#corner brick veneer

[maybe-im-dark]

Kitty cat

The Team X base was quiet at this hour. Most of the others were in their rooms, catching a few hours of sleep or mindlessly passing the time between missions. But in the small, dimly lit room shared by the brothers, there was movement.

Not from Logan.

Logan lay on his cot, one arm draped over his face, pretending to sleep but listening. He had gotten used to the sounds Victor made—shifting, stretching, pacing like a caged beast. It was part of his nightly ritual. And it was always the same.

The bed frame creaked as Victor pushed himself off it, landing soundlessly on all fours, muscles rippling beneath his skin as he stretched. First the shoulders, then the spine, rolling each vertebra like a lazy jungle cat waking from a nap.

Logan cracked an eye open just enough to watch.

Victor prowled across the small space, bare feet silent against the concrete floor, knuckles barely brushing the ground. He moved differently like this—smoother, more natural, as if this was the way he was supposed to walk, and standing upright was just something he did for show.

"You ever just—walk like a normal goddamn person?" Logan grumbled, not bothering to move from his cot.

Victor grinned, flashing sharp teeth in the dim light. "I am walkin’ normal, Jimmy."

Logan groaned, throwing his arm over his face again. "Yeah? You gonna start drinkin’ from a bowl next?"

Victor didn’t answer. He just kept pacing, slow and deliberate, circling the room like he was stalking some unseen prey. His blue eyes flicked toward Logan, watching, waiting. Then, without warning, he leapt onto Logan’s bed in one smooth motion, landing on all fours right beside him.

Logan’s claws slid out instinctively. "Get the hell offa me, Vic!"

Victor, unbothered, merely smirked and flopped down on top of Logan like some oversized jungle cat, pressing his weight against him. Logan grunted as Victor’s elbow jabbed into his ribs.

"Jesus Christ, you’re worse than a damn dog—get off!"

"Dogs ain’t this big," Victor murmured, completely at ease. "You’re warm, Jimmy."

Logan growled low in his throat, "I will gut you where you lay."

Victor, ever the bastard, just rumbled an amused purr deep in his chest and sprawled further, making himself comfortable. Logan could feel the vibration against his ribs, the low, rolling sound vibrating up from Victor’s chest like a lion lounging after a hunt.

"You fuckin' purring?" Logan asked, appalled.

His brother just smirked against Logan’s shoulder, the deep rumble continuing.

Victor always moved differently when they were alone. He didn’t have to perform in front of the team. Didn’t have to act like a proper soldier for Stryker. In their room, when it was just him and Logan, he let go of that last, thin veneer of civility.

He had seen it before, the way Victor relaxed into his instincts when no one else was around. He wouldn’t even notice when he dropped to all fours, prowling the small space like a lion pacing its enclosure. It was as if standing up straight was something he only did for the sake of others, and the second he was alone, he went back to what was natural.

Sometimes, Victor would curl up in weird places—corners, on top of the table, once even on a stack of crates like some oversized housecat claiming the highest perch.

Logan never commented on it. What was the point? Victor was Victor.

But it was damn annoying.

Like when Victor sprawled across Logan’s cot, unbothered, taking up way more space than his oversized ass had any right to.

Logan shoved at him, trying to roll him off.

Victor didn’t move.

He shoved harder.

Victor flopped like a sack of bricks, letting out an exaggerated, rumbling sigh.

Logan finally kicked him, sending him tumbling off the bed with a grunt.

Victor lay there for a second, sprawled on the floor, then rolled onto his side, blinking up at Logan with lazy eyes.

"Y’know, Jimmy, you really gotta work on your hospitality."

"Hospitality my ass," Logan muttered, sitting up and rubbing his face. "I hate you."

Victor chuckled, prowling lazily to the other side of the room. He stretched again, pushing his claws into the floor with a satisfied groan before finally dropping onto his own bed again—on his stomach, limbs sprawled out, tailbone lifting slightly before settling.

Logan closed his eyes again, hoping for some peace.

Victor wasn’t done.

"Y’ever think about it, Jimmy?"

Logan cracked one eye open. "Think about what?"

"Walkin’ different."

Logan scoffed. "I walk just fine on two feet, thanks."

Victor hummed, noncommittal. "M’just sayin’. Might be faster."

Logan rolled his eyes. "The hell would I look like, runnin’ around on all fours like a goddamn dog?"

Victor grinned, fangs flashing in the dim light. "Like someone who ain’t fightin’ what he is."

Logan stared at him for a moment before scoffing, rolling onto his side. "You need to shut up and go the hell to sleep."

Victor let out another low, lazy purr before finally closing his eyes.

Logan listened to the sound for a moment—low, deep, rhythmic. Annoyingly comfortable.

He muttered a curse under his breath.

---

The morning was too damn early.

Logan had barely gotten any sleep, and it was all thanks to Victor, who had spent half the night prowling around like some oversized housecat before finally flopping onto his cot and purring himself to sleep like a damn contented lion.

Logan had tried ignoring it. He really had.

Didn’t work.

And now, in the pale morning light filtering through the cheap blinds of their barracks, Logan sat on the edge of his cot, rubbing the exhaustion out of his face while Victor—of course—slept like the dead. Sprawled out on his stomach, one arm hanging off the side of the bed, the other tucked beneath his chin. His legs were bent slightly at the knees, feet twitching every now and then like a dog dreaming of chasing something. His breath came slow and steady, his short dark hair slightly curling at the ends, a faint rumbly sound still vibrating in his chest.

Logan scowled.

The asshole had no shame.

And that was exactly when the door slammed open.

"GOOD MORNING, PRINCESSES!"

Logan jerked his head up.

Wade.

There he stood, grinning ear to ear, hands on his hips, already bouncing with some unholy amount of morning energy that no human—or mutant—should have at this hour.

Logan groaned. "Wilson, get the hell outta here."

But Wade wasn’t listening. Oh, no.

Wade had already spotted Victor.

And his brain was currently breaking.

The mercenary froze in the doorway, blinking rapidly like his eyes were failing to process what he was seeing. Then—slowly, carefully—he reached up, grabbed the doorframe, and leaned in, squinting.

Victor, still fast asleep, remained oblivious.

Still curled up.

Still purring.

And that’s when Wade lost his goddamn mind.

"Oh. My. GOD."

Logan’s stomach dropped. Victor’s ears twitched. Wade screamed.

"LOOK AT THIS BIG, FLUFFY BASTARD!"

Logan barely had time to react before Wade bolted across the room. Like a missile. Straight for Victor.

"WHO’S A LITTLE KITTY CAT? YOU ARE! YES, YOU ARE!"

He dove.

Victor’s eyes shot open—just in time for Wade to land on him. Logan winced.

The explosion that followed was instantaneous.

A guttural, earth-shattering snarl erupted from Victor’s throat, so deep it practically rattled the walls. Wade, entirely unfazed, had already latched onto him, ruffling Victor’s hair and shaking him like a dog with a chew toy.

Victor roared, claws extending, eyes glowing, pure murderous intent radiating off of him.

But Wade wasn’t done. Not even close.

"OH MY GOD, I KNEW IT! I KNEW YOU WERE JUST A BIG OL’ PUDDY TAT!"

Victor tried to fling him off—tried—but Wade was clinging like a limpet, legs wrapped around his waist, arms locked around his shoulders.

"WADE, I SWEAR TO GOD—"

"ADMIT IT, VICKY! YOU’RE A LITTLE KITTY CAT!"

