almost feel his breath on her face, “It would be quite stupid of me to let you die now.”

He expected her to pull away. Instead, she drew closer.

“You are quite arrogant to think you have any say in that.”

Langdon was at a lack for words as she pulled away and walked towards the door. His first reaction was to call her bluff, but he did not see one in her eyes. For a long moment, he stared at his hand, realizing how empty it felt without her own placed upon it. Finally, he turned in her direction,

“Are you a martyr, Emily?” he asks as her hand reached for the door handle.

“There is no reason for me to cower,” she said before chuckling to herself, a sad and lonesome sound, “and I refuse to die afraid.”

He took a step forward, “The heavens frown upon suicides.”

She glanced back at him and laughed right in his face, “oh, darling. We’re well past that notion.”

The door closed behind it and Langdon could only stare where she once stood. Slowly, his eyes dragged back to the fire. He stared at where she had stood as if reliving the memory again, mouth agape at the audacity of it all. The hand which was still raised clenched into a fist before returning to his side as he looked inward.

This certainly was a most unexpected outcome. There was an uncertainty in his chest he hadn’t felt in a long time, a feeling of worry, a feeling of fear.

***

Facing death was never easy, but Em had finally convinced herself that, if she did die, she would do so with grace. She didn’t know what about the previous night’s expedition had done to her mentally. Perhaps she had finally proved to herself that even the most intimidating of forces were but shadows dancing on the wall — cast them in light and they became such small creatures. The dog that snarls usually does so out of fear rather than a desire to kill.

Didn’t make them any less dangerous, however.

Em paused ever slightly as she made her way down the hall, still riding the high of adrenaline of freedom. A figure came her way, familiar and unpleasant. The momentary faltering was slight, but enough for the other woman to notice.

The brunette pushed forward, sparing a smile at the woman she loathed. “Kill them with kindness,” her mother always said. Kindness gave a facade of weakness if used properly and it most certainly made it easier to kill them. Metaphorically, of course.

She had made it to the steps before she realized Venable had stopped in her tracks. In fact, she had already taken the first few steps down when Venable realized she’d have to do more than stare to get the other woman’s attention.

“I’m quite perplexed,” Venable spoke, tapping her cane against the floor for emphasis. The sound of it echoed down the hall. Part of Em was tempted to keep walking just to piss her off, but it was always better to face the cockroach and deal with it before it slithered back into whatever hole it had crawled out of.

She turned slowly, hands coming to rest behind her back as she centered herself on a step, “about?”

Venable took a step towards the girl, closing the distance between them, “Miss Mead came to her room to find a pin jammed into her door.”

“You confiscated my sewing supplies ages ago,” Em reminded with a smile.

“Not a sewing pin.”

“Then,” Em asked, taking a step up, “what?”

Venable chuckled, more a scoff than an act of amusement, “I know what you are doing.”

The brunette simply stood, staring and showing no sign of speaking any time soon. Finally, Venable was forced to break the silence.

“Mead suspects Gallant, but I know you’re planning something from the shadows,” Venable said, moving even closer to Em, cane making a sharp sound as it hit the ground. She glanced down to her feet then back to the woman before her as if she could read where the brunette had been by examining her shoes. “Thing is, I can’t find out what.”

Em looked to the ground, mouth twisting in thought before so looked back at the woman with a cocked brow and an air of innocence which made Venable’s blood boil.

“So you have no proof?”

“I have my gut,” Venable spoke slowly, lips twisted into a scowl as she came within arm's length of the girl, “and it churns when I look at you.”

Her nostrils flared as Em quietly chuckled.

“I’m pretty sure that’s starvation.”

Em moved to turn away from the woman, taking one step down. Venable never could stand to not have the last word.

“I can’t wait to see you burn,” the overseer spat with as much venom she could muster.

With a sigh Em faced the woman once more and stared her dead in the eye, green ones lit with fire.

“I am a MacLeod of Raasay,” she warned, voice even and stern in warning, “I cannot burn.”

Venable simply scoffed, “we’ll see about that.”

Em was more amused than aggravated — though she certainly felt a fair amount of the latter. Unlike Venable, she was able to wield it.

“You can’t even properly investigate a break-in,” Em noted, her expression a mocking grin, “What makes you think you can be anything more than a glorified babysitter?”

Venable’s rage was visible. It had been visible for most of the conversation, but now her chest rose and fell with it, nostrils flaring and hands tightening around her cane. It was an instant, hardly longer than a second, between Em’s last word and the woman’s hand flying out towards her.

She had intended to slap Em the same way she had Coco all those many evenings ago. This time, she wouldn’t get the satisfaction. Em’s hand was tight around her wrist, nails digging into her flesh as she used Venable’s arm to pull her in closer.

Venable’s eyes widened with shock, a gasp leaving her as she was forced to abandon her cane which clattered to the floor.

“I’ll advise you to use your words, Miss Venable,” Em growled, breath fanning onto the woman’s face.

Venable could hardly find enough air to speak, but still tried to play at superiority, “Is that a threat?”

“A warning.”

She lightly shoved the woman back, allowing her to collect her cane. When Venable rose back to her full height, she noticed Em looking off into the distance. Her cheeks flushed as she turned to see Langdon staring at the pair from down the hall, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched.

“Until next time, Venable,” Em said with a smile, turning and descending down the stairs.

“Miss Venable.” The woman corrected, looking back tot he girl in anger to find she had disappeared. When she turned to look at Langdon once more he was also gone.

Venable’s rage was palpable, her hands itching to claw the girl’s eyes out. Gritting her teeth, she collected herself and stalked down the hall, beating her cane against the floor to dismiss curious Greys that stared as she passed.

Em, on the other hand, was quite content. Finding her way to the salon, she had run into Erika. Their conversation quickly turned to the usual— food.

“How’s the agricultural investigation going?” Em asked her, turning to look up at the woman as she walked.

“Slow,” The Fist sighed, “yours?”

“The same. I could use your blog right about now.”

The Fist smiled at her, “We may not have the internet, but feel free to ask me about anything you wish. My information may not be accurate, but I will pull from my memory as best as possible.”

“I believe we’re quite overdue for that talk about preservatives,” Em noted, “my bad. With all the interviews my head has been lost.”

“We wardens have also been busy prepping for what happens after the interviews,” The Fist nodded, “If I remember clearly, preservatives could alter shelf life by an exponential—”

There was a power in familiarity. It was easy to take satisfaction from knocking a ruler off their pedestal, but a leader that lingers among the people… leaders that become an integrated part of society… that’s where true power lay.

***

Mead watched as Venable paced in her room, wearing a hole into the floor. She sat in one of the poorly constructed chairs that always made her feel like she was using furniture meant for children.

“That bitch has been a thorn in my side since the beginning,” Venable seethed, “and she has humiliated me for the last time!”

Mead stood quietly as her superior ranted and raved. She could feel a flare of anger in her belly, but for Venable or Emily, she didn’t know. In all honestly, she had come to like the girl. Em had been one of the few purples she approved of, witty and smart. Then again, being the most tolerable purple wasn’t a large feat. It was like being the smartest person on Family Feud.

“We need to get rid of her,” Venable declared, raising a finger as she approached Mead, “the others will fall in line, but she’s far too stubborn.”

Mead sighed.

“Let her be,” she tried to reason, “if we condemn her without her breaking rules then the others will be more likely to rebel.”

Venable opened her mouth, most like to chastise her on being too soft. Mead beat her to the punch.

“Tensions are high as is,” Mead reminded, “if we strike too soon this whole thing will pop like a balloon.”

Venable’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she took a step back. Her rage was speaking before her reason.

“You’re right,” she conceded, eyes flickering with inspiration, “why take out the lamb when you can take out the entire flock?”

***

Em paced in her room. Whatever feeling of victory she had over her previous actions gone and replaced with seething and riotous anger.

That bitch had tried to slap her. No… she reasoned. She wouldn’t let the anger win.

Sitting back down, she focused on the task at hand.

She had started the afternoon researching, as per usual. The three musketeers still had a meeting of which she needed a plan of action, after all. She had even gotten her hands on an ancient science book with a section on radiation.

Her intention had been to find some information on the Geiger counter mentioned in Mead’s notes. All she had been able to deduce was that some of the shorthand notes referenced to the sensitivity. The rest of the notes might as well have been written in gibberish. No matter how many times she read over them nothing stood out.

With a huff, Em threw down the papers she had been reading from. She had always worked better on the floor — more space to spread things out. Didn’t really matter when you couldn’t focus on said work, however.

Langdon was right, rage bubbled inside her like a volcano. Venable’s actions mirrored those from her past far too well, making unsavory feelings shift to the surface. It had taken every ounce of self-restraint she had not to kill the woman there and then.

It would have been easy. All she’d have to do was pull the red-headed woman a little closer and toss her down the stairs. She was tired of playing games of politics and submission. It would be so much straightforward to usurp the outpost by force.

Em resumed her pacing, wringing her hands which clenched and unclenched and tensed into claws. She wanted to punch something so badly. She wanted to let go. She wanted to destroy. Her body buzzed and all she could think about was wrapping her hands around Venable’s neck until the life faded from her eyes.

There were two types of rage, the deadly silent and deafening roar. The former often showed itself in annoyance or disgust — emotions often brought out when she was around Gallant or Coco. It was easily managed with a roll of the eyes, a well-placed jibe, or a long-winded rant to a friend.

The latter was much deadlier. It made one see red, making logic null and void. All that mattered was winning, the taste of iron in your mouth as you stared down at the corpse of your opponent as satisfaction made your heart feel light.

It defied all logic. Hurting someone wouldn’t help the situation. Destroying something would only cause more problems— a mess to be cleaned up.

Em stalked to the bathroom and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her chest heaved, knuckles white around the sink she leaned upon like a lifeline. The eyes that looked back at her weren’t her own, they were something other. Someone she did not recognize stared at her, tempted her.

She didn’t even realize her knife was in her hand until it was stabbing into her leg. It broke whatever spellbound her to the mirror, a silent scream leaving her as she crumpled to the floor.

Shaking hands hovered over the blade, not sure whether to pull it out or leave it in. Blood bubbled to the surface and dripped onto the floor. It wasn’t as if Outpost Three had a doctor. Then again, they probably didn’t expect residents to stab themselves.

“Fuck,” She muttered, doing her best to keep her voice low, “fuck, fuck.”

Doing her best not to move too badly, Em dragged herself to the shower, reaching up to grab a towel from the rack. Her fingers barely brushed it and she made the executive choice to move and sit up on her good leg.

Gritting her teeth through the pain, she tore it down. She was lucky she was in her Victorian underwear or else she’d have to go through the gruesome process of collecting the fabric from the wound.

Breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, she tried to make her breathing even. Eventually, she calmed a bit. Her hands shook as she reached for the knife. She was lucky it was only two inches long… much easier and much smaller a wound to deal with despite her body’s protests.

It was like the carrot metaphor, she reminded herself, the only thing stopping her from biting through her finger was her own mind. The only thing that made her falter was her fear of pain.

Closing her eyes, she yanked the blade out, biting her own shoulder to keep from making a sound. Tears left her eyes as the knife clattered to the tile, her hands grabbing at the towel and putting as much pressure on the wound as possible.

Gasping for breath, Em leaned her head back on the cool wall of the bathroom. She was lucky she still had the needle and thread from mending Coco’s dress.

This new world was bringing something out in her, something dark and raging that she had buried before the bombs dropped. Em wasn’t sure if it was something she was ready to face.

#michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x oc #michael langdon #ahs x reader #ahs x oc #ahs #fanfic #fancifction #ahs fanfiction #american horror story fic

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carvalhais · 5 years ago

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The fact that we need devices such as computers and Geiger counters to see hyperobjects, objects that will define our future, is humbling in the same way Copernicus and Galileo brought humans down to Earth by insisting that the universe was not rotating around us. In their era, “common sense” told people that the sun revolved around the earth once a day. Common sense also assured people that weird old ladies who proffered herbal remedies and failed to drown when thrown in water should be burnt, because they were witches. Common sense has a lot to answer for.

Morton, Timothy. Hyperobjects: Philosophy and Ecology after the End of the World. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 2013.

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these-summer-nights-in-december · 3 months ago

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Watching my next chapbook get made!?!

youtube

Wow! Never before have I been able to watch a book of mine actually get made!?! Enjoy this footage of poet Timothy Geiger, founder and proprietor of Aureole Press (at the University of Toledo), hand letterpressing the title page of The Box We Put the World in to Keep a Corner from Shattering, the forthcoming collaborative chapbook I wrote with Steve Castro and Dustin Pearson. Thank you for sharing this Dustin! And thank you Timothy for being such an artist! 🙌

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uwmspeccoll · 8 years ago

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Typography Tuesday

Here’s a sample of broadsides from yet another treasure we just unearthed from the massive donation of Jerry Buff: A Type Miscellany Twentieth Anniversary Broadside Portfolio produced in an edition of 200 copies by a variety of printer/designers for the American Printing History Association (APHA) in 1994. The 30 participants in this project are a Who’s Who of American letterpress printers of the time (click on the images for more information).