Victor snarled, rolling onto his side, trying to crush Wade beneath him, but Wade just screeched with laughter, entirely unbothered.

"LOGAN, LOOK! HE’S A SNUGGLY BABY! I BET HE MAKES BISCUITS IN HIS SLEEP!"

Logan was watching all of this unfold with a deep, growing sense of amusement.

Victor was pissed.

Like, beyond pissed.

Like, "I’m-about-to-rip-your-spinal-cord-out-through-your-nostrils" pissed.

But Wade? Wade was having the time of his life.

Victor finally, finally managed to throw Wade off, flinging him halfway across the room, sending him crashing into Logan’s cot with enough force to knock it sideways.

For a second, everything was still.

Then Wade sat up. Grinning.

Victor loomed over him, shoulders rising and falling with each furious breath, claws out, looking every bit the apex predator he was.

Wade, still grinning like an idiot, meowed at him.

Logan slapped a hand over his face.

Victor lunged.

Wade ran.

The door slammed behind them, Wade’s laughter echoing down the hallway as Victor’s snarls followed close behind.

Logan, left in the wreckage of their destroyed room, exhaled heavily.

Then he muttered, "I need a drink."

And that was how Wade Wilson almost died at 6 AM on a Tuesday.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 1

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: Outta left field.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The brick facade stares back at you. You have to keep from gaping in awe. You're not a sightseer, you're there to work. A job. Your first ever. A bit late, but better than never.

You stop at the gate and hike up your kit as you shove your hand in your pocket in a cramped search. You slide out the flip phone and pop the top, clicking through for the email. The cheap burner is all you could afford and you needed a cell to get any sort of employment. Even just to live, it seems.

You click on the agency's email. A concise list of instructions for your first day. Alone. Last week, you shadowed a woman named Florence as she took you through an east-side home, but this week, you're on your own and uptown. The property is much nicer than any you've been in before. The sort you gaze at longingly in passing. A true urban palace.

You follow the first point on the list, keying in the code awkwardly with spaced-out punches. The last beep triggers a buzz as the mechanism releases and you turn the haandle to let yourself through the iron gate. You close it, pushing it to make sure it catches. You look around at the greenery; expertly trimmed hedges and a stone bench, flowerbeds clustered artfully in all shades. A mini Versailles in the heart of the city. The owners must be very well-off.

You gulp as you follow the stonework of the winding path along the curved driveway. Your shoulder aches from the weight of your kit and your spine is still rigid from the tense bus ride. You approach the front door and stagger to an awkward halt as you check the screen again. In all caps; DO NOT USE THE FRONT DOOR. You peer up over the stone steps and give a nod. Of course the help should go through the back.

You circle around to the rear of the house, the scent of pollen and the freshly groomed hedges clouding around you. You find the door nestled beneath a net of ivy and key in the next code. The very modern security contrasts the antique veneer of the house. You step into the silence of the grand home and listen. You're not sure if you're alone. What do you do if you aren't? It might be awkward to wash someone's floor without an introduction.

You move to the next directive; cover shoes. You squint and suck your lower lip in. You see the small box on the corner table tucked beside the door. You stay on the mat as you pull on the plastic shoe covers. It makes sense. You don't want to track in another mess to clean.

Again, your breath flies away from you. Even just the back hallway is divine, or maybe you're just brutish. You're not very hard to impress with what you're used to. A job won't cure it, but it'll make it bearable.

The next point; gloves. Okay. At least it's straightforward. The owners must be very particular. Or germaphobic. You let your assumptions write a story as you advance into the house. The email directs you to a closet where you are permitted to hang your things and where a mop, broom, and vacuum await you amid other supplies too big for your bag. Next point…

You proceed inside, slowly. The instructions are written almost to guide your every step. You move down the hallway with duster, broom, vacuum, and finally the mop. You're sweating by the time you get to the first doorway. The kitchen. Despite your employ, the place is already near immaculate. The only sign of life is a single black mug beside the sink.

It's eerie as you cross the tile, investigating with your eyes, almost too afraid to touch. You're going to have to if you mean to do good work. You continue down the list, doing your best to be thorough. When you return to the hall you're caught in place by a thought. There are no family pictures. It adds to the emptiness of it all. There are portraits of famous landmarks and imitations of reknowned artworks, though you wouldn't be surprised if they were genuine. But no family.

Next point. A bathroom just diagonal from the kitchen, spacious with dark wood and shining gold. You leave it smelling with the sterile scent of the cleaner. Back in the hall, you pause to drink from the water bottle in your bag. You head back down the hall intent on your next task. An hour already.

Another large room; a dining room that opens into a sitting room with a large fireplace. It really is amazing. Your father won't believe how nice it is here. You don't have time to worry about convincing him as you dive into your work. It isn't difficult work but you want to do a good job. You get this knot in your stomach just think of your boss, Clara, telling you otherwise or going home with bad news.

You finish the sitting room and go back to get your water. You nearly finish it. You check the time again, then the list. You can refill before you continue. You go back to the kitchen and cross to the fridge, pressing your bottle to the lever beneath the filter. It'd be nice to have something like that at home. You listen the hum of the fridge as you fill your bottle.

"Ahem," the clearing of a throat startles you and you jump, splashing yourself with cold water as you spin to face a tall man. He stares at you imperiously from the doorway, his figure lithe as he holds his chin up in dissatisfaction. "And who said you could do that?"

"Um," you swallow and look at your water bottle, fingers numbed by the water, "sorry, sir, I ran out--"

"Clean up your mess and get back to work," his lilted accent slices into you.

"Sorry, sir--"

"Bullet number one, A," he says tersely.

You frown as you struggle to understand. You replace the cap on your bottle and fish in the pocket of your black pants. You take out the phone and check the email. 'Do not speak unless permitted.' Well, he spoke to you first. It's the only reason you said anything. You're not very chatty yourself.

You keep from repeating sorry again and dip your head down. You take the cloth tucked into your pocket and bend to sop up the water from the floor. You don't look at him as he looms and you exit the room, sidling past him in shame. Oh no, you hope he doesn't tell Clara.

You replace your bottle in your bag. You'll go without. You look at your phone again. You can do this. No more mistakes.

You march back down the hall and dare a glance into the kitchen as you pass. He's already gone. That must be Mr. Laufeyson, the owner noted in the job description. Is it just him? He doesn't seem very fond of others. Or just you. You're just a maid, after all.

🧹

Your father's apartment is in the south. The fence is crooked and missing slats and the grass is patchy and yellowed. The porch groans as you climb the steps and let yourself into his side of the duplex. Cigarette smoke greets you with a cough in your throat. You open the window he shut in your absence as the TV blares in the next room. He's on the couch, puffing tobacco into the air in gray swirls. The place is even grimmer after a day amid your client's spotless halls.

"Hey dad," you say as you stand just beside the couch, "how was your day?"

He grunts and offers nothing else. That's about what you get from him. The effort of just that noise sends him to hack and his wrist tangles in his oxygen tube as brings his hand up. He knocks ash from the end of his cigarette onto the floor.

"First day alone went well," you say as he settles, breathing loudly as he tries to steady his breaths. "Think I did pretty good."

"Oh, big whoop, got a job, at last," he sneers, "about time. What're you? Thirty-three?"

"Thirty," you correct him, but don't add that your birthday is coming up.

"Same difference," he croaks and sucks on the smoke until he's coughing once more.