The editor for this set, Aralia Press’s Michael Peich, writes:

A shared interest in type has brought together this collection of broadsides; for, without type, there would obviously be no American Printing History Association. . . . It is appropriate, then, on APHA’s twentieth anniversary to celebrate the importance of type with a display of the ways in which some of America’s finest designers and printers manipulate letterforms. . . . The group assembled here nicely represents the current state of fine printing in APHA’s twentieth year. . . .

No one can predict the future of printing, particularly when the death of the book is heralded almost daily. And it may well be the case that on APHA’s 40th birthday there won’t be enough of us remaining to compile a collection like this. What won’t change, though, is the reverence many of us have for type; as long as there are letterforms there will also be designers who reverence them in discriminating fashion.

We will be featuring other broadsides from this set in coming weeks.

View our other Typography Tuesday posts.

#Typography Tuesday #typetuesday #Michael Peich #American Printing History Association #anniversaries #letterpress printing #broadsides #fine press printing #20th century

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tjroewrites · 7 years ago

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Light to My World | Chapter Three

It took her twenty minutes to get to the reactor level from the third level corridor, and another ten to reach the surface level. No one would notice she was absent in the chaos. Eric might. But he wouldn’t say anything. Not until tomorrow.

The keys on the keyboard were hardly functional. Eileen had to shove her fingers into the letters just to make it work. The caps lock button was missing but the shift key seemed halfway decent.

Her finger hesitated over the ‘enter’ key. The keyed-in password glared at her from the screen, through twenty years of dirt and neglect. The voice in her head screamed at her. Do it, do it, do it. They’re hiding something. The truth was right there. It’s not like anyone would even realize she’d hacked the terminal unless she told them. No one was around the enforce protocol anymore. There was nothing to be afraid of.

But what if the information on the terminal was damnable evidence? What if some malfunction within the Casket was hidden on this terminal and by the time she found it they would be too late? What if there was some weird experimental species growing underneath the Casket and unlocking the terminal would release it?

Jesus, she needed to relax.

The ‘enter’ key was stickier than the rest. It took three hard jabs until it finally clicked, a loading bar appearing across the screen. Then, it disappeared. A bright, bold ‘Welcome, Ted!’ appeared in its place.

She was in.

A list of options took form. Without looking from the screen she fumbled for the chair collecting dust off to the side. A cloud of dust blew from the cushion as she flopped into it. She wiped the grime from the screen away with her palm to better read the list.

Daily logs. Cap Notes. Surface level maintenance reports. Employees. Security. Weekly Goals/Long-Term Plan. Message Board. Personal notes. Terminal Settings.

Eileen peeked over her shoulder to be sure she was alone. Nothing but her and the fizzed-out pieces of technology.

Most of the accounts didn’t come as a surprise to her. Mostly overviews of the control boards on the surface level. A majority hadn’t been functional in years. Besides a few things regarding the reactor and air filtration maintenance history catching her eye, nothing really struck her as crucial.

Wait. She read the list one more time. Message board.

Message board.

They had a message board?

When Eileen had first started work as a grave digger, one of the first things she learned about was one of the Casket’s largest flaws: Communication. The original designers had been so focused on survival that they had thrown the possibility of communication with other Casket’s out the window. It wasn’t crucial in their eyes. Safety first. Emails second. Besides, they wouldn’t have an established internet system below ground. There wasn’t any point. Right?

She selected the option. An entire new window appeared. There were over 1,000 messages.

Casket 003, Casket 068, Casket 023. Numbers Eileen didn’t even know existed. There was an entire folder dedicated solely to messages between Casket 001 and Casket 017. She checked the names of some of the senders. Government officials. Original grave-digger designers. There were a handful written by the original Grave Digger and mastermind behind the Administration security system himself, Timothy McClue. Even a few direct messages from the president himself. Daryll Thom. The Ghost. She pressed the ‘escape’ key a bit harder. There was nothing but junk. She went to push herself out of the chair and head back to the reactor for her earful from Eric.

The screen flashed. She almost missed it. A quick blip near the corner, where the ‘Inbox’ folder sat. Almost immediately after the ‘Spam’ folder pulsed. A new message.

Eileen lowered into the chair once again selected the ‘Junk’ folder. Another Casket, maybe? The Ghost? She selected the ‘Junk’ folder and waited for it to load. Hundreds of emails appeared, all from the same address. A jarbled bunch of numbers. No rhyme. No reason. Just… numbers.

‘For any and all residents of Caskets,’ the message read. ‘Danger. Infrastructure of Casket is failing. Dozens have collapsed. Thousands dead. Evacuate immediately. Above ground is livable. I repeat, above ground is livable. Evacuate immediately.’

Every message was similar. Sent every single day, over the course of fifteen years. Ever since they had left. To every Casket in the country. All signed with the same signature: SW.

Eileen sat back in the chair and stared at the screen. Above ground was livable. Above ground was livable. How was that possible? For weeks she had watched county after county collapse from air contamination on every news network on T.V. Coastal cities underwater from the endless hurricanes. Hawaii had become the equivalent of Atlantis. Crops were but a distant memory. Geiger counters jumped to new peaks from the overflow of nuclear dump sites across the globe. ‘Judgement Day is here,’ a common phrase blasted across every tabloid on the news stand. ‘The Apocalypse is upon us.’

But this mystery email, this ‘SW’, was claiming it was all – what, a fake? A fairytale? Something birthed from nightmares? Not only that, but asking for every Casket to evacuate due to failing infrastructure. Eileen was a grave digger. The very backbone behind Casket 017. She would know if something was failing. She would know if they were in danger. They would all know.

But Eileen had always felt something was off. The way the government just poured them into the Casket with little to no information on what would come of it. Hell, the only reason the grave diggers knew what they did was based off of trial-and-error alone. There had been no training. No warning. It all happened so fast. This had never been their choice.

Her fingers hovered over the keys, poised above and curled slightly. What should she say? What could she say? Was this ‘SW’ even alive? What if these messages were sent on some kind of timer, and they hadn’t been near their terminal in months? But that voice returned. Deep within her head. Calling out to her. You’ll never know if you don’t attempt, it said. Make the attempt.

‘Casket 017. Boston District.’ She typed. She peered over her shoulder one more time before she continued. ‘This is Grave Digger 0958. Requesting response from SW. Please respond.’

She selected ‘send’ before she could back out. The message disappeared into the monitor. On its way to whoever the hell ‘SW’ was.

Eileen didn’t know what to do. Should she wait? Who knows how long that would take. Months, maybe. Years. She’d probably sooner die up against the Cap before hearing from this conspiracy theorist. Probably some teen from Casket 042 in the Seattle district who got into his parent’s stash again. Some kind of practical joke.

And how would she tell Eric? Should she tell Eric? He already knew about the terminal. If he had half a brain he’d piece together the reactor malfunction with her sudden disappearance to the surface level. He wouldn’t rat on her. But it might make things difficult for a while. And having tension while living in a tin-can hole in the ground with thousands of other people? It wasn’t pleasant, to say the least.

The screen flashed. Eileen almost shot out of the chair. Another new message.

Holy shit.

Her fingers flew across the keys, striking a few random ones in the process and fumbling to the ‘Junk’ folder. That same garble of numbers stared back at her from the sender bar.

‘Grave Digger 0958. Action is necessary. Evacuate Casket 017 immediately.’ Her heart pounded a bit harder with every word. ‘-SW.’

There was no possible way that this was an automated message. It was sent directly to her. No other Casket had been CC’ed. SW was typing this live-time. SW was alive.

‘SW. Which Casket are you located in?’ Eileen typed in reply. ‘How do you know the Casket’s are unstable?’

She hit the ‘send’ button. Hardly two minutes passed before she received a response.

‘Grave Digger 0958. I am not located in a Casket.’ The message read. ‘I repeat, above ground is livable. –SW.’’

Eileen stared read and re-read the message over and over again. Above ground is livable. Above ground is livable. She couldn’t wrap her mind around the idea. It was too large of a leap to take their word for it. She needed proof.

‘SW,’ she typed. ‘From my understanding, all life was evacuated to Caskets. Surface is inhabitable. Evidence required before action is taken.’

Five minutes passed. Maybe this ‘SW’ had been making it all up. Maybe it was just a rebellious teen from another Casket. Then, the computer flashed.

‘Grave Digger 0958. Time is short. Action should be taken immediately. Trust in us. –SW.’

Something stirred in her stomach. How could she trust in someone she had never seen or met? Eileen was a Grave Digger a scientist. Her entire career, her way of life, was based solely on fact. ‘I repeat, evidence is required.’ She typed. ‘I will not send my people to their death unless I see evidence proving otherwise.’

This reply was almost instantaneous. ‘You condemn your people to their death by keeping them held beneath ground. Warnings have been issued for many years. The time for evidence has long passed.’

‘Evidence,’ Eileen slammed each key with unnecessary force. ‘is required.’

The ‘Junk’ folder went quiet. She refreshed the page every few minutes. No flashes. No ‘SW’. Nothing. She waiting fifteen minutes before developing half a mind to abandon the entire endeavor. At twenty minutes, a new message appeared.

‘Grave Digger 0958.’ It read. ‘We are three days journey from your location. Maintain access of terminal.’ Her eyes nearly rolled out of her head. ‘Further instruction will be given once we are close. –SW.’

‘We.’ They said ‘we.’ As in, multiple people. There was a group of them. And they were coming here. To Casket 017. In order for Eileen to force a Casket evacuation.

What had she done? They could be monsters. Psychos. Some weird, cannibalistic faction that had been twisted by the surface elements and hell-bent for blood. And now they knew which Casket she were located in. What district they were in. She shut down the terminal and stared blankly at the black screen.

Jesus, Eileen.

#eileen leahy #eileen leahy x sam winchester #kari's spn girl power challenge #spnangstbingo #fluff #angst #post apocalyptic #apocalypse #supernatural #spn series #light to my world series

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newingtonnow · 6 years ago

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A Metal Giant in Wilton

Kenneth Lynch was an accomplished blacksmith who was a longtime resident of Wilton and created some of the most memorable pieces of metalwork found in the Northeast. Part of a family with a 300-year tradition of metalworking, in addition to performing repairs on the Statue of Liberty and the weathervane at Boston’s Old North Church, Lynch produced such famous works as the iron gates at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the Art Deco steel doors of the Chrysler Building, and the giant rings held aloft by Atlas at Rockefeller Center.

A native of New Haven, Connecticut, Lynch took to metalworking at an early age, heating a piece of pipe in the family furnace to make ice tongs at the age of nine. In 1917, at the age of 11, he apprenticed himself to a blacksmith, and then shortly after, went to work at the International Silver Company in Meriden.

Detail of iron work produced by Kenneth Lynch for the center pier of the Lake Avenue Bridge, spanning the Merritt Parkway, Greenwich – Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division

In his late teens he joined the army and traveled to Germany and France. There he shoed horses for the cavalry and learned the ancient art of armory.

After finishing out his service, Lynch opened his own metalworking shop in Manhattan and then moved to Long Island City, before, in 1938, relocating to Wilton, Connecticut. Having recently completed renovations on the Statue of Liberty, Lynch further enhanced his reputation by fabricating pieces for display at the 1939 World’s Fair in New York.

Turning Metalworking into Commercial Success

Lynch released his first mail order catalog in 1950 and the demand for his services exploded. The US Air Force came to him during the Korean War to ask for a lead ball capable of covering radioactive isotopes used in testing Geiger counters. In addition to his work for the air force, Lynch made shields for hospital x-ray rooms, bulletproof vests, a variety of armor-related props for movie sets, and even chain mail shirts to protect engineers of a Texas oil company from poison darts blown at them as they searched for oil in Venezuela.

By the middle of the 20th century, Kenneth Lynch and Sons occupied 31 buildings covering a span of 12 acres in Wilton, and by the end of the century, generated over $2 million a year in revenue. In recognition of his years of service and exemplary work, the staff at the Statue of Liberty hosted “Kenneth Lynch Day” in April of 1982.

As the ‘80s progressed, however, Lynch’s health began to decline. He eventually passed away at his home in Wilton in 1989 after a long illness. Ownership of the company passed to Kenneth’s son, Timothy, who, in 2007, relocated the company’s headquarters to a 36,000-square-foot space in Oxford, Connecticut.

from Connecticut History | a CTHumanities Project https://connecticuthistory.org/a-metal-giant-in-wilton/

#History

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roominthecastle · 8 years ago

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different anon - just curious now, hehe:) Who are your older crushes? Reddington, Petyr, Grissom - whom did you like on Whitechapel? Anyone on Black Sails? Did you like Ben Miller's character on Death in Paradise?