You try not to let him defeat you. It's just the way he is. You brought home A's from school and he wondered why they weren't A+'s. And when you got accepted to college, he asked you who was gonna pay for it. And when you filled out an application at the drive-thru window, he asked you if you were going to be another deadbeat flipping burgers.

"What, they got you scrubbing floors?" He spits, "you don't do it for free or something?"

He looks around venomously. You do clean but you can't get the yellow stains out of the wall or the stench out of the carpet. You won't say so.

"Did you eat yet?"

"Can't be near the stove with this thing," he taps the top of the tank on the other side of the armrest. He's also not supposed to smoke near it. Or at all.

"I'll heat up the hamburger helper from last night."

"Fucking dog food," he barks.

You wince. You love your father but he's a very picky man. Things must be his way or no way at all.

"Might have a frozen pizza," you suggest.

"Cardboard," he mutters.

You stand, silent and helpless. There isn't much else left in the fridge.

"Could afford better if you'd got your ass up ten years ago," he buts out his smoke and just as quickly, opens the pack to slide out another.

"I tried..."

"Not hard enough, eh," He takes off the oxygen tube and leans away from the tank to light the next cigarette, "not hungry. All your talkin' spoiled my appetite."

You apologise and leave before you can annoy him further. You're not very hungry either. Just sore and tired. Your feet hurt from being on them all day and your eyelids droop lower with each blink. You climb the stairs and drag your feet into your bedroom and shut the door gently. Your father hates when you slam. You don't like it much yourself.

You fall into bed as the musty air clings in your nose. You close your eyes and roll onto your side. You sigh. You figure if you can handle your father, you can handle Mr. Laufeyson and his list.

🧹

Your next job is in the eastside. It's not as precise or overbearing. The instructions are standard; a list of the rooms that need cleaning and a tip left on the counter. The email says the family is out of town. How nice it must be to come home to a nice, clean house. You pad out the three-day week with two more home in the northwest suburbs. The money would be better if you could work a full week but so long on you're in your probation period, you only get part-time hours.

Your second week starts again in the north, outside the Laufeyson property. The codes are different but the list is the same. You begin your work diligently. This time, you ration your water, and pay special attention to each step. Once you're through this week, you get your first check. Dad should be happy about that.

As you get to the front room, a living room or what some might call den, you set first to dusting the ornaments on the high mantel. You find the more you do it, the work is almost soothing. It's simple and mindless. You admire the silver candlestick, careful not to loosen the tall candle placed in it.

"Shiny," the slither frightens you. You quickly replace the candlestick at the corner of the mantle and face that man; the presumed Mr. Laufeyson. "Somehow, I feel it wouldn't belong in wherever you call home."

You lower your eyes. Florence says most clients are friends but she warned you about these ones. Those who deride you and the work they don't want to do themselves.

"The previous one did think they were lovely," he muses as he struts forward, his long steps like a cat's, "too bad they were too big for her bag."

You flick your gaze back up and blanch. "Sir, I wouldn't--"

He tilts his head as his eyes flash dangerously. You snap your mouth shut and give an apologetic frown. You press a finger to your lips to say, I'll be quiet.

"She was chatty too. You girls always are."

You nod and listen. Your throat constricts as you wring the cloth in your hands. You think you might not be very forgiving if someone tried to steal from you either.

"But..." he looks at his watch, "you are quick."

The comment drips from his mouth as if it tastes bitter to him. It isn't quite praise, only a fact, but it isn't a reproach. He smirks and snickers.

"And you do look rather terrified. We're understood then."

You give another nod. You think you understand. You wouldn't think to steal but you can't blame him for putting down rules. You squint and your brow twitches as your ears tinge.

"Point one C," you whisper to yourself; 'Do not steal.'

He pauses as he goes to pivot on his heel. He lifts his chin and shifts as if he might look at you. He doesn't as he carries on to the door.

"You may refill your bottle once per shift," he pauses by the door, tapping the frame before he leaves you.

You stay stuck to the floor, wavering as you watch him go. He wasn't nice, but he didn't dismiss you either. You can stomach his disapproval if it means you still have work.

[toescapetherealityoflife]

Vision board of My new Mafia a/b/o Enhypen fic

Lee Heeseung

I'm not your typical suit-and-tie, Wall Street wolf.

I deal in a different kind of currency, one that's measured in respect, fear, and the unwavering loyalty of the men around me. See, my power isn't just about the money, though believe me, there's plenty of that flowing. It's about control, about being the silent puppeteer pulling strings you can't even see.

I make deals that bypass legalities, settle disputes with a nod or a whisper, and ensure things get done, efficiently and decisively. The city, it's a chessboard, and I know where every single piece is. The legitimate businesses I own? They're just the facade, the polished veneer hiding the intricate network that truly gives me influence. Someone needs a problem solved? They come to me.

Someone tries to cross me? Well, they quickly learn the consequences. My power isn't handed to me; it's carved, earned, and maintained through a delicate balance of calculated risks and carefully nurtured alliances.

It's a world where trust is rare, where every conversation is a potential negotiation, and where the only certainty is the authority I wield. And I wield it with precision

Park Jay

"They call me the 'Fixer,' but that's just a fancy label for a guy who knows how to make problems disappear.

See, the strength I wield isn't in the muscle or the guns, though those are certainly available if needed. My real power lies in understanding. I understand people's fears, their wants, and their deepest vulnerabilities. I can read a room like a book, and predict their next move before they even think it.

And that knowledge? That's leverage. I can weave deals, twist words, and paint pictures that make even the most stubborn bull see things my way. I can make offers they can't refuse, not with threats, but with the promise of something they desperately crave – be it protection, opportunity, or simply the relief of not having a headache anymore.

So, when I sit at the table, it's not just me; it's the weight of all the possibilities I can conjure, all the 'what ifs' they suddenly have to consider. And that, my friend, is a power far more potent than any bullet."

Sim Jake

"They call me 'The Ghost' in the circles I move in, and it's not just a fancy nickname.

I don't break kneecaps; I break firewalls. My power isn't brute force, it's silence and precision. I can slip into any network like a whisper in the wind, extract information that's locked tighter than Fort Knox, and leave no trace but a few rearranged bits of code.

Need to reroute a shipment? I can manipulate the logistics. Want to make someone's money vanish? Bank accounts are as transparent to me as glass. The old guard uses muscle; they send guys with guns.

I’m the new era – I use data, and in this world, data is the most dangerous weapon of all. They might think they’re in control, but really, they're just playing by my rules. I'm the puppet master behind the screen, and nobody ever sees my strings."

Park Sunghoon

"Power isn't about screaming the loudest or brandishing the biggest gun. Those are the tools of a novice, a child playing at being a king. True power is about influence. It's about the whisper that travels further than any shout, the connection that runs deeper than any blood oath.

My power isn't just in the men you see standing here, loyal and ready. It's in the judge who owes me a favour, the cop who'll look the other way, and the banker who knows where to discreetly deposit those 'problematic' funds. It’s in the businesses I control, the news I can shape, and the favours I can call in from all corners of this city.

I don't need to flex my muscles, gentlemen. I simply need to be."They understood then, the true language of power, spoken not in threats, but in the silent, pervasive web I wove around them, and all of this city.

Kim Sunoo

"Sweet Surrender," was his sanctuary, a haven built brick by sweet brick to keep the darkness at bay.

He had tasted the bitter tang of betrayal, the metallic tang of fear, and the hollow echo of violence. He had seen things that haunted his dreams, and felt the weight of choices that still pressed down on him.