Anon, you know me too well. I *love* Richard Poole and BM, too. Captain Ginger is my #1 from Black Sails - Toby Stephens is basically a “me magnet” and his character work in the finale will haunt my ass forever. In Whitechapel it’s not actually one person but the relationship btw Chandler & Milesthat I have a major crush on, it was beautifully built up from basically nothing but OCD, murder cases, and general antagonism.

Other “series names” off the top of my head:

Harry Bosch (Titus Welliver, Bosch)

Ben Linus (Michael Emerson, LOST)

Nobusuke Tagomi(Cary-Hiroyuki Tagawa, The Man in the High Castle)

John Smith (Rufus Sewell, The Man in the High Castle)

Adrian Monk (Tony Shalhoub, Monk)

Sir Malcolm (Timothy Dalton, Penny Dreadful)

John Luther (Idris Elba, Luther)

Frank Underwood (Kevin Spacey, House of Cards),

Raymond Holt (Andre Braugher, Brooklyn Nine-Nine)

Jeffrey Geiger (Mandy Patinkin, Chicago Hope)

Phillip Watters(Héctor Elizondo, Chicago Hope)

Hannibal Lecter (Anthony Hopkins, SotL, Hannibal, Red Dragon)

Severus Snape (Alan Rickman, HP)

Christopher Foyle (Michael Kitchen, Foyle’s War)

Walter Bishop (John Noble, Fringe)

Eli Gold (Alan Cumming, The Good Wife)

Frank Burns (Larry Linville, MASH)

Gustavo Fring (Giancarlo Esposito, Breaking Bad & Better Call Saul)

#anonymous #i'm sure there are lots more but these are the ones i can remember rn

6 notes · View notes

grima-the-creator-of-all-blog · 8 years ago

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The Bible of Grima A Collection of the Tales of Grima

In loving Memory of John Grima

The Table of Contents This book is divided by universes. If there are multiple stories in one universe they will be in the same section, if a storyline takes place in multiple universes they will be lumped together.

Z-137&C-138 Double O Grima Initial G Farewell to Malta Space Grima One Roast Grima Vs. the Dream Team Meme Team God

Universes Z-137 and C-138

Double O Grima By: Timothy Mazzoleni

Pripyat, Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic, December 17th, 1989. 2200 hours: It was -7 degrees Celsius, and John was colder than liquid nitrogen. The cold was biting through his high-tech heated trench coat, a gift from his good friend in Malta. The CIA had sent John on his 60th mission for the agency. This location however, was new. He had been airdropped into Ukraine 3 days ago over the countryside, and using his wits, and his gadgets, he managed to sneak across the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone and into his mission area. John Grimas mission was to disrupt an arms deal with international terrorists. Grima had dealt with terrorists before. But these were different. Grima knew they had weapons that would put him at disadvantage. He would have to use his skills to get around them and destroy whatever they were trying to get out of the country. “I guess I better get some rest before tomorrow morning.” said Grima to himself. He stepped into one of the only seemingly intact apartment of the hundreds of in this building. The apartment was damp and cold, almost like a dead being, grabbing at his life force to keep him in this irradiated wasteland. Paint flaked off the walls like a fresh croissant out of the oven, and as the breeze swept through the room, pieces brushed the ground at his feet. Grima turned on his electric lantern to roll out his sleeping gear. He would be leaving at 0500 in the morning, before the sun came up, to give himself the advantage of being at the target location before his enemies. As he rolled out his sleeping pad, he took off his coat and gear and set them to his side. He began to prepare to mobilize for the next day. December 18th, 1989, 0500 hours: Grima awoke to the sound of footsteps on his level. He quickly gathered his gear and slipped on his trench coat. He slowly pulled his weapon from his coat. He couldn’t afford to take chances, even if he didn't want to kill. This mission banked on his success and he could not fail. He heard the steps getting closer. They sounded quiet. The person knew he was here. He prepared himself for conflict. The steps slowed to silent, and Grima whipped around the corner into the horrified face of a fox. The animal jumped backwards and turned tail, running down the hallway it originally came from. Grima thought “How could that animal survive in such high radiation areas? That poor animal should be dead.” Grima let his thoughts and questions slip, and he walked down the hallway, along the Soviet propaganda and gas mask instructions littered beside the dark path. As he made his way down the stairs, an updraft swept his trench coat to his side like a leaf being pulled from a tree. Grima thought about his snake, Solid. Solid would be getting anxious now, with his presence absent, and he would be longing for his arm. Grima doubled his pace across the courtyard and onto the street. He looked across to the car drop point. There it is. His dream car, and the car he had asked for on this mission. His heart ignited and he sprinted to his new whip. A Toyota AE86 Trueno. The perfect car for drifting in the heart of a power station. He grabbed the key from under the tire and unlocked the door. It was crisp and strangely familiar. He slipped into the seat, and started the brand new engine. It hummed to life and he now knew, he had lost his stealth factor. He loaded his supplies into the hatch and hopped back into the driver's seat. As the car warmed up he felt the seat wrap him like a blanket, and it reminded him of home. He slotted the car into 1st gear and set off to the power station, to finish his mission. December 18th, 1989, 0532 He tached up and down, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, handbrake, to 2nd, hold the slide, regain traction, upshift. He screamed the car through the car's power band and onto the premises of the Chernobyl. The powerstation had detonated in 1986, and had caused the biggest nuclear spill in history. Not only this, but Grima was aware of the risk of terrorists getting ahold of the weapons-grade uranium inside the reactor, and using it for WMDs. Grima slid into the main structure of the power plant, and hopped out of the Trueno. Grima grabbed his pack, slipped his trench coat on, and walked through the reactor 4 control room door. As he walked in, he immediately used his russian skills to read the controls, and reached for the lever to kill the lights. The lights flickered, there was a whirr, and then silence and darkness. The spare generator had been disabled which shut off the last of the lights in the compound. And then he heard them. The thunder of suvs rumbling down the courtyard concrete. The suvs came to stop just outside the main structure. Grima prepared for a fight and prepared his gear and tightened his back pack. He then activated his night vision contact lenses and walked out of the control room.He saw the criminals walk through the main structure opening. He saw the case on a trolley and the second group, assumedly the buyers of the uranium, walked through as well. Grima waited for them to be in position and to give them a false sense of security. The sellers and the buyers gathered around the product, and he pulled out his compact grenade launcher. He aimed and let the safety off, and let the grenade fly. It screamed through the air like a banshee and exploded with a shockwave and he felt the heat burn his facial hair. The men went flying and Grimas geiger counter went haywire. He sprinted out of the control room and down the stairs towards the reactor. The men recovered and began to fire their weapons at the spy. Grima heard the bullets ping off metal pipes and kept running through the power plant. He decided to go with the plan and go to the roof. He sprinted up the stairs, and kicked open the door. He heard Russian yelling behind him but he couldn't make out what they were saying. Probably something about how he was a spy. No matter, he had to keep moving. “STOP!!” someone screamed behind him. “YOU MUST STOP NOW!” Grima kept sprinting, towards the jump point. Bullets began to whiz by him in the night, and then, he felt it. He was hit. He doubled over and tripped over a roof pipe. And he sailed over the edge of the power plant. His life flashed before his eyes, and he saw Solid, sad that he was dead, he saw the Trueno burning, and he knew what he was to do next. “It’s time to retire” said Grima to himself. and he pulled the string on his backpack, deploying the explosive air mattress to land on and save his life. As he slammed onto the ground, he heard the men yelling above him, and he knew to run into the night to fake his death, and retire in Tokyo, to begin a new chapter in his life. Drifting.

Initial G By: Riley Currey

After many years of being in the service, Double O Grima decided to retire along with his Toyota AE86 150 HP. He had named it Vlad The Impaler, his one true love and the machine that will always have his back. You must be wondering what he is going to do with his life, a man that has seen so much that he cannot live a normal life. Alas, he was not going to live any normal life, since he has become the most notorious drifter in all the world and has never lost a race. The name of this champion is “Initial G”, the man who has never been at the beginning of the race or the end. The legend drifts in as soon as the light turns green and destroys all in sight. This night was different, the integrity of Vlad the impaler as a car was in danger -- by them saying it was an old piece of junk. The man who said these harsh words was none other than Salty Stef, a member of the Meme team a gang who were the fastest drifters in the world. These teams have never met because the drifting aura would be too great for any normal group of people. Only the extreme drifters can handle this aura and that was who was here to watch the extreme of the extreme. This night was a dark night, the fog was heavy, and the track as a unforgiving spiral down Mount Hotakadake. This night was nothing for Stef but what was bothering him was that Grima was not there, even though this is a norm. They begun the countdown Stefs’ car seems to glisten in the moonlight the light blue mazda FD with a scary 236 HP it was nicknamed the Doors to Heaven. Zeb the announcer counts down “Five, Four” while this is happening the fog seems to get denser and denser as the numbers get closer to Start. Zeb counts more “three, Two, One” and at that moment vlad the impaler flashes by like lightning and The Door to Heaven is neck to neck with him. They hit the first turn and Stef is able to drift it easily, but Grima is doing it to well it is like he is a god. Luckily this next one leads into a straight away and that is where Doors to Heaven is the best. “Stef is easily 500 meters ahead now, is this the end for Grima” says Zeb, But, in that moment, you hear Grimas tires scream like the car is not willing to give up. “This ten year old car still has some spunk” says Grima coming up on the trench. This is a place on the mountain where the track loops around over a deadly drop but in theory if one was going fast enough they could jump it to get in the lead. This would be impossible in the weather though with the fog no one could even see the other side. Stef was still very far in the lead almost past the trench grima knew he had to do something he had to do it. Vald the impaler's revved to a higher note than anyone though it could at that moment Zeb realized what he was going to do. “ No, he wouldnt that is a death sentence” says Zeb as grima Drifts into position and hits the turn to jump. Then, Grima says to Vlad “ we have had a great run, but give me more power” the car hears him and revs more and more as they drift off the edge. The crowd is silent they could see nothing through the fog, assuming he was dead zeb says “The legend seems to have lost in the most epic attempt to win, he will be remembered. This seems just to be Stef's victory lap.”. As Stef is about to go around the last corner by the trench A shining light appears, it is Grima landing on the track with a perfect drift around the last corner. Stef’s fighting spirit is hurt he desperately tries to get ahead of Grima but it is impossible and Grima drifted into the end of the course then disappearing into the fog. While all this is happening the crowd is chanting “Initial G,Initial G,Initial G,Initial G”. This was a endless chant and it consumed Stef he did not even make it to the finish line. As Zeb helps his team mate out of his car he says “Grima wins yet again, for now”. Then the team vows to defeat Grima no matter what it takes. A few months have gone by and grima has not raced since the day with Stef. The drifting world had seemed too quiet lately it was scaring him. Grima would barely get any sleep anymore, he has been having withdraw symptoms from not racing anyone. He can only sleep in his trusty car Vlad. The day was coming to an end so grima thought to himself “it is time to go to bed”. As he walked over to Vlad something seemed off but he decided not to check it out and got to bed in Vlad. The next day he woke up and there was a Mc.Fonald Milkshake on his windshield. Grima was startled, the milkshake had been talked about in Meme Team lore dating back to the first drift race. The milk shake represented a declaration of war, Grima got out of his car and saw that there was a note inside. This note read “Come race at Mount Everest and win, Or else your beloved Vlad will die”. Grima was very confused his car was right here though, he looks at it and sees that it is not Vlad but just a cheap museum AE86. How could he not have realized it, he was just too tired to see the changes. All his years in the spy service and he had lost his Vlad due to his laziness. He had to make it there, there was only one way to get there with Speed GMO. Speed GMO is a moped Honda NSC50R with 200 Horsepower a real work of art. Only one of these where ever sold because they are so EXTREME and DANGEROUS. Then grima zooms off into the sunset to save Vlad. After a few weeks of travel grima arrives at Mount Everest, Grima is very unkempt his hair seemed to grow twice as long as it was to the point where it had to be put in a man bun. That was not even the worst of it his beard had grown a foot longer. Grima could now be described as someone that is in a biker gang but he drives a moped. This man will not stop for anything until he gets his identity back, Vlad the Impaler. He works way up the mountain hitting all the curves drifting at ungodly speeds, but something was very different about grima his eyes had a fire in them. Grima was almost to the top the road was starting to get icy and he needed to put on his oxygen helmet so he could breath at the speed he was going. Grima Finally reaches the top and sees Vlad with four tire boots on it, This was just too much for him to handle he had to save his only partner. Grima is at last at the finish line where Zeb and Riley have been waiting for weeks, they see him and start their cars. Zeb’s car was a volvo 240 with 200hp Nicknamed “Meme mobile” and next up was Riley’s a Ford explorer 1991 with 175 hp Nicknamed “Big Bertha”. Both these cars are revving at the start, the announcer approaches the one and only David Hasselhoff then says “ This better be a great race, because if it isn’t I would have not gone through the hassle to get here” who seemed unaffected by the intense drifting aura. The countdown starts the engines increase in power as number get to one then Hasselhoff says it “GO”. They our off normally in a drift race there our only two cars but with three there is a huge risk. Riley has the lead already heading up on the 3rd drift but something seems off he hits the drift around the corner. Then he heads to the next on but nobody is behind him, he assumes he took a shortcut and says “haha suckers”. Then he sees the next drift and goes to hit it, then sees that it is a cliff warning. This realisation was too late, then Riley falls to his death but in the wake of it starts a deadly avalanche. Seeing this Grima and Zeb speed up as fast as they can, this race was not for pride anymore it was for life. Zeb and grima our neck and neck about to hit the hardest drift in the world this is called a “Ice Solar Drift”. No one has ever done one of these and lived to tell the tale, they are getting closer and closer to it. At that exact moment Zeb’s meme mobile wheel pops and he is consumed in the white cloud of snow. That was the last that was seen of zeb but a man such as that can never die and will always live in your hearts. This did not matter to grima he had to live to find Vlad in this mess. He hits the Drift it was so fast that it felt like his beard hairs were getting ripped out one by one even through his helmet. Then he sees himself in what seems to be the future he is a space drifter, oh how he longed to be one. Then he hits the finish line riding only on the metal rims of his moped the tires seemed to have melted off and melted all the snow coming at him from the avalanche in his last drift. Hasselhoff say “ oh boy that was worth the hassel” then disappears into the sun set. Grima kicks away his moped and runs to the mountain sized mound of snow and starts digging to find Vlad but he never does. legends say that you can still see him digging in a desperate attempt to find his loving Vlad the Impaler. Also his family members say that he when back to malta to start a new. “The first one sounds way cooler though” says the narrator John Grima.