Now, surrounded by the comforting aroma of sugar and yeast, he clung fiercely to the simple joy of baking, his hands trembling slightly as he kneaded, not from fear, but from a desperate hope that his past would remain just that – the past. He would never again step foot in that world of shadows, never again trade the sweet scent of life for the acrid stench of death. This bakery, this quiet haven, was his penance, his redemption.

Yang Jungwon

The way I see it, power isn't about brute force or a loud mouth, though those have their place. My power lies in understanding the game, the board, and every player moving across it.

I'm the strategist, the one who sees five moves ahead while everyone else is still reacting to the last. It's not about pulling the trigger; it's about knowing when and who should be pulling it. I orchestrate the chaos, predict the outcomes, and ensure things align in our favour.

My influence isn't seen in blood and broken bones, but in the carefully crafted alliances, the strategically placed whispers, and the flawless execution of plans that seem inevitable in retrospect. That’s the real strength, the quiet kind that shapes the very fabric of this

Nishimura Riki

The whispers follow me, they always have. Some call it a "gift," others a curse, but I simply call it my work.

I'm a whisper in the dark, a shadow that moves unseen. My power isn't brute strength or some flashy parlour trick; it's an acute awareness, a heightened perception. I see the subtle shifts in posture, the flicker of doubt in an eye, the barely perceptible tremor of a hand reaching for a weapon. It's like the world unfolds slower for me, allowing me to anticipate the next move before it even happens.

This, coupled with a lifetime of honing my body into a lethally precise instrument, makes me more than just a man with a gun. I'm a pre-emptive strike, a silent executioner. I don’t need to be faster; I see the openings before they’re even there.

They say the mafia is a jungle, but in this jungle, I'm the apex predator, and my power is the silence that precedes the storm.

[death-in-a-handbasket]

character questionnaire for matthias 👀 (skip any that you don't vibe with)

oh my god do I have thoughts, this guy makes my brain ITCH

off the top of your head: notes for characterization? what are the most essential traits of this character to you (personality traits, important connections/dynamics, voice)?

I think it's very very important for people to remember that while he does take the back seat in life and read as meek, he is NOT meek and he isn't really soft or effusive. he's rather distant and when faced with conflict he did opt to set fire to his problems. this man is angry and depressed and I am so pissed people forget that about him oh my fucking godddddd. as for other more surface level things, he rarely speaks and when he does his voice is softspoken and deadpan, his eyes are deep set and heavily lidded and I strongly believe that he's not just scarred on that side of his face but that he's missing that eye altogether

adjacently—do you think fandom does the above traits justice? why or why not?

oh fuck no, not in the slightest, I feel like this fandom frequently keeps its eyes shut on reading the deductions/letters/character trailers and just likes to toss him into the every growing pile of men they consider to be submissive and breedable twinks without ever forming a thought on what his actual personality is, a lot of fandoms are really bad with not going ooc but idv is record breaking in terms of ooc so bad I really wonder if they even made eye contact with his trailer, or literally any character info ever

throw this character at any other character of your choice to bounce off each other as outsider pov to each other— regardless of timeline or logistics (crossovers allowed if you're interesting about it). why this combination? what insights would they have on each other?

okay, I do like the combo of florian and matthias BUT I think everyone is doing it wrong and severely missing out on true comedy between these two. matthias doesn't know how to socialize well and reads as very stiff and distant, but he's also just offputting enough that trying to make conversation is like trying to swim through bricks, meanwile florian is persistent and annoying and has zero sense of personal space or boundaries when it comes to people he's actually fascinated by and not just someone he's putting on a social veneer for. as a result you have irritating unavoidable motherfucker vs a guy who has been muzzling his rage for 24 years straight. I need florian to piss this guy off so bad that matthias actually blows some steam off and cusses him out in czech for 15 minutes straight, best case scenario they fistfight, I hope florian makes his inner anger flare up forever and ever

how do you think you would react to this character in real life and vice versa? would you prefer be a million miles out of range, be amicable classmates, or fall desperately in love? (bonus: arrange a hypothetical date between yourself and this character. getting silly with it is encouraged (fakedate them! escape a dinner date through a bathroom window!))

I think I would find him lowkey sad and probably just observe from a distance and muse to myself about how empty this guy looks. probably wouldn't make a move to be friends with him (unless he did something to make me curious) but I would think about how he probably needs therapy but might be interesting for a really sad one night stand, like oooh hes probably got problems but also can I bounce on it and stare into his deadpan face. and then I'd never say anything to him about it. as for a hypothetical date I think I'd try and take him to an antique shop and try to encourage him to joke and talk shit with me about the items because I'm convinced that if you dig past his 25 depression layers his dry sense of humor is actually really entertaining. if insane moves are permitted I think I'd get hard in a corner with him holding a knife to his torso before backing off like it didn't happen so he can stand there and question his sexual preferences

ideal flavor of rotating for this character? crack them open and dissect them— do you want them tormented, pining, or being loved + comforted? do you have any specific scenarios you like to think about?

I want him tormented and sitting in a pool of angsty feelings, I really don't want him getting better I want him to stew in his shitty feelings while I watch from a corner, optimally I'd like to be a fly on the wall for a day in his life. wake up. lay in bed for an hour and a half until the energy to get up and cook breakfast finds him. he makes half a meal and cops out because he can't bring himself to give a damn about his health. he still tries to get dressed in an actual outfit because it's one of the few things that gives him a feeling of having his life together. watch him muse about actually doing his laundry and the fact that he needs to iron his clothes. spends 45 minutes staring into the mirror before standing outside of his house to smoke. goes and sits in one of the armchairs inside to think about possibly making another doll and what to do about his finances now that he's basically unemployed. run errands and try not to feel like shit at the people staring at his scars. flinch in pain because the store clerk walked past him while he was trying to ask them something. makes lunch at home and eats half of it before going back to lay in bed for a little while longer. fall asleep for a bit and have weird dreams. louis is on his dresser again. he skips dinner and opts for a drink instead. after getting slightly buzzed he takes louis out into the yard when it's dark, burns him, and digs another grave. go back inside. get a little more drunk. sleep in an armchair fully dressed. wake up at 4, get undressed, lay in bed and stare at the ceiling because he cant sleep. finally passes out again at 6. has restless sleep and nightmares. rinse repeat

weave a web of dynamics through the cast for this character: which dynamics are you most interested in? both canonically and through extrapolation/speculation— which dynamics are the richest to you, and why?

not sure how readily I can answer this since idk what game he's in and frankly he seems pretty isolated outside of that, I think his relationship with isolation is more rich and storied than any relationship with people, but that's something that frankly deserves its own ask especially since this one is also really long already

do you have particular niche takes on this character? defend those takes. (openly controversial takes are permitted, but also: hyper-specific headcanons which you believe in and no one else has considered enough to disagree with yet. pick a hill to die on.)

for one. I think he's tall and gangly. none of this small cute femboy shit I think he's tall. and I think he's incredibly angular looking. not soft. also this is a hill I will die on forever but I cannot and will not ever be able to look at him and see him as a bottom or submissive. he just isn't. I'll fight god on this.