Farewell to Malta By: Kevin Briggs

The resistance movement was growing quickly, within three weeks the protests had spread from Gozo to the main island. People from all over Malta had begun to take a stand against the highly oppressive Maltese regime. What started as small-scale agricultural strikes and peaceful protests had quickly evolved to riots. It seemed that the entire working class was on their feet and fighting to overthrow Grima regime. The regime tried to regain control of the Maltese citizens by instituting nationwide curfews and martial law but they were only met with armed rebels supported by the Russian Mafia. After the King denied the protesters’ initial demands to resign and face criminal charges, insurgents from every island in Malta stormed the streets of Valletta. Their eyes were set on the former parliament building, now home to the tyrant who had taken hold of the government just over a decade before. Unbeknownst to the insurgents the head of state and public enemy number one, King Grima, had hidden a few blocks away from his palace with the rest of his cabinet in an underground bunker in Valletta. The bunker was constructed from cold clean concrete with four private rooms surrounding a center conference room. All the rooms were lit with yellowed fluorescent lights that flickered anytime you turned on one of the room’s closed circuit computers. The metal framed ripped cushioned furniture felt even more lonesome than the construction itself. The team was sitting around the meeting table in conference room waiting for Grima to stop pacing and sit down at the head of the table.

Struggling to form a plan, the man who had once ruled with an iron fist now looked towards his board of trusted advisors for a way out alive. With the help of a military escort, he might be able to carve his way through the protests to a military submarine stationed in the nearby docks. Luckily for King Grima, he still held most of the military’s allegiance because of his wartime leadership in the War of the Mediterranean in 2048. His tactical mind and guerilla strategies were able to not only win the war but also save thousands of Maltese lives. The trust he earned in the military was now keeping him safe in a military bunker out of the insurgents reach. His only way out probably was going to require the help of the Maltese soldiers. Grima was panicking; he could not stop thinking about what he could have done to maintain the forceful grip on his small home country. After years of controlling Maltese legislation, their country’s justice system, and even all of their citizens access to any form of news and media it was the Russian Mafia’s influence that would lead to the public’s hatred towards him. Lead by infamous Russian drug peddler, Emma Gist, the Mafia sought to gain control of Malta for the Russian government to use as a military base within the Mediterranean. Grima had to stop thinking about the past and focus on keeping himself safe. He reminded himself that he had to be careful when planning his escape because he was almost certain that one of his cabinet members was a puppet of Gist and her Mafia. He had to move quickly before the puppet leaked the whereabouts of their hideout. With the help of his lead strategist Kevin Biggs, one of John’s most trusted advisors and lifelong friend, started to plan his escape using the submarine before the Judas made themselves known. His intelligence updates informed him that the insurgents had breached the outer security of the parliament building, but they only had a couple of hours before they found out that King Grima had already fled. Although his security detail assured him that there was plenty of time to lay low, John had an uncomfortable feeling of utmost urgency so he decided to pull the trigger. Grima assembled a group of his closest staff members and made a plan on how to safely transport him three blocks to the port where the submarine was hidden. The group used one of the bunker’s private rooms to draw up a plan like a football formation. The plan had been formed and they were ready to step foot outside. With bodyguards forming a shape similar to a bird’s V formation they were able to quickly start cutting through the crowd without gathering too much attention. They had made it about half a block before some of the insurgents noticed them. When they rioters caught sight of Grima they got noticeably more agitated, that is when Grima got in some serious trouble. People started throwing glass bottles and bricks taken from pillaged buildings. His escorts did an honorable job intercepting most of the projectiles with their bodies. However, before they got to their safe house a block away from the port some of the bodyguards already fell to the Maltese rebels. Luckily, Grima was able to make it into the safe house without any sustaining any significant injuries. Grima’s cabinet opened the metal door and protected the entrance until they were able to shut and bar the doors to their retired military hideout. They had time to recover and count their losses. Grima looked to his advisors for help; they would have to adapt their plan to deal with some of their cabinet’s losses. At that moment, a metallic object crashed through the window and exploded. Smoke filled the room and sounds coming from all directions. Grima couldn’t see a thing and his eyes burned. He could just hear Kevin shouting for everyone to leave though the underground tunnel. Grima fumbled his way through the safe house tripping his way over objects to the stairwell where Kevin was waiting. From there Kevin, lead him through the tunnel where the rest of his advisors were waiting. After the long way through the tunnel, they were just across the street from the docks of the port. They would just have to make it safely to the sub. Completely ditching any plan or formation John Grima sprinted across the dock to the crew. Against all odds, he made it all the way to the military crew waiting to receive them. They boarded and took their places in launch protocol. The commanders filled the control room and Grima retreated to one of the bunkrooms. The submarine submerged and Grima had officially lost any control he might have left in his homeland; however, for the first time in weeks Grima felt safe. Unfortunately, his false sense of security would lead to his eventual demise. During the commotion in the safe house, Kevin had redirected Grima from the bigger group into a group of Russian Mafia members. Grima was too focused on trying to stay alive that he had not even taken note of the group escorting him. The person who covertly replaced his commanding military personnel, and now was in command of the submarine, was Emma Gist. Under the Russian Mafia’s control the submarine veered west out of the Mediterranean so they could drop off Gist in Russia just north of Finland before they stranded Grima alone in the Arctic.

Space Grima By: Zebulan Sheridan Robinson

The sun slowly crept around the horizon of the grey planet below, there was complete silence except for a single sound, the weak whirring of a small white 2329 N15san Sakana, with chipped paint and the words “The Hamajang Cicada” in neon purple letters. It's nearly an antique but definitely not in mint condition. The body of the ship curved in the shape of a fish with the solar intakes built into the sides and going down the body to the drift unit which is based at the tail of the ship. When activated the thrusters fan out to look like a fin. The ship gently shifted as the captain stirred from his rest. The room was littered with small snack bags, soda bottles, and wanted posters for a human, a Boanori, and a robot. Above the bunk he was climbing out of there were two more bunks both being occupied by his crew and coated in trash as well. After getting on his feat the captain in his tank top and boxers walks over to the doorless closet pulling up a pair of jeans and strapping them on with a belt of assorted tools and his laser pistol. He throws his bright red Hawaiian shirt on over his tank top and walks up to the front of the ship, strapping himself into the black felt seats of the cockpit and brushing cheeto dust off the console. He has a well trimmed head of black hear with bushy eyebrows and a pair of running shades. This is the tale of John Grima, Jr. space adventurer. With a swift movement of his wrist he released the emergency brake and moved his hand nio;to the shifter and slammed it into drive jacking the ship towards the planet barreling down to the nearest continent which had just begun to have light skate across it from the just rising sun. Moving the secondary shift gear up into third, then fourth, then fifth reaching a comfortable speed for his decent. After passing several layers of smog, smoke, and space trash he placed his other hand on the directional dial and pulled it to the left drifting through the sky and scraping the hull of the ship along the black top of a run down and abandoned Da Vinci. Thorned large flowered tendrils and vines creeped and crawled all over the empty buildings. The surrounding city echoed with the sounds of silence, not a single sound, not even a squirrel could be heard in this desolate wasteland. As he walked down out from the cockpit and through the hull he grabbed a helmet and pulled it over his head. After pushing a sequence of buttons on the side of the glass dome the rubber extended to his neck making an airtight space. He then took a tube from a hook on his belt and attached it to an input near the buttons he had just pressed. A small box containing a fan mounted on his belt began to whirr slowly. As he exited the bottom airlock a constant rustling was audile over the hum of The Hamajang Cicada. As he walked away from the hull he heard someone in the direction of the ship yell out at him “Ay Boss Mann! Whats with all the drifting and skids?! It's not even 9:00 in the Jorani Morning!” With a yawn Mr. Grima responded “Don't worry about it just wait inside and I’ll…” He froze in his placed and turned around to see a member of his crew, a friend, Solid. He was a member of the Boanori race long lanky humanoid creatures with scales and snakelike heads, and he had left the hull without a helmet. Grima started running towards him yelling “Get back inside now.” It was clearly to late, his friend had begun having a coughing fit, by the time Grima had reached him he was blubbering in buzzard tongues. Nothing he said made any sense as John grabbed him and threw him over his shoulder carrying him back into the ship. He rushed him into the common room clearing off the table of doughnut boxes and soda bottles. He then set Solid down where had just cleared and ran into the bunk room. He reached up to the top bunk and hit several buttons on a large metal box, he then stepped back attempting to slow his breathing. He then yelled at the unresponsive box “MT-3RT! Activate right now or I swear to ungalo I will dismantle you and throw you out the airlock over a dying star!” A gentle buzzing of decaying electronics emanated from the top bunk and a tall figure lowered itself from the bunk on two cables attached to the ceiling, and lowered onto a pair of tube feet and began to walk towards Grima rubbing his visual units and stretching. This was the residential robot of The Hamajang Cicada, A barely functioning MT unit. It was tall with a box head and a humanoid structure, more than half of its front facing panel was covered in many buttons. “Sorry GrimaaaaA-aaAAA” the bizarre yelling continued as the captain shook his head looking at the floor. He then entered a sequence of buttons on his front and slammed his side with the palm of his hand. MT’s yelling halted and the servos in its eyes dilated before starting again. “ Sorry about that Captain I still haven't worked out that kink in my software.” Grima turned down the corridor and motioned to MT-3RT to follow him beginning to talk “Nevermind that, I had to make a pitstop at S3-MW and Solid decided to just come out without a helmet.” MT beeped with a slight confusion and asked “What is so bad about that.” Grima turned towards the robot and erupted in frustration “You fool. Unlike you we need oxygen, and the oxygen out there is polluted with a neurotoxin that will make any oxygen breathing life form begin to hallucinate and eventually after extended exposure they will die. That is why it is a big deal!” Grima walked past the table with Solid on it and preceded to motion for MT to keep an eye on him. Grima stepped back out onto the blacktop and began jogging towards room fourteen hopping over vines and briefly checking in all the overgrown rooms to be sure no one else was there. Around room fifteen he heard several booms in the distance and he took his laser pistol, lovingly named SH4NK out from the holster on his belt and held it close to his chest turning around the corner. When he entered room fourteen there was a dankness to the air almost like he was in tropical climate. He walked towards the front of the room approaching a desk with a light blue glow and looked beneath it, his pistol drawn. Underneath the desk was a bright blue glowing succulent, it pulsated with clean pleasant light. When Mr. Grima saw this he exclaimed with relief “Well there that is then.” He took a mug from the top of the desk and scooped the plant into it gently, he then gripped his pistol and strided across the decaying room as he heard several loud energy shifts followed by a series of metallic thuds. One of the flowers on his shirt began to beep and he pressed the flower activating his communication device, MT immediately started screaming “Captain, captain we're not alone! There are five ships from the Milky Way Police Department around the ship, they are demanding us to come out with our hands up. Neither of us have hands! What are we going to do!? Grimaaa-AA-aaaaa” Grima tapped the flower again turning off the channel. He proceeded to run towards the black top connecting the mug to a loop on his belt. From deep in the mist he hear a strong military sounding voice say “John, come out. We know you're here, it's not like anyone else in this quadrant would drive a beat up piece of junk like yours.” continued walking towards where he parked ducking behind cover out of caution. He eventually could see his ship, surrounded by two MWPD space bikes and three hovering patrol cars with eight armed officers all alert. The man continued, “You're a damn fool, ya know I thought you would have been smart enough to avoid this hell hole, apparently not. You and you and your space potato.” Grima ran out from his cover furious firing several shots from SH4NK aiming for the thrusters on the central patrol car. While doing this he screamed at the officers “No one calls my baby a space potato!” When he hit the thruster it exploded with a bright blue energy spinning it towards several officers and one of the other patrol cars, they opened fire the second they saw him and he promptly jumped and rolled attempting to get near one of the patrol bikes. He ran avoiding their shots then grabbing the accelerator on the space bike and throttling it as much as he could aiming it at the men standing near the entrance to his ship. After releasing it he followed its path of destruction eventually hopping back into the bottom airlock being swallowed back into the ship while under fire. He rushed into the common room to check on his crew and found Solid laying on the table with his eyes wide and drooling with MT hurriedly tending to him. Grima walking past them towards the front of the ship announced to them “We got it, now maybe if we can we get out of here.” He proceeded up to the cockpit and strapped himself in turning over the engine as he did so, starting up the engine and pulling the nose straight up and yanking the secondary shift gear straight into eighth gear in an attempt to get away as fast as possible. After piercing the curtain of smog and smoke under the atmosphere it was clear they weren't getting out of this in one piece there was a blockade of five more patrol cars waiting for them. He pulled the emergency brake and pulled on the directional dial with all of his might jacking the ship to the left then swiftly releasing the brake following an orbital path around the planet to aid his speed, at this point all the patrol vehicles were pursuing him. The ship shook and began to slow as they begun being fired upon, MT’s voice began coming through a speaker on the console “Captain they hit the left solar intake, we are losing mobility” Solid’s voice came over the speaker “Aye Greims! I got that toxin out in just a few good ol blood purifications!” The ship shook again, Grima pushed a button to respond on the wheel “Boys, were dealing with the MWPD, they don't send you to some hodunk little jail, they will send us to a prison on the galactic level.” They all fell silent as shots whizzed past them, eventually Solid broke the silence by asking “What are we going to do Grima? Were still slowing down.” Grima opened up a panel next to him with the words “Contingency Plan” printed in bold red letters, he then flipped the first switch with had the words “Fins” under it. A pair of thrusters emerge from the sides and the ship begins speeding up again. Grima moves on the the next two switches called “Drift unit” and “Drift unit booster”, he then moves into tenth gear and begins to outrun the officers but they hit the leftmost fin. Grima slowly activates his microphone and comes on over the speakers “I'm sorry Solid, MT, just remember if your in C block ask for Hermy Wubbz… He will do his best to keep you safe.” Solid began yelling over the speaker, “What are you trying to say!? You better not do what I think you are doing.” Mr. Grima took the mug and poured it into a tube titled “Fuel converter” and then hit the last switch as a single tear rolled down his face. Gaskets steamed and doors closed as MT came on for the last time “Don't do this Captain. Please Griemaaa-aAAA” He turned of the speaker and hit the emergency break jacking the ship sideways and then the cockpit released from the rest of the ship, the end of it erupted with a glowing blue thrust beam as he initiated an interdimensional drift. The space and time around him began to curve, and then the cockpit was gone.