[ruzzellgoldgrin]

DWC May 2025

Day 1 Cruel/Beauty

Heavy footsteps approached the rusted gate, the hinges half-broken from lack of maintenance. The small cemetery grounds was sandwiched between a low-income apartment and a pawn shop. This part of town was bad, even for goblin standards. A lone hobgoblin pimp leaned against the nearby brick wall, accompanied by a crew of goblin women in various animal-print clothes. They gave passing glances to Ruzzell as he pushed open the gates to enter the courtyard. Garbage littered the sheetmetal tombstones and artillery shell grave markers. He trudges along the shambled treadplates leading up to the back lot near the last rows. A small corner lot with two vacant bombshells. A green incandescent lamp bent over the graves with a crooked neck, the heat of the light adding to the mugginess of smoggy air. Taking a knee to inspect the graves closer, Ruzzell's breath would hitch up, a stymied cry trying to escape his clenched teeth.

"Treble Jazzglam, Saxophonist, Dockworker, Soldier, Beloved Father. Mixxie Jazzglam, Cocktail Waitress, Laundry Cleaner, Soup Kitchen Cook, Beloved Mother."

Tears mixed with the acrid smoke in the air, blurring his vision of the plaques. The man fell down to the floor, no longer able to keep his sobbing from within. It had been more than a decade since he had escaped from Undermine, but in his exodus had left family and friends behind. He had always wondered what had happened to his parents, to the life he had left behind. To have come back after all these years, only to find greasy graves and a totalitarian cartel destroying families and neighborhoods like this was worse than he could have ever imagined.

"Mom... Dad... I'm so sorry... Damn it all... I should stayed.... I SHOULD HAVE STAYED!" The last blurt rang out of the narrow alley, one of the working girls peaking around the spiked fence. Wiping his eyes with his ivory scarf, a streak of grey grim stained the fabric. Taking the scarf, he knelt up to their plaques, rubbing off the veneer of filth that stains all surfaces of Undermine. Tarnished metal underneath, he could make out his harrowed face glaring back at him. He huffed uneasily, trying to compose himself.

"I'm gonna kill 'em. I'm gonna make dem rat bastards pay for whats they done to yous! I'll keep Clikki safe too. Always..." His native accent slips out as he finds resolve in his purpose. He picks up the tin can at the base of their graves and leaves a bouquet of roses he had smuggled into Undermine. The flowers, clean and unsullied by the taint of this dark subterranean city was a brilliant crimson red, more vibrant than any of the sickly green that choked everything around it with its omnipresent hue. He stands up, dusting off his clothes before storming off and vacating the grounds.

(Mentions of @Tipster)

(@daily-writing-challenge)

[terrence-silver]

I thought for Halloween spooky scariness it might be fun to ask a broad question that could apply to pretty much any of TIG's characters:

"What would a nightmare starring [insert name of TIG character here] look like?"

Is it a dark noncon? A hunt through the woods? Pure unadulterated stalking? YOU DECIDE... if you want to that is!

(my top characters of love to read about are, predictably, Cash, CK Terry and Valek, but any and all you feel like writing for would be amazing!)

---

― For Jan Valek, you dream of what seems like a distant funeral pyre. Or perhaps a burning stake. You don't quite see or deduce who's tied to it and set aflame amidst the silent crowd of hoods and robes but the shape seems eerily familiar, speaking to you with a voice you know. Almost seductive. Almost lulling. Beckoning. So tender. Like an old yet loving friend's re-assuring, inviting caress. You walk past the spectators on the foggy cobblestone square the and unto the burning, blackened wood stacked up high into a colossal, looming pile without blinking or even feeling any pain. Any sensations. Whoever's there in the center of the red inferno of crackling embers embraces you with both arms as the church bells on the forum strike noon. You feel strangely at home swallowed by the flames. Maybe this isn't such a nightmare after all?

― You're buried alive. You know you are. You're awake for it. Alive, when you rightfully shouldn't. You can breathe. Experience every sensation. Every vestige of claustrophobia. The fear. You realize your muffled cries will never be heard by anyone and that you'll undoubtedly die down here, choking due to lack of air. You even realize scratching the surface of your coffin is futile. That you're not getting out of here, from the oppressive, strangulating pitch blackness. Kicking, screaming and fighting it will get you nowhere, the same way when you feel a calm, focused hand reach out from beside you a grasp your fingers, you're fully aware they're Jack's. Jack Blaylock, Timothy Calloway is in there with you. You're in here together. Trapped for all eternity. You figure, that's exactly the way he'd like it too. Wouldn't surprise you if he personally orchestrated this himself.

― With Gus Travis, you live in a house floating on the cold sea. And it's much like any other suburban, family house, really. It has a fridge, and a kitchen, a living room, a bed, carpets, decorative throw pillows on the couch and all the mundane knick knacks, commonplace any family apartment should have, making you realize nothing's amiss --- nothing at all --- as you explore the winding corridors of your abode floating on the waves, your neighbor nobody in particular but the vast expanse of water, grey, not unlike the winter coastline before the stormy tempest. You hand your husband his slippers and a beer. Maybe set him up with lunch. You wash the dishes. Clean, polish and organize them, ever so diligent. This place, it has just about everything, except a front door and a way out, you realize too late as he's fucking you up against the wall.

― Cash? Well, there's eyes in your walls and they're everywhere. In every crack. Every corner. Every hidden nook and cranny. Like an infestation of bees nesting in the skeletal scaffolding of a cellar or a basement. They don't ever blink and they're blue. The light, icy cerulean type in shade. You know they're his eyes. How could you not? They're unmistakable. You're well acquainted with them by now because they don't never go away. You also know they belong to a face and not merely floating in the abyss, but it's not a visage you ever see, hidden behind layers of concrete and bricks he's observing behind of, like a veneer. He's always there, of course. Never closes his lids to rest or take a break. Watches you dress, undress, eat, sleep, shit, piss. Your world is a quiet world. A dark world. Never disturbed. Never shaken. But, you're never alone and that frightens you.

― Oh, a nightmare starring Terry McCain is positively Kafkaesque because the world is black and white --- entirely monochromatic --- like in an old detective movie and you realize the absurdity of it all even as it unfolds and as you're being effectively questioned in what's a stereotype of every interrogation room you've ever seen. Sharp light overhead, handcuffs around your wrists, a metal table, you and the Detective asking the questions. You don't know why or when, but a fellow uniformed colleague of his comes forth carrying an entree of meals even though you've never asked for anything and he has the mannerisms of a waiter in spite of his badge and nametag. The desk of your cross examination is littered with dishes and plates and a hand lights a candle between you and McCain. Someone pours you wine. What's happening?

― You're General Taligaro's bride but that part hardly constitutes the nightmare; it's the notion your matrimonial gown of ceremony consists of all the trinkets of his conquests --- your cape is made of the sown together scalps of all the virgins of the realm, your necklace human teeth, ears hang attached off of the belt that adorned the waistline of your dress like so many pearls, your bodice a boney ribcage held together with golden string and jewels; the spoils of so many wars --- you're a gruesome sight to behold as you're led to him to complete the ritual of union and you feel just as gruesome --- demonic --- all stickiness, blood, gore, stench and carnage. The picture of all of the backstabbing, machinations and kinslaying on display as he lifts up your veil adoringly, looking at you like you're the most beautiful, ravishing creature in all the kingdoms.

― There's a telegram you couldn't open for a week now and it frustrates you to no end. It sits there on the table like a silent yet harrowing obligation you can't shake off and no matter how much you may try, the envelope refuses to rip open, it refuses to be cut, scissors are like butter against its paper yielding no result and even gnawing on it with your own teeth like an animal doesn't help. Attempting to burn it is a useless endeavor too, almost like the damn thing's fireproof. You know these are news of Terry from overseas. You can tell by the official stamping and by who's delivered it to your doorstep. You know something bad has happened. You can feel it. But, your inability to do the laughably miniscule task of actually opening it, almost as if your hands had no strength in them whatsoever kills you.

― It's the 80's and you can tell by the front row of unhinged bleached perms and sharp shoulder pads lining the perimeters. It's a bidding. An auction. The subject of interest being a live human heart on display. You. You have no body. No arms. No legs. No head. Just a heart --- a beating, fully conscious organ on a pedestal in front of a crowd of hundreds on stage. Terry Silver's right there. Of course he is. Dressed to the nines, fully in his element, like he doesn't seem to be bothered at all you lack your basic physical attributes. Even in your nightmare, you think this is a very on the nose metaphor but it doesn't make your helpless predicament any more terrifying as the auction host slams his wooden gavel against the cathedra. Going once, going twice, sold --- somehow, perhaps unsurprisingly, Terry outbid the King of Burma for you, because of course he did. You're handed over lovingly to him like something he owns. He bites into you like an d'oeuvre.

― With old man Terry, you're attending an awkward party. Everyone's artificial, everyone's putting up a front and everything's an act. The social tension is hardly the worst of it, of course. Somewhere mid-mingling, you accompany him back inside of the manor away from the gaggle of the chipper crowd and into the nearest bedroom featuring a closet of immaculately organized suits that would put a high-end catalogue to shame. For some reason, he's decided to change his attire. In watching him undress and a firm lipped, stony faced assistant helping him into a new suit you also watch him peel off his own skin and throw it aside like a fleshy, useless rag promptly collected by a manservant until your Terry's nothing but red, gaping flesh and nerve endings. He walks out like that, practically flayed with you underarm and everyone smiles. They complement the host's wonderful finger food.

[say-hwaet]

High Sierra: A Red Dead Redemption Story

Chapter 11: The Smoking Gun Summary: Arthur and Dutch pay a social call to a sneaky loan shark. Hopefully, they can avoid being bitten. Next Chapter: Twelve

Arthur Morgan adjusts his hat as he steps out of his car. He looks over the roof and watches Dutch get out, brushing off the shoulder of his nice dress shirt.

“I suspect you have a plan as to how you want to approach this?" he asks with a raised brow.

Arthur closes the car door and as soon as Dutch closes his side he locks it. “Yeah, just follow my lead.”

Dutch nods. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is.”

Arthur walks around the SUV and, meeting up with Dutch, they walk across the street towards the small, brick building sandwiched between two other establishments. On outward appearances alone, Strauss Financing and Loans appears pretty straightforward and clean, without anything giving way to its darker corners. Any desperate hopeful or willful planner could easily walk in there thinking that helpful advice and aide are the only things happening behind those doors.

It makes Arthur’s blood boil.

Dutch continues to strut along the sidewalk beside Arthur, maintaining a calm and collected air. Arthur reaches for the door first and, stepping aside, lets his elder enter first.

“Thank you, my good boy,” Dutch nods and steps inside.

The waiting room is small, with grays and neutral colors abound. If Arthur had ever denied it, he now sees the correlation between death and taxes.

The secretary, a woman in her late twenties, lifts her head and spots the two handsome men approaching her desk. Her eyes nearly light up when she sees Dutch. “Mr. Van Der Linde,” she greets with a southern drawl. “Can I help you?”

Dutch puts on a charming smile, and leans his hip against her desk. “You sure can, ma’am. I was hoping to speak to Leopold. Is he in?”

The secretary's expression flickers momentarily, a cautious undertone creeping beneath her cordial veneer. "Mr. Strauss is currently in a meeting," she responds, her voice holding the kind of practiced neutrality that comes with years behind the counter. "Can I ask the nature of your visit?"

Arthur watches Dutch's smile widen just a fraction, a practiced ease in his demeanor that could disarm the most suspicious. "Oh, you know me, Ms. Aberdeen," Dutch replies with a chuckle, the sound rich and warm. "And I know that Strauss doesn’t hold meetings in his office.” He lets his forefinger slide across the surface of her desk. “Please, help a feller out.”

Ms. Aberdeen hesitates, tapping the tip of her pen against the desk, her gaze darting towards the hallway that presumably leads to Strauss’s office before settling back on Dutch. “I’m sorry, Mr. Van Der Linde, but he was quite explicit about not being disturbed.”

Arthur realizes this isn’t getting anywhere, and so he gets close to the desk. “Ms. Aberdeen, was it?”

She instantly eyes Arthur up and down, her eyes flickering and her lip twitching into a smile. “Yes, and who might you be?”

He tries his best not to roll his eyes but decides to take advantage of her flirtatious display. “Arthur, ma’am. We're just here on some urgent business. It concerns a loan, see? Time-sensitive and all.”

She doesn’t seem to be listening, only nodding slowly as her eyes drift down Arthur’s body. He knows he has some sort of attractive qualities, if he’s listened to Eliza at all, but it still makes him feel awkward to be stared at.

He swallows. “So how about it?”

She bites her lower lip and points towards another door with her pen. “Just be quick about it, and come back to see me before you go, ya hear?”

Arthur shudders, quickly leaving her desk, and hears Dutch follow close behind as they make their way to the door.

As Arthur and Dutch Van Der Linde enter the cramped office of Leopold Strauss, Arthur’s eyes adjust to the dimmed light of the room. Dust particles dance in the remaining light, streaming through the curtains, casting a surreal glow on the room. The air is heavy with the scent of old paperwork and secrets. The heat in the room, also adds an acrid scent of sweat and fear, something that makes Arthur want to hold his breath.

At the far end of the small room, sits a thin man at a large, wooden desk. Undoubtedly it is Mr. Strauss, a man whose greasy face betrays his nefarious dealings.

He sits up straight, clearly not expecting any visitors and his brow furrows through his glasses. “Who let you—?” Cutting himself off, his eyes fall on Dutch and he grins. "Oh! Mr. Van Der Linde, good to see you.” Then his eyes fall on Arthur and his smile suddenly falls. “Who is this man with you?"

Arthur and Dutch remain silent, readily accepting the sudden change in the room. Arthur has always been good at intimidation and interrogation, even before he became a warden he had a knack for scaring people off. Not that he ever intended it, but he had to be tough while in foster care. It was either eat or be eaten. And Dutch, always fascinated by discourse and having the upper hand, readily follows Arthur’s lead.

Leopold squirms in his chair, his beady eyes flickering nervously between Arthur and Dutch. Arthur takes calm, brooding steps toward the desk, still not saying a word.

Once close, the game warden's imposing figure looms over the desk, contrasting sharply with Dutch's effortless charm as he stands beside him.

Arthur's voice carries a subtle threat as he speaks, his voice echoing through the hollow room, punctuating the tense silence. "Mr. Strauss, we know about the loans. There are two folks that you gave them to. You know what happened to them?” Strauss quickly shakes his head. Not that Arthur expects him to tell the truth, but he always gives the chance for his targets to come clean. “Well, they ended up dead," he growls, his voice filled with the weight of suspicion.

Leopold's fingers twitch as he wipes the sweat from his brow, his face taut with anxiety. The sweat could be a telling sign or just evidence of the heat in the room. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he deflects but his voice is laced with counterfeit innocence.

Arthur leans on the desk, looming over Strauss. "Cut the act, Leopold. We know there's something more to these "accidents," and you're involved."