One Roast Grima Vs. the Dream Team Meme Team By: Stefan Kaloper

It was a dark day for the citizens of Sivad, as their superhero John Mema had been defeated by the supervillains of the Dream Team Meme Team. Memas closest friends, Big Sean McCarthy and Cruzerino were mourning the death of their beloved friend and ally when suddenly the dimly lit graveyard shone brightly as a ball of fire seemed to explode out of the clouds above. The two gaped while it descended from the sky, as the object drew closer to impact it became clearer and clearer that it had been man made. The ground erupted as the U.F.O. crashed onto the meadow nearby ripping a long ditch through the once beautiful flowers. The object came to a halt at the edge of the meadow and as the smoke cleared, Cruzerino noticed the shadow of someone or something! “It cannot be!” he exclaimed as Big Sean fell to his knees. Out of the crash stepped a nearly identical lookalike to their just buried friend John Mema. They watched as the man shook his head adjusting his sight to the once again dark cemetery. He walked up to the two of them, “I am John Grima and I am afraid that I have been transported into an alternate dimension through a careless error while flying my spacecraft.” He paused expecting surprise, but the two friends simply stood their silently mouths shut. “Is this normal here?” pondered Grima aloud. Big Sean finally spoke “No but you seem to be your dimensions version of our best friend who died this very day!” he regained his composure, “Perhaps it was simply fate, the universe choosing to not allow two different versions of the same person to exist in the same dimension at the same time? Nevertheless if you are anything like Mema please save us from the Dream Team Meme Team!” “The Dream Team Meme Team?!” exclaimed Grima. “Why how could those bunch of fools pose any threat? I've had my fair share of encounters and victories against them in my own time! Why those rascals would need actual superpowers to pose a threat to anyone!” Cruzerino responded, “well they may have been weak wherever you came from, but in this place the Meme Team are considered the greatest threat to the galaxy!” They consist of a large numbered group, along with formidable division heads and are led by the terrifying Resident Memelord!” “Shhh…” whispered Big Sean, “how could you not already have noticed that the man standing before you is also clearly quite powerful” He pulled out a device which appeared to be a camera and took a picture of Grima. He then handed it to his companion who reacted to the image with shock. “What is it?” asked Grima, now quite worried. “His power level, it’s over 9000!” exclaimed Cruzerino as he began to bow down to Grima. “Please great one, save us from the terrible Meme Team.” Grima noticed how the faces of the two fellows seemed to brighten up, and he began to actually consider helping them out. “Fine then exclaimed Grima!” Lead me to these cretins who I must defeat!” Cruzerino and Big Sean nodded and they led grima to a remarkably familiar looking car. He choose not to comment as he happily entered this dimension's version of his old Toyota AE86 150 HP. The three headed down the road out of the cemetery and towards the large structure far off into the distance… “Grima!” Grima rolled over in his sleep and continued snoring in the back of the car. “Grima, you need to wake up!” Someone shook his arm and Grima got up blinking rapidly. “Waz goin’ on?” he asked still quite sleepy. The car seemed to hit something and the entire frame shook as Grima banged his head on the ceiling. Now wide awake he took a look out of the window realizing that they seemed to be chasing after a white van with the letter “THE MEME MACHINE” sprawled across both sides in sharpie. The group continued chasing after the car as Grima came to the shocking conclusion that it must have some significance to the Meme Team. “Could this be related to the Meme Team?” Grima asked already knowing the answer. “Could it be any more obvious?” responded Big Sean who quickly turned the car around a bend in the road. “That is one of the many supply vans from which the Meme Team bring various objects of importance to their fortress. If we can stop it and throw out the driver we can use it to sneak into the fortress!” Grima thought that sounded pretty smart but wondered however they could stop the van. As they rounded another corner Big Sean slammed on the gas and rammed the van into the rocky mountain face. For a moment the van seemed to stop moving and the group was hopeful that it would be so simple, but the driver seemed to recover as the van slipped by the group and sped off. “We can’t let them get away!” said Cruzerino, “This could be our best chance to get into the fortress.” Cruzerino picked up his phone and seemed to send out a text, “this car just can’t go any faster, I think we need some more help!” As if on queue a shadow appeared over the top of the van, and as Grima looked up he noticed that it was a mustang, “that's FisterMr” said Cruzerino, “We hate each other but he's obsessed with his car and loves racing it against others.” The mustang quickly caught up to the van and the two cars began pushing each other back and forth while driving across the precarious cliff edge. “Watch out!” yelled Grima as the van pushed the mustang halfway of the edge but the car just seemed to keep on going and rammed the van against the other side of the road. The mustang backed off and it seemed as if there would be one final clash to decide the result of this competition. The two cars collided in the center of the road and the mustang flew of the edge while the van flipped over and stopped for good. “Oh no” said Grima “can we save him?” “Not worth it!” said Big Sean, “He was always a jerk about his car anyways, if you ask me it’s like hitting two stones with one bird, or however that goes.” “Two birds with one stone” corrected Cruzerino. “Anyways let’s flip that van back over and use it to sneak into the Meme Teams’ fortress.” And the group did just that. A few hours later they had slipped by the guards and were now prowling around inside of the fortress. They felt they were making good progress towards the center of the fortress when they suddenly heard a strange rattling from the darkness ahead. Out stepped a very weird looking creature with no head and having the appearance of a salt shaker albeit with stick figure arms and legs. As the group stepped forwards the creature noticed them, and they were surprised when it spoke “Who are you?” asked the funky looking salt shaker. “We are here to get vengeance on our slain ally Mema and defeat the Meme Team once and for all!” shouted Cruzerino. The salt shaker trembled and it appeared to the group that it was getting angry, “Go ahead” said Cruzerino “I’ll handle him!” Grima and Sean wished him luck and ran past the overgrown salt shaker which started towards Cruzerino. “Let's do this” and Cruzerino raised his arms as if preparing for battle. However neither struck, as in this dimension there was no such thing as doing battle physically, rather opponents would throw out roasts at each other, but these were no normal insults, each had the power to kill if the recipient reacted badly enough to it. “What are you looking at you stupid looking overgrown salt shaker” said Cruzerino, “I’m gonna rip your whole career apart like the press did to Hillary Clinton!” The salt responded furiously “I’m no ordinary salt shaker! I am salt man created from the massive amount of saltiness people harbor towards one and other.” Salt Man moved towards Cruz “Don't you judge me about my appearance, besides, you look like George Lopez, David Schwimmer and Ray Romano had a terrible threesome resulting in a baby!” This continued on for some time with Salt Man clearly winning out. After a few minutes Cruzerino was on the floor defeated with Salt Man standing over him. “Ha you really thought you could defeat me?” he paused “I too was once powerless, born Stef Currey I had no abilities but was still taken in by the meme Crew who gave me a home and eventually developed these powers for me, and know I am among the greatest in existence!” Salt man laughed a corny villainous laugh but paused when he noticed Cruzerino smiling. “What is it?” he cried. “You've made a fatal mistake Salt Man, by revealing your backstory and true name to me you have left yourself open to the greatest roast of all time!” “And whatever could that be?” responded the salt. “Well…” paused Cruzerino “Steph Curry my ass!” he yelled. Initially Salt-Man appeared unfazed, but he quickly began crying out in terror as his body began breaking apart. “HOW DARE YOU!” he screamed just before his entire body shook violently and exploded. Cruzerino’s relief was short lasted however, as he realized that with Salt Mans death, so to would the massive quantities of saltiness stored within him be released to wreak havoc across the planet. “I shall stop you” cried Cruzerino, and he set the salt ablaze using his lighter. As if it was alive the mass of salt began writhing about in the flames and managed to latch onto Cruzerino before he escaped. Cruzerino cried out as the entire room collapsed with a bang and neither he nor the salt would ever be seen again. Grima and Big Sean turned looked back hearing an explosion, and hoping the best for their companion, hurried towards the central area. After passing through a large archway they appeared in a massive dark room surrounded by candles. Suddenly they noticed a ghostly figure appear in the center of the room, and as they were about to run by it, the spooky thing screeched “I am the Resident Memelord ruler of this place and leader of the Meme Team, what business do you have with me intruders!” “We are here to defeat you and save the planet” said Grima, and the two companions walked towards the Memelord when suddenly a light flickered from the balcony above and Big Sean flung himself in front of Grima just as some sort of blast exploded towards the two. Sean took the full impact and fell to his knees crying out. Grima tried to lift up Sean but realized that his body was changing and stepped back. Out from the darkness of the balcony stepped yet another opponent. “And I am Billiam Bazooka, 2nd in command of the meme team.” “if you thought you would get a fair fight then think again, were villains after all, and we shall use any means to defeat you!” He patted the machine which had fired at Sean affectionately, “This is the Mass Extinction Makeover Event device, codenamed M.E.M.E. and we shall use it to control the world!” “It can turn anything hit into an awful meme and absorb their power” said the Memelord. Big Sean’s body stopped moving lying facedown on the floor. Grima flipped him over and screamed in fear, “The Legend 27? How could you that is a terrible meme!” The two tricksters cackled as Grima set Big Sean down. He sadly put him out of his misery by once again whispering into his ear “The legend 27 is an awful meme.” He then turned towards the memelord who had already began preparing his attack, and said to him “All I see here are stale memes, everything you say is a stale meme, even you are a stale meme!” The apparition screamed and attempted to flee but was stopped by his former henchman Billiam. “What are you doing Billiam?” asked the Memelord. “You went stale long ago, now you're too weak to do anything including represent and lead the Dream Team Meme Team” responded Billiam. “Now I will use the M.E.M.E. device to steal away your power along with his” he pointed to Grima “Then I will be the greatest being in the universe!” Billiam flipped the switch and fried the memelord, he then flipped another switch which seemed to transfer all of the stored up energy from the devices many victims into him. “Now” he gestured towards Grima “Let's do this buddy.” As the final battle started Grima realised that his first few attempts to roast Billiam had seemed to shockingly have little to no effect. On the other hand Billiam continued to strike at Grima’s very soul with each word he said. “You're stronger than I expected” said Grima, “I suppose it’s time to do this for real.” He began to shine bright like a diamond. “Time for my final form” and Grima transformed, he was now wearing a hawaiian t-shirt, flip-flops, shades, and shorts with his hair slicked back. “Well then,” cried Billiam “I thinks its about time to wrap this up.” He seemed to be charging up his final roast. “I would agree” responded Grima who also began preparing his next strike. Suddenly, the two let out their greatest roasts of all time and the area between them began to flash. The sounds of explosions could be heard from miles away as the two fought. There was another flash and the entire room erupted exploding outwards, as the fortress began collapsing upon itself. When the dust had settled not a soul could be seen. An arm reached out of the dust, tightly gripping a maltese flag.