Strauss leans back, the chair creaking under his shifting weight. He tries to muster a facade of indignation, but the fear in his eyes betrays him. "Mr. Morgan, Mr. Van Der Linde, I assure you, I am merely a businessman—"

"Businessman?" Arthur interrupts, his voice rising as the anger builds up inside of him. “Preyin’ on desperate folks, like Thomas Downes, that’s what you call business?” And just as he finishes his sentence, something immediately occurs to him and he narrows his eyes. “I never told you, or your secretary, who I was…” There is a sudden pause in the room and Struass’ eyes widen. “How the hell do you know my name?”

Strauss' trembling hand reaches for the phone on his desk, but before he can even dial a number, Dutch swiftly snatches it away. "Not so fast," he lilts, a sly smile crossing his face. "We're not done here."

Strauss’ face contorts into a mixture of fear and desperation. "You can't prove anything," he spits, his tone laced with arrogance. "I have powerful people behind me, you know."

Dutch steps back and leans casually against the wall, a deceptive smile playing on his lips. "Now, Leopold, let's be reasonable. We both know you have your hands in unsavory activities," he drawls, exuding confident charisma.

Leopold's eyes narrow, a glint of maliciousness shining through. "You may be the manager of a country rock band, Dutch, but don't forget the loan you took from me. I have the power to ruin your precious son's singing career," he sneered, his voice dripping with venom.

Arthur backs up from the desk and looks at Dutch. He figured that the shrewd loan shark would try to bring that up. He watches Dutch's smile falter for a mere moment, his shoulders tensing imperceptibly.

However, he quickly regains his composure, feigning indifference. “How could I forget?” And in an instant, his expression darkens, emboldened by his desire to do things right. "I'm not afraid of your empty threats, Leopold. You won't lay a finger on my son," he threatens, his voice tinged with quiet resolve as he points a decided finger in Strauss’ face.

Silence falls between them. Arthur and Dutch glance at each other and do not speak. Arthur admires Strauss's resilience, but like most walls, it is going to break eventually. He just needs to give a push in the right direction. Leopold Strauss needs assurances.

Arthur returns to Strauss’ desk and puts on an empathetic expression, his eyes softening and his tones calm and methodical. "Look, Strauss. If you come clean now, the law might go easy on you. It is clear to me that you ain’t doin’ all of whatever it is you're doin’ alone.” He sees a flicker in Strauss’ expression and he hopes that it is a breakthrough. “Perhaps, you were forced to do this? Maybe if you help the authorities, they might help you."

Dutch's brow lifts admirably as he watches Arthur masterfully negotiate. He flattens his lips, desperate to suppress the smile that threatens to spread across his face. With razor-sharp focus, Arthur studies Strauss' every move, searching for any sign of weakness or hesitation.

But Strauss remains a statue, his expression cold and unyielding. A solitary bead of sweat rolls down his forehead, a testament to the intense pressure of the situation. It hangs precariously on his chin before falling to the ground with a heavy thud, mirroring the weight of the looming deal.

Arthur is about to speak again but feels a firm hand on his shoulder.

"We're done here, Arthur," Dutch grumbles. "Let's go."

Arthur's chest builds with frustration as he realizes they won't be able to get any information out of Strauss. With a heavy sigh, he conveys his resignation and gives Strauss one final intimidating glare before turning to leave with Dutch by his side. The dimly lit room is filled with tension, the only sound coming from their footsteps as they make their way towards the exit. Arthur can feel the weight of failure hanging over him, but he knows they have to keep moving forward in their pursuit of justice.

As they exit the office, the door clicks shut, sealing Leopold's fear within its confines.

Leopold slumps back in his chair, his face twisted in a panic, not confident that he has successfully steered those fools away. He reaches for his phone, now able to do so, and his fingers tremble as he dials a familiar number. There is a dial tone and a soft click. Though no one speaks, he knows they’ve answered. "They're onto us,” he whimpers into the phone. “We need to silence that Arthur.” His words come out like his, his voice laced with urgency.

On the other end of the line, a voice whispered coolly, reassuringly. "Stay calm, Leopold. Everything is under control. We'll handle Arthur. Just remain patient."

Leopold's shoulders relax slightly, and as though reinvigorated, a devious grin spreads across his face. His eyes gleam with wicked anticipation as he leans back in his chair. The long shadows in the dimly lit room seem to curl around him, amplifying the sinister plan that has been months in the making.

The lingering echo of the call fades into an eerie stillness, permeating every corner of the room with a sense of emptiness. The walls, smooth and unblemished, serve as a mask for the secrets hidden within. The air is thick with silence, swallowing any sound that dares to break it. It's as if the room itself is holding its breath, waiting for something unknown to happen.

As though it knows it is at the risk of being discovered.

***

Eliza knocks once again on Edith's door. It has been a while since she spoke with Arthur about her findings and she has since felt that because she hadn't heard about his progress, she should continue to do what she can to help things along.

She doesn’t know why she’s doing this. Is it because of her innate curiosity? That little nagging in the back of her mind whenever there is something left unanswered? That was her approach to everything, especially while at college. Her fascination for history is what drove her to question things, to ask why, and to dive deeper into things unexplained. She’s like a scientist, but in a different way, in that of records, experiences, and humanity.

A noble task, but is that really the answer?

Before she can figure it out the door opens to reveal Edith. She smiles and her eyes sparkle with hope upon seeing Eliza.

"Hello, Eliza! What are you doing here?"

Eliza readjusts her purse strap on her shoulder and tucks some loose hair behind her ear."Hi, Edith. I hope you don't mind, but I need to ask you some more questions about Thomas.

Edith’s smile falls, but her eyes still remain soft. She sighs sofltly. "Of course,” she answers as she takes a step back. “Ask whatever you need to know." Stepping off to the side, she gestures for Eliza to come in and once Eliza enters, she closes the door behind her.

Once they are both seated in her living room, Edith pulls her legs up underneath her as she sits on the sofa across from Eliza. “What questions do you have?”

Eliza, pulling out a small notepad from her purse, takes a deep breath. "Did you notice anything strange or out of the ordinary before his death? Anything that might give us a clue?"

Mrs. Downes hesitates, her brow furrowing as she tries to recall the past few weeks. “So much has happened, Eliza. I told the police all that I can remember.”

Eliza figures as much, but she has something that the police don’t have: a new perspective. “The police don’t always ask the right questions, or they might overlook details. You can imagine how many people they have to talk to on a daily basis and something could be overlooked. And if they overlook things, don’t you think it’s possible we can, too?”

Edith nods slowly, understanding the gravity of Eliza's words. “You’re right," she agrees, her voice tinged with resignation. "Alright, let me think...” She pauses for a moment, her gaze dropping to the coffee table before drifting back to meet Eliza’s. "Well, there was something...”

Eliza leans closer, almost sitting at the edge of her chair and she readies her pen.

Edith continues, “After he took out a loan to help with community work, he started receiving a lot of phone calls. He was on the phone constantly, even during dinner."

Eliza's eyes widen at this information. It could be important. "Do you remember any specific names he mentioned on the phone?" Eliza wishes that Edith had told her this before but then again, she’s just glad to have come by this information at all.

Mrs. Downes shakes her head. "I'm sorry, I can't recall the names. But there was one name I remember hearing before the phone calls ever came…” Her brow pinches and she brings a hand to her temple. “It's on the tip of my tongue; it just keeps slipping away."

Eliza offers a suggestion, her voice gentle. "Was it Leopold Strauss?"