The Immortal By: Isaiah Moore

There was an overwhelming darkness that would petrify any living soul. Not a glint of light nor a perceivable sound. The only sense that could be latched onto was the putrid smell of rot. This was a place that would turn any man against himself and engulf him with fear. Time felt distorted in this place and incomprehensible, minutes felt like hours, and seconds felt like days. A truly horrible place not worthy of the worst of human kind. A man of unknown origin was trapped here, scared, alone, and no memories to distract himself with. All he could do was lay in the darkness and expect the worst outcome. Hope was an unimaginable concept that was found in no corner of the man’s mind. The man felt no love, no elation, and no pleasure, only pain. After what seemed like an eternity of being trapped in this hell in an instant, the darkness was gone. A bright light pierced the man and everything around him. The smell of rot started to fade, and was replaced with the smell of burnt material. The man’s ears were overcome with tinnitus and his head started to ache viciously. As the light started to fade the man could feel sand surrounding him and the heat of a violent sun beating on his body. He laid in the sand physically and mentally exhausted from all the trauma he had just experienced. He tried to fight the urge to close his eyes but the want was too strong and in the end his tiredness overcame him and he fell asleep. When he woke up he was covered in sand and a lone desert snake had nestled into his torn trousers to shelter itself from the heat. The man shook the snake off and stood up with an energetic bolt. He felt clear headed and aware, a feeling he had not remembered experiencing ever. He noticed that his body had undergone intense changes. His arms and legs were bigger and stronger, his vision focused and highly acute any signs of first-degree burns from the desert sun vanished and he had virtually no pain. On his wrist was a watch like device that seemed to be embeddexd into his skin. On it a stopwatch that kept counting up, a date that read 01/15/3156 and a printed name that said “John Grima”. The man wondered about this name decided that it would be a good fit for him since he had nothing else to call himself. Grima walked through the desert aimlessly with no destination in mind, he didn’t know where he was or even why he was walking. He reached into one of his deep pockets and pulled out a Malta flag which he held onto as a token to discovering what he was before he forgot everything. After a day of walking he came across an abandoned destroyed city, large buildings laid beneath the sand destroyed, and in the vast distance the remains of a mega structure could be seen desolate and devastated. A rusty old sign lay on the ground that read “Davis, population 950000”. He thought about what life was like for the residents of the city before it was destroyed, and what could have happened that caused such destruction. In an instant a familiar bright light and a high pitched ringing pierced Grima and he found himself standing in a sprawling city with movement, and sounds coming from every direction. He was surrounded by large structures piercing the sky filled with life and action. In the distance he saw the megastructure, it stretched miles and miles high and was being orbited by thousands of objects he assumed were vehicles of some kind. Grima felt a new feeling he hadn’t remembered, which could only be described as joy. He watched as families of all kinds laughed and played with each other, and beings of all kinds living and enjoying their lives. His joy was shaken when he heard a siren coming from all directions, the families stopped playing and started panicking. He recognized the similar emotions that he was so familiar with in the families, the fear of death, and the struggle for survival. Before he could ask anyone what was happening there was an explosion in the distance, the blasts radius looked four times as large as the megastructure and glowed red. A shockwave blasted through the city knocking over all the buildings in site, and blasting Grima hundreds of feet backward into a building. The building then collapsed trapping Grima under the rubble. After hours of work Grima finally emerged to a fiery hell hole of destruction. What once was a city representing the progress of humankind was now engulfed with flames so hot they burned white. This was a disaster that not even the safest of people could have survived. Grima on the other hand was untouched by the disaster, he walked through the bright flames as if they weren’t there devastated as to what had just happened. He looked down at his watch and the date read 02/12/2602. In this moment, he finally understood what he had become and the sheer power he possessed. He realized that not only was he immortal, but he could bend time and space as if they were another one of his senses. Grima focused all of his energy into going back to moments before the blast. After a bright light and a piercing ringing, he was back in the action. He could even see his prior self looking around in distraught as everyone ran frantically. In that instant he focused even more and everything around him froze. Everything became silent and still. Grima walked around for a long while just observing this silent frightening world, the citizen’s expressions of fear and terror frozen in time. He teleported himself to the blast and saw what looked like a suspended warhead floating above the ground, on it an indistinguishable language he did not recognize. He put his hand on it, looked up into the sky, and focused. An instant later, he and the warhead were above earth. He rested there floating in space looking at the beautiful green planet in awe. He realized in that instant that it was his job to protect humanity, with the amount of things threatening human existence earth needed a protector. He looked deeper into the stars and teleported light years away to safely dispose of the warhead. Then returned to earth, the moment he returned there was a man waiting for him wearing a hooded cape that covered his face, an identical watch was implanted in his wrist, and the stopwatch read 11004 years, 6 months, 3 days. The man said with to him with a voice that sounded modified “You now know what your purpose is, and it is your duty to pursue it with the fullest passion.” In that instant the man disappeared. Grima knew his purpose.

#writers #fiction #anime

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tazzytypes · 5 years ago

Text

Apocalypse: Sanctuary - Chapter 8

Hey guys! So sorry it took a bit longer this time to get a chapter out. As always I love hearing from you guys and every comment and Kudos keeps me going. Realy, your support, no matter how small you think it is, means a lot to me. This chapter is a bit slower, in my opinion, but I hope you all will like it!

Read on AO3 or see Masterpost for more chapters!

Em had decided to drop the investigation into the Geiger counter and focus on more productive investigations. The work schedule and manual from Mead’s closet would bear more fruitful and usable data, but it didn’t mean that moving from it was easy. Something about Stu’s death was off, they all knew it. Em knew about answer lay in that single page of shorthand gibberish.

Now they were in the library... her and Emily at least. Timothy was in a meeting. Langdon had the worst timing... or the best. Depended on what eyes you looked with.

A book sat in her lap, closed after she had read the last page. Dante’s Divine Comedy — she had meant to read it above ground but... well she had meant to do a lot of things. As the days went on the more worry she had over an idea of an afterlife. She was desperate for it and if, as an unbeliever, she was cast to hell, she’d much prefer to have an idea what torture she faced.

Frowning, her hand went to her throbbing leg. Em prayed her sewing skills were enough to mend the wound, small but deep. She had dressed it with some cloth from the towel she had bloodied and tied it in place with a ribbon. Most of the time she could hardly feel it, but one wrong move and she was hissing in pain.

Emily was doing some reading of her own, that of the more productive sort. She understood science much better than Em did and was having a go at the Geiger counter note.

“You know what I hate most about stories?” the brunette mused aloud after staring at the ceiling for a good twenty minutes.

Emily’s eyes didn’t leave her book, “What?”

“The ending.”

Her friend's nose scrunched for a moment before she turned to her, “isn’t that the whole point of reading? To make it to the end?”

“It’s sad,” Em sighed, “isn’t it?”

Em shrugged, watching her friend stare at the sky, “depends on the ending.”

“No... happy or not... it’s sad.”

Emily sighed, closing her book and stashing the note in her corset, “I think you’ve been spending too much time in your own head.”

“So have you,” Em reminded.

“Because I’m trying to figure something out.”

This piqued Em’s interest, eyes glimmering with the excitement of something new as she leaned towards her friend. “A mystery.”

Emily laughed and shook her head at the other woman’s antics, “you make it sound dramatic.”

“We’re some of the last people on earth... everything we do is dramatic as there is nothing to compare it to.”

“You’re eccentric, you know that?”

Em was starving for something new to investigate. Her mind needed a focus or else it would go into the worst places. “What’s the mystery, Miss Holmes?”

Her friend rolled her eyes but quickly turned to business.

“Venable is hiding something.”

“Venable is hiding a great deal of things,” Em noted, “that isn’t something new. So is Langdon, but that’s part of his job description.”

“Why the secrecy, though?”

“Knowledge is power.”

“But what is the truth?” Emily said, “we’ve been here for almost two years and all we’ve found out is when certain Wardens work and decontamination procedures and whatever else is in that manual.”

“Then how do we find out their secret plot?” Em asked, “preferably before we have to put that manual to good use.”

Emily rose from her seat and quickly made sure the library was empty. It wasn’t a particularly large library... about the size of the one at her high-school. She looked down every aisle before coming to sit back down, leaning in close to Em.

“Timothy and I are working one out,”

“Oh?” Em asked, raising an eyebrow.

Emily’s face flushed, “Not like that!”

“Don’t dash the power of a romantic subplot.”

“Did you always speak in poetry or have you finally gone insane?”

“I’ve simply lost my filter,” Em dismisses with a wave of her hand, “this plan of yours?”

“We need you to distract Langdon.”

El laughed, quickly quieting when she realized her friend wasn’t laughing along.

“That man would see right through any attempt.”

“He likes you,” Emily reminded, “why else would he call you to his office so often?”

“Bored cats will catch mice and watch them run around, barely surviving death for hours on end, just for their own amusement.”

“...so Langdon’s a cat.”

“He something far worse.”

Emily sighed, “will you help us or no?”

Em really didn’t want to tell her friend that she would be a hindrance to the investigation due to her injured leg. However, saying that would bring up more questions and she really didn’t want the girl to think she had completely lost her mind. Blackouts were one thing... homicidal urges were something else entirely. And the possibility of them happening at the same time? Not a cocktail she was willing to try.

“Your best bet is to observe his behavior and watch for patterns,” She noted, “find out when he’s distracted. You’re smart, Emily, that’s why you’re here.”

“So you’re not going to help us?”

“I want to live,” Em insisted, “the best I can do is keep silent while you two work. Venable’s already watching me like a hawk and she’d gladly take down all of us if it meant killing me.”

Emily understood her friend’s reluctance. Last time Em had a more hands-on role. She could take action if things went wrong.

“Don’t you want to know?” She asked, grabbing her friend’s hands and squeezing them, “knowledge is power, right?”

Em remembered her vision, Emily and Timothy laying on the floor while foaming at the mouth. Their eyes staring desperately at the sky as if begging god to spare them.

She cursed under her breath and pulled away from Emily’s touch, pinching her nose and sighing.

“Where do you need me to be?”

--------------------------------------------

By the time Timothy arrived Em and Emily had long grown bored of talking plans. In all honesty, the less Em knew of what they were doing the better it was. If she got caught there’d be nothing to pry from her. All that mattered was Em would make a distraction at the right time, pretend to search through his office while Timothy and Emily searched his room.

For now, however, they were content to play Heads Up and pretend the real world didn’t exist.

“Am I a pretty… lady?” Em asked. She was never good at this game.

Emily was sitting in Timothy’s lap, draped over him like a cat with her legs propping up on the armrest of the sofa.

“Would she be?” Timothy asked her.

Emily hummed, “I’m not sure.”

“Let me rephrase it,” Em proposed, turning to Emily, “is she my type?”

“Yes,” Timothy answered a bit too quickly, Emily giving him a look and shaking her head.

“But she has—” he tried to reason.

“But she doesn’t have—” Emily reminded, the pair staring at one another until they burst into laugher. Emily curled into Timothy, her head resting in the crook of his neck.

They were interrupted, as always, by a screeching of the library doors. Laughter halted in their throats, eyes turning towards the sound of feet on carpet as silence overtook the room save the small sizzling of melted wax meeting fire.

Mead appeared from the shadows of the room, arms crossed as she came to stand before them. Her eyes narrowed as she realized two-thirds of them had a piece of paper taped to their heads, something written upon them which she could not see.

She turned to Em with and sighed, “Michael wants to see you.

Not bothering to hide her annoyance, Em rolled her eyes and rose from the armchair.

“Who was I?” She asked the pair.

“Gwyneth Paltrow,” Emily said with a smile.

Em turned to Timothy and gave him a look. Her type? Really?

“Oh, honey,” She said, “bless your heart.”

Emily smiled and leaned in to whisper in his ear, “That’s southern for stupid.”

“You said Pepper Pots could get it!” Timothy exclaimed.

“Pepper Pots is a badass,” Em noted before turning to follow Mead.

“They’re the same person!” Timothy shouted, exasperated as Emily’s laughter echoed through the room. It only stopped when the door closed behind Em, sealing off the pair from the rest of the world.

“You have a—” Mead noted, motioning to Em’s head.

“Oh!”

Em laughed and took the card from her head, staring at it for a moment before turning to Mead.

“Do you mind?” She asked the woman, holding out the card. There were some things she’d like Langdon to not know, small as it may be.

Mead sighed, trying to sound annoyed as she took the paper.

“Half the time I don’t know what to expect with you three.”

“Have to pass the time somehow.”

“Who’s Gwenneth Paltrow?” Mead asked, opening the paper and turning it back and forth in her hand.

“Actress,” Em told her, side eying the paper and trying not to think of the dull ache in her leg, “always on about that crazy new-age stuff that makes no sense.”

Mead shrugged and pocketed the paper, “never was one for all that crap.”

“Me neither,” Em admitted, “only know the name because she got into some crazy cult shit.”

Her companion let out a barking laugh, an infectious smile crawling onto Em’s lip, “so did half of Hollywood.”

The woman showed no hint of suspicion towards Em. Then again, Mead was the type of person who knew how to control her speech and emotions until it was time to strike.

A familiar sound of a cane caught the pair’s attention as they made it up the stairs— tap-ta-tap, tap-ta-tap. Em looked to Mead, trying to read any emotion on her face. There wasn’t… something that wasn’t much of a surprise.

Venable’s face greeted them as they turned onto one of the many upstairs hallways. Em took some satisfaction in the momentary widening of her eyes as the woman saw them. The expression quickly straightened, lips pursed as Venable tore her eyes from Em and laid them upon her escort.

“Miss Mead,” she said, voice reminding the brunette of when her parents pretended they weren’t at one another’s throats just a moment before they sat down for dinner, “May I have a word.”

Mead’s only response was a subtle nod before she turned to Em, “you know the way.”

Em offered her a friendly smile, making sure it remained on her face as she walked past Venable. Her contempt was so easy to read.

“Have a good day, Miss Mead.”

-------------------------------

Langdon was standing by the fire when Em entered. It felt like he hadn’t moved since their last visit, affixed to the same spot she had left him with his hands behind his back. She took a moment to read the room as she closed the door quietly behind her.

There were no wardens in the room, meaning he probably didn’t see them in Mead’s room and that Venable most likely didn’t inform him of her suspicions. So Venable didn’t trust him… that was revealing.

“Is this another interview?” Em asked as she took a few steps forward. She imagined he already knew she was there, but her words finally forced him to turn and acknowledge her. A smile flickered to his lips as he turned to her.

“This time more of a social call.”

“Oh?” she said, a brow quirking up her forehead and a smirk finding it’s way to her lips, “Is that what you’re telling residents now?”

Langdon glanced to the floor, still smiling as he shook his head. Finally, he gestured to a set of armchairs facing the fire. She rounded them, taking the one on her right. Her hands rested on the back as she waited for Langdon to move.

His eyes were focused on her skirt, eyes slightly narrowed in thought. Her awkward gait was obvious to him, slight as the limp may be. Langdon didn’t note it, simply staring at the woman until she finally sat. Em did so with a sigh, eyes turning to the chess set that sat on a small table between them. It looked like he had been mid-game with someone.

“You play?” she asked as he sat next to her, legs crossing as he turned towards her ever slightly.

“On occasion. You?”

“I used to be good once,” She admitted with a rueful smile, hands going to straighten one of the knights, “but I haven’t played since I was a child.”

This visit felt different from the others. Langdon seemed almost relaxed, leaning back into his chair and hands free of any files. The fire crackled before them, making the world feel a little more quiet than usual.

“Why is that?” he asked. She felt his eyes on her but refused to look at him, occupying herself by fiddling with the pieces.

“My parents weren’t overly fond of spending time with me… though they pretended they did.”

“Perhaps I can reteach you.” Langdon offered.

Finally, Em’s head rose from the chess set. He watched as green eyes flickered between himself and the fire, never quite meeting his gaze.

“I’d like that.”

They set to fixing up the chess pieces, exchanging pieces that lay on the other’s side. He chose the black pieces and she took the white — she’d have to make the first move. Though, that wasn’t surprising when it came to conversations with the man.

“You’ve spoken a lot about your parents,” he noted, “what about the rest of your family.”

“Emotionally abusive father and a codependent mother,” she noted, “are a perfect equation for isolation. One that kept us from reaching out to others and ensured that my siblings would rarely return home.”

“You feared him,” he noted, taking a bishop she held out to him, “your father.”

“Fear,” she corrected, “present tense.”

“But the bombs—”

“Fear is illogical that way,” Em noted, “What about you?”

“Me?”

“What was your family like?”

Langdon paused, eyes betraying his amusement as he debated what he said next. A few details wouldn’t hurt.

“I was adopted by a family friend after my grandmother committed suicide.”

She didn’t apologize as most people did. Her eyes said enough. He expected the usual questions, the kind one would encounter in therapy. Em was debating which ones would be appropriate.

“Do you miss her?”

“Which one?”

“Either.”

Langdon sighed and placed his last pawn in place, “someone once told me that nostalgia is much nicer than true memories.”

“smart person,” Em noted, moving her first piece — a knight.

“She was.”

He was quick to counter her move, choosing to move a pawn near the outer edges of the board. The fire crackled as a log snapped in two, settling into the center of the fire with a rippling crack.

“I have to admit your quick thinking is intimidating.”

“Take all the time you need,” he reassured.

Her hands hovered over the board, fingers twitching as she ran through possible outcomes in her head. When she spoke, her voice sounded distant.

“So you can pick at my brain while it’s distracted?”

Langdon chuckled, moving a piece after she moved forward another knight, “Something like that.”

A comfortable silence filled the room as they got into the game, Michael’s movements quick while Em took more time to play out moves in her head.

“Are you sure about that?” he had taunted at some point, a devilish grin on his face. Em paused for only a moment. If she didn’t move the rook to take his bishop he’d have check in two.

“Fuck off, Langdon,” she laughed, moving the piece despite his warning. Her laugh was infectious as he shrugged his shoulders and moved another piece.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Langdon won, naturally. Though Em had a feeling he hadn’t played fair. His smugness filled the room, leaning back in his chair with an air of content at having beaten her. It both annoyed and amused her — like when her brother beat her at Super Smash Bros.

“Another round,” she demanded and he rose a brow, sitting up in his seat. He rose an amused brow and she shook her head. “This time we play checkers.”

“Checkers?”

“I lived in the south,” she reminded, ignoring a stare that displayed how much the man was judging her, “there were Cracker Barrel restaurants on every major exit. One was right across from the college dorms I stayed in.”

“So you’ve had a lot of practice.”

“Don’t worry,” she teased, “perhaps I can teach you.”

He smiled and put the chess pieces away as she pulled the checkers out from the compartment inside the board. She set them out and waited for him to make the first move.

“Can I ask you a few questions?” Em said as she quickly countered his move. He chuckled at the symmetry of her actions and waved his hand for her to proceed.

“Why was this place designed to fail?”

The way his hand hesitated over his piece betrayed his surprise, quickly recovering and completing his move. Her pieces clicked against the board as she countered, waiting for him to respond.

The blond straightened back into the iron mask he wore around the rest of the residents. “What makes you say that?”

Answering questions with questions. That was also a game she knew well.

“This whole place was designed on the tip of a knife,” She explained, balancing a checker on the tip of her finger, “We’re just waiting to lose our balance.”

To emphasize her point she allowed the checker to fall. It clattered on top of the other pieces she had stolen from Langdon.

“And what would you do to make it better?” he posed, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Do you want me to alphabetically or categorically?”

Langdon leaned back with a short barking laugh. He stared at her with what she’d almost consider pride… the cat’s favorite mouse. He waved a hand again, prompting her to continue.

“Whatever is easier.”

The board lay between them, game abandoned in light of a more interesting chain of events. She mirrored his actions, considering which point to bring up first.

“This place was built by the rich, yes?”

He nodded, watching her intently.

“Why the hell would the rich settle for unfulfilling cubes?”

“Those cubes—”

Em cut him off with a sigh, “have all the nutrients we need but not all the calories. An extreme coupon mom would have a greater quantity and quality of rations than we do.”

The blond prepared himself for a long conversation, leaning his head against a hand that was propped up on the armrest of his chair. She stared at him, waiting for a response.

“What else?” he asked with a sigh.

“The Cooperative put in place a NASA-esk water filtration unit, but couldn’t find a way to have a self-sustaining food resource?”

“You make it sound easy,” he noted.

“It is,” She stated, “Scientists already had designs in place before the bombs dropped.”

“This does nothing to prove we intended the worst,” He nearly sang.

“Then why do you claim there is a sanctuary more equipped for this? Why is that not the standard for all the outposts?”

Langdon thought back to his first interaction with the girl. Her first accusation. He should have known she’d be trouble from the start… but perhaps he could use this to his advantage. Leaning forward, he moved another piece across the board.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Em was intent to get to her thesis — the final blow.

“You intended this from the beginning — make people desperate enough to see their true colors then pick them off one by one.”

He chuckled, twirling one of her pieces in his hands and he shook his head and stared into the fire.

“Someone’s done their research.”

“Venable and yourself are the most openly condescending people I’ve ever met… you both think you’re so smart and with this crowd that’s mostly the case.” She said with a scoff.

Em took one of his pieces, then another, “you’re so pleased with yourselves that anyone with a brain can look right through you and see your intentions. No offense.”

“None taken,” he said with a smile, “…Mostly the case?”

“Timothy and Emily were chosen for their genetics. That’s the only good choice The Cooperative has made thus far.”

“Your care for them makes you blind to their faults,” he noted, “no offense.”

“None taken.” Em said, offering a shrug as she collected three more of his pieces, “King me.”

They lapsed back into a comfortable silence. Langdon lost and as she had expected he did so poorly, immediately challenging her to another game. That meant what she had said had some effect on the man. He sought to cover his fumble with conversation as they began the next round, asking about her observations of Outpost Three’s inner-workings.

Even that conversation came to comfortable silence, Langdon far more intent on this game compared to the last. Em stared at him when he wasn’t looking, too busy playing out moves in his head. His lips would twitch ever slightly when he thought.

“Do you ever feel lonely?” she asked him, playing the question in her head a few times before speaking.

“Lonely?” He echoed, voice distant as he finally moved a piece, “I thought we already had this conversation.”

The brunette sighed and stared at the pieces for a long moment as she ran through what to say next.

“Do you ever have that feeling that something is supposed to be there, but isn’t?”

He also took a moment to think, mouth open for a moment as he chose the right words to say, “I’m afraid I am unfamiliar with the emotion.”

“You’re lucky then,” She admitted, “sometimes it’s often claustrophobic in nature… like looking for a friend in a sea of thousands.”

“I thought you said you were content with your own company?” he asked, moving his piece to the other side of the board, “king me.”

“I am, but… I can’t place it. It feels different somehow.”

He looked at her, brows knitted together as he moved another piece, “how so?”

“It’s the same yearning I feel for a sense of purpose,” she said, shaking her head and speaking before she could think. Her eyes were on Langdon, but the man could tell she was looking at something past the physical realm. “But more specific. I yearn for someone or something, but I can’t place it’s… like I’m looking at it through a fog.”

“We all left things behind in the old world,” he noted, giving her his full attention “perhaps you are searching for something you lost.”

She sighed, “but reminiscing on such things is a fruitless task. Nostalgia is only healthy in small doses.”

“Nostalgia can be good.”

“Too much of anything is a bad thing,” Em noted.

“That it is.”

A buzzing in her head made Em focus back on the game before her. The sound of pieces moving made the blond turn back towards her, out of his thoughts and back into the current moment.

“What is it like?” Em asked, changing the subject, “traveling from outpost to outpost?”

“Is that what prompted your question?” he asked, sighing as he forced his mind back on strategy.

“In part.” She admitted.

“I’d call it a time to reflect,” he noted with a sigh, “but it’s hard to think when you’re keeping an eye out for cannibals.”

Em’s gaze turned to the fire, brows bunched together at the bridge of her nose. Venable had been right. She had somewhat hoped the monsters the woman spoke of would be nothing but fear-mongering.

“It’s only been a year and people are already—”

She cut herself off. Biting her lips and shaking her head, she chided herself, “no… that’s not fair of me to say.”

“Law was the only thing keeping humankind from its unlimited cruelty,” Langdon noted, hardly phased as he got yet another piece to the other side of the board. He was a quick learner. “The outcome isn’t that much of a surprise.”

Em was quick to change the subject, “What did you see out there?”

“Nothing pleasant.”

For some reason, he wished to keep the reality from her. Whether out of compassion or a desire to keep her ignorant, she couldn’t quite tell.

“I’d like to know,” she finally insisted, “Venable has only told us so much and we’re forbidden from leaving the premise… even with hazmat suits.”

Langdon nodded. He expected as much from the two women — Venable and Em. Pausing from the game, he gave her his full attention — turning in his chair and resting his elbows on the armrest closer to her.

“The trees are barren and everything is covered in thick green fog,” he said, slow and methodical as if he were trying to recall every last detail, “the animals have gone rabid or are in the very late stages of cancer. You cannot see the sun in the sky… an eternal night.”

“What about the people?”

“Killing each other for food or simply out of paranoia. Cancer and tumors are the norm for most.”

Her arms had come to brace themselves on the arms of her chair, knuckles white and jaw clenched. She stared into the fire but did not see it, darkness clouding her vision as she was sent back into that first day in the outpost. How many of those messages weren’t their last? How many survived only to face torment? How many had she abandoned in the wastelands?

“The children?” she forced herself to ask, forcing herself to look at him. His eyes widened every slightly before he glanced away, conflicted. She watched his chest rise and fall, his eyes close momentarily as he centered himself before speaking.

“On the way here, I came across a woman,” He told her, “A young mother, with two children. They were some of the unlucky ones who were far from the blast radius to survive the fireball, but… not the radiation.”

Em’s mouth opened every slightly in shock as she realized he was crying, a single tear breaking free and racing down his cheek.

He held his hand up, the other hovering over it and tracing up his arm as he continued to recall the incident before resting at his chest, “they were covered in tumors — sores. Their lungs were burned from the toxic air.”

With a clench of his fists, he fell back in his chair and refused to meet her eye, “After a few moments I realized that the child she was carrying in her arms was dead. She was begging for us to murder her other child out of mercy… she didn’t have the strength to do it herself.”

Em didn’t even realize she was crying until he turned to her. She stiffened as he reached out a hand to her cheek, cupping it and brushing away the tear gently with his thumb.

“Did you?” she asked, voice hardly above a whisper and his hand still on her cheek.

Blue eyes refused to look away from her, “Did I what?”

“Have mercy.”

An emotion she had never seen on him before tainted his features. It made his face fall, his eyes shine in a way that wasn’t pleasant and his lips part every slightly. His hand pulled back from hers and he turned away from her, closed himself off.

“No,” he finally answered, “I couldn’t bring myself to.”

Langdon felt regret… shame.

“I doubt anyone could.”

“Why do you cry for them?” he asked.

“I have nieces and nephews,” she said, “friends and—”

A frog sat in her throat keeping her from speaking. She waited a few moments before clearing her throat and drying her eyes, forcing the unpleasant emotion back from whence it came. After a few more breaths of unprompted tears, she spoke again.

“I’m sorry for bringing up a depressing topic.”

“Knowledge is power,” he noted, “and the desire of power is in our nature.”

Langdon cleared his throat as well before turning back to the game. It seemed both of them were content to pretend the last few moments be forgotten… for now, at the very least.

“What would you do to survive?” he asked her, waiting for her to make a move.

She sighed rather loudly. Naturally, he was using interview questions to take back the power he had relinquished for but a moment. Still made her head feel light like she had whiplash.

“What would I want to do?” she asked, moving a piece without much thought. Langdon was keen to take advantage, quickly moving his piece to take over it. “Or what I would actually do?”

He scoffed, “is there a difference?”

“Of course. I’d like to think I’d preserve some of my humanity — morality and the like.”

“But in reality?”

Em opened her mouth and closed it again. What would she do? So far she had certainly become more… adventurous wasn’t quite the right word. Admitting that, however, would be giving him and, in turn, The Cooperative more information than she was willing to part with.

“I don’t know,” she said, “It’s hard to know what you’d do until you are forced to take action.”

“You like to skirt around questions,” he notes, “despite my warning against hedging.”

“You want honest answers,” she reminded, “that required introspection — especially with these questions. It’s rarely linear.”

“How do you react to conflict?” he asked, sounding like he was reading from a list. Em wouldn’t be surprised if he had all the questions memorized at this point.

“What kind of conflict?”

He sighed, trying to be annoyed but failing as a hint of a smile let itself be known, “Your answers tend towards the circumstantial.”

“C’est la vie,” Em said with a shrug, moving a piece and watching Langdon frown as she captured one of his kings.

“It certainly keeps at least one of these conversations interesting.”

Em gave him a look, “is this a conversation?”

“We’re communicating, are we not?”

“You’re asking questions and I’m talking about myself for…”

She glanced at the clock in the corner of the room, “… an hour. Not much of a conversation.”

“Therapists would disagree.”

“You’re my therapist now?

He didn’t look at her, but she could see him smirk, “…of a sort.”

The brunette leaned forward in her chair, regarding him for a moment, “Then what do you see?”

Langdon’s head quirked to the side as he eyed her, “I see a woman who hides her insecurities behind bold and intelligent words… a philosopher without students.”

Em could only laugh, sparing him an amused but unbelieving look, “You give me far too much credit.”

“My records indicate you were quite introverted and withdrawn before,” he noted, “What changed?

“When you stare at death he does not care what mask you ware,” she told him, voice distant as if it was not her own, “so why bother with pretenses and polite society?”

“Why, indeed?”

They finished the game, coming to an impasse with two kings following each other across the board. Langdon rose from his chair and wandered over to the pitcher of water from before.

“You care for some?” he asked.

“Yes, please.”

He turned to her with a Cheshire grin, “what happened to polite society?”

“Born in the south, remember? We mind our P’s and Q’s and say ‘bless your heart’ instead of ‘go to hell.’”

“I hear it’s quite pleasant this time of year,” he said, turning with two glasses of water.

“Hocus Pocus,” she noted.

“A staple in my house during Halloween,” he noted, a sad smile coming to his lips.

She rose and took a step forward as he approached her, hand extended to take the glass from his hands. A thankful smile turned tense as too much pressure was placed on her bad leg. After sitting for so long, she had forgotten it was there. She leaned back on her good leg and regulated her expression.

Langdon didn’t seem to notice and she pulled back and carefully lowered herself into the chair, waiting for him to move and do the same. Placing the glass on the table beside her, she turned to make a comment about a third and final match only to find him crouched on the ground.

Red coated his fingers, a small puddle on the ground the size of a silver dollar. One of her stitches must have torn. Of all the timing…

“You’re hurt,” he noted, looking up to her, “where?”

“Oh,” she tried to write off, “it’s embarrassing, but I think that’s— “

His eyes were deadly as he stood and stepped towards her, a growl in his throat, “we agreed not to lie.”

With a sigh and a roll of her eyes, Em lifted up her skirt to reveal the comically small injury that sat three inches above her knee. As she feared, unbinding the bandages revealed the stitching had come undone.

He kneeled down in front of her, hand hovering over the wound. “What happened?”

She tied the bandages around it, resolving to cauterize it later as she knotted the ribbon extra tightly around her leg. Langdon retreated as she threw her skirts over it once more, obviously not wanting to let the incident rest or for her to leave his office without treatment.

“A fucked up side-effect of conditioning.”

Langdon sighed, “this is why I said—”

“I’d be better off acting on my anger?” she snipped, “oh, yes, I remember. You were quite insistent on that point.”

Em averted her eyes, staring past him and into the fire with venom. From the corner of her eye, she could see Langdon sigh, shoulders falling ever slightly.

Her shoulders tensed as she felt a hand upon them, finally turning towards Langdon as she realized he refused to pull away. He wanted to speak, she could tell that from the way his lips pressed together. Why was he speechless? Langdon had a response for everything.

Green eyes couldn’t look away from him— his knitted brow and the frown that marred his features. His hand rose to her cheek and all she could feel was her heart beating in her ears as the heat rising up her neck. His thumb ghosted under her eyes, over the tired circles where tears had been not even thirty minutes before.

This strange and witty woman… why did she have such an effect on him?

Hands curled around the back of her neck as he moved her hair from around her face. The pieces she had pinned back had begun to fall from their confines.

His fingers pulled her forward, thumb hovering under her chin. She felt like she was under a spell, unable to move. Did she want to move? All she could feel was her heart trying to force its way through her chest.

She smelled sweet— lavender and earth overwhelming him in the best way. His eyes flickered between her mouth and her eyes, his neck craning to the side as he felt her breath on his face.

Then, she suddenly tensed. Breaking free of the spell, she pulled back— jumping off the chair and past him to the door. She had let her guard down and… she didn’t know what to feel. The hammering in her heart told her to run, but—

“I’m leaving,” She whispered.

Langdon took a step towards her, a hand outreached. He moved as if he were approaching a wounded animal, slow and tentative.

“The interview isn’t over,” he said, hand coming gently around her wrist.

“Yes,” She growled, realizing something that made her steel herself against him and tear her hand from his grasp, “it is.”

“This could forfeit your place—” he began, cursing himself as he realized how he sounded.

“So be it. I don’t care.”

She tried to open the door and his hand went instinctively to keep it from opening. He needed her to understand. He needed—

“I’m not here to hurt you,” He all but pleaded, “take a seat.”

“…You’re right—” she finally said after a moment. His grip on the door loosened and a smile of relief came to his face, tenseness leaving his body.

The door slammed into his head as she threw it open. With a grunt of pain, he fell back and gripped at his head. When he looked up a satisfied smirk was on her face, the door blocking her body from him like a shield.

“— My anger is best used outward instead of inward.” She said, disappearing back into the hall. By the time he stumbled to the door and threw it open once more she was gone… like she had never been there in the first place.

The thought of that terrified him.

---------------------------------------

Em was… well, she wanted to pace, but the newly cauterized wound on her leg would have protested too much. So there she was, seething on her bed. Her hands dug into the comforter, pretending it was someone’s throat.

At least this time she had been sure to put away her knife first. Then again, the now blistering skin took care of any destructive and impulsive urges she may have.

She had been blind, the desire for having her life mean something clouding the reality of logic and fact. Langdon wanted her to depend on him. He wanted her to think she was special. Em wasn’t. She was an average person with a tragic childhood. A dime a dozen case.

Coco probably got the same treatment. They were both single and desperate to survive, desperate to be wanted. Langdon weaponized sex.

… But that wasn’t what it was. Not to Em, at least. It was vulnerability, understanding, trusting someone with—

He was playing with their emotions. All their emotions. Part of her was willing to be strung along. Was certainly an easier route.

With a sigh, she hung her head in her hands. She didn’t know what she wanted anymore. To live or not to live… wasn’t that the fucking question? She was supposed to graduate this year, get a shitty job with shitty pay, and live in a shitty apartment. It’s why she had sacrificed so much, stayed in a less than happy place in the hopes that one day—

A knock at the door pulled her from the spiral. Straightening her back and clearing away her misty eyes, Em turned to the door.

“It’s unlocked,” she informed the person on the other side.

“That’s new.”

Emily’s head pocked through the door before she slipped inside, closing the door behind her after checking her six, “You didn’t come to finish our game.”

The bed dipped as she took a seat next to the brunette. Her worry was transparent on her face, lip quirking to the side and eyes focused on Em’s face as she waited for the woman to say something. “We were worried.”

Em could only shake her head, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Though her eyes were focused on the floor, she could feel Emily’s hands cover her own. A familiar squeeze curling around her hand.

“We’ll make it through this,” Emily assured. It did little to convince Em. No matter what the brunette did, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being on the wrong path.

“And then what?” she couldn’t help but ask, teeth gnashing with every word, “we leave here and play the game somewhere else in some mysterious sanctuary or play Mad Max as we slowly die from cancer?”

For once, Emily didn’t have a retort.

“I can’t live like that anymore!” Em hissed, finally turning towards her companion, “My whole life I’ve lived one day to the next just to say I made it another day. I can’t! I— “

Her companion could only stare at her friend, mouth open but no words. What could she say? Emily hadn’t much thought about what would happen next, the cost of living. It was quite like what doctors faced, wasn’t it? Determining whether quality of life justified the means to the end. What was the future when they faced the end of the world?

Em shook her head, “I just can’t.”

#michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x oc #michael langdon #ahs x reader #ahs x oc #ahs #ahs apocalypse #ahs fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction

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