Mrs. Downes thinks for a moment but then shakes her head once again. "No, that wasn't it. But it was someone I've heard before, I'm sure of it."

It wouldn’t do any good to pressure her further on this question. When you’ve hit a roadblock, it is best to find a detour. Or, in this case, another question. Eliza looks down at her notepad and eyes the next question. She feels a rush of anxiety in her chest, knowing that this next question could easily end their conversation just as easily as it could help her investigation. She looks back up to find Edith’s patient expression and finds her curiosity too strong to ignore. "Edith, forgive me if this sounds insensitive, but do you think Thomas might have been suicidal?"

Edith's eyes widen, a flash of anger crossing her face. "No! That's absurd! He was happy the day before he died.” Eliza recoils slightly, but remains neutral in her expression. It is natural for the widow to be offended. “In fact, he told me that things were about to change, that he was going to turn something bad into something good."

She isn’t asking her to leave, so Eliza relaxes. While her answer is somewhat helpful, she isn’t much further ahead than where she was before. She feels like she is going around in circles. Until she can have a name, there is nothing she can really do.

Eliza nods, more so to herself than to Edith. “I see. Forgive me for asking.” She goes to tuck her notepad back in her purse. "Thank you, Edith." And buckling her purse back up, she rises to her feet. "I am really sorry for bothering you."

Mrs. Downes holds up a palm, dismissing her apology. "Have you found anything?"

Eliza feels more defeated as she gives her answer. "Not yet. But that name could help."

The widow nods. "I will call you as soon as I can remember it. It will come to me."

Eliza feigns a smile and sees herself out the door.

Once she closes it behind her she lets out a puff of air that she didn’t realize she was holding. She really wants to help Edith; to find out what really happened. She knew Thomas. She herself knows that he wouldn’t have killed himself or given up hope on living. He had been through a lot of trials and tribulations his his life, with what little Eliza knew, but he still would show up at the soup kitchen. Still smiling, still greeting her like always.

And then, one day, he was just…gone.

Maybe that is the reason. It is personal. She feels that she has a duty to help the poor widow and her son.

Yes, that is it. That has to be it.

And so, with a less defeated step, Eliza makes her way to her car. She’s looking forward to seeing her son again.

***

It has been two weeks since Arthur and Dutch confronted Strauss. Arthur decided not to share what he had done with Eliza, for he knew that it was beginning to become more dangerous. If anyone discovers that he was talking with her, her life could easily be in more jeopardy. That incident on the road is evidence enough.

Sadie Adler and her hotshots have been putting out more fires, and unfortunately, that means another controlled burn may have to take place. They had finished the large border around Redwood Falls a few days ago, and Charles had hoped they were done.

At least for now, Arthur and Charles are able to resume their patrols and are now exploring the restricted woods. There had been a small fire reported here, and while the Hotshots had successfully put it out, Captain Monroe is sitll convinced that these are not natural fires. Well, that’s something that he and Arthur can agree on. For their assignment, Charles and Arthur have been tasked with targeting these areas and ensuring that no pyromaniacs are out and about.

The pungent stench of singed leaves and charred wood still lingers in the air, a haunting reminder of the fire that was just put out yesterday. Charles and Arthur, equipped with respirators to protect against any remaining smoke, move cautiously through the scorched earth. Their loyal canine companions, Molasses and Copper, follow close behind, noses to the ground as they sniff for any signs of danger. Together, they resemble a well-trained SWAT team, determined to uncover any clues that may lead them to the cause of the potentially destructive blaze. The sun beats down on their backs, the heat intensifying the acrid scent that fills their nostrils. But they press on, committed to their mission and unwavering in their search for answers.

"I thought we only helped with controlled burns when the fire department needs more people to do the job," Charles says, grunting as he kicks a stump out of his way.

Arthur shakes his head, his eyes cast to the ground as he searches the area before him. "Nope, we are the forest people, and it is part of our job to do that. The fire department is absorbed with domestic and city fires, people trapped in cars, that sort of thing. We help because it involves nature."

"Makes sense. I guess it just isn't my favorite part of the job."

Arthur nods knowingly. "I understand. I was always relieved when it was over. I never got to see my son much when I have had to do a lot of controlled burns."

"How is your son, by the way?"

Arthur takes his pickaxe and rolls a log out of the path of the ash. "He's...doing okay. He's got a new treatment and erm, while it has a lot of steps, he seems to be improving. He's only been on it for a few weeks, but the doctors are hopeful."

Charles smiles behind his respirator, conveying encouragement. Charles is a relatively unemotional person, so when he expresses it, it is genuine. "That's good, Arthur. I'm sure Eliza is happy about it."

Eliza. Hearing her name makes Arthur nervous, especially when people around him assume their relationship is more simple than it is. "Erm...yeah, she is."

There is a pause before Charles speaks again, his tone softer and inquisitive. "Arthur? Can I ask...? What is the situation between you two?” Charles pauses for a moment, as though testing the waters, and when Arthur doesn’t change the subject, he continues. “I just want to understand so I don't say or ask anything stupid.” He chortles. “Or is me asking already stupid?"

Arthur is quiet for a moment. He knows Charles means well, but it is also a touchy subject. He still isn’t sure how he feels about everything. But then again, Charles is very insightful. Though it is strange to seek advice from a person much younger than him, that doesn't mean that wisdom is always associated with age.

Well, he may as well give the big picture. He stops his work for a minute, speaking louder through his respirator. "We met when I graduated Academy. She...heh...actually had seen me before that. I went to the restaurant she worked at a few times. We started talkin’ and began seein’ each other.” He pictures it in his mind, that day he finally noticed her. She had been waiting on their table, smiling sweetly and checking in on them regularly. When they had finished eating, something else was eating at him. A curiosity, a desire to know who this girl was and to see her again. “A couple of years into the relationship, she got pregnant and that changed things.” He looks up to gauge Charles's reaction, aware that not everyone understands the swift and complicated turns his life has taken. “Her parents kinda disowned her and she quit college to raise Isaac. I supported them every way that I could."

Charles bows his head, lifting a brow inquisitively. "So...marriage wasn't an option?"

Arthur sighs. Hosea has asked him the same thing. Not in so many words, but it is clear as to whom he favors. He had tried to get married once. To Mary, and look where that got him. "No. We had different thoughts on it. I saw it as a waste and my lifestyle just wasn't fit for that kind of life. I was gone all the time and they needed somethin’ more stable.” That memory begins to flood his mind, too. Both of them in the kitchen. Isaac was just barely a year old. Eliza cried heavily, her eyes red and full of tears, asking him why they couldn’t be a whole family like everyone else. Maybe he was a coward, maybe he didn’t think he was real father material. Not many people put much stock in him, considering that his father was a petty criminal. If it wasn’t for Hosea and Bessie, maybe he would have shared the same fate as his old man.

Arthur shakes his head, letting the thought ebb away. “We had an argument and we fell apart after that. A few years later, though, we started to reconnect, but it wasn't long after that that Isaac got cancer."

"But things were getting better?" Charles asks, a tinge of hope in his voice.

Arthur shrugs. "Yes, but.."

Mary.

Arthur lets his voice trail off and he looks away.

"I've already pried enough, Arthur. It's okay."

Arthur shakes his head with frustration. His gaze flickers back to Charles, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "No, maybe you can help me, Charles."

Charles raises a brow, studying Arthur with a softened gaze. "...Okay?"

"I had a girlfriend, a long time ago. We were high school sweethearts, basically. We were together all through college, and I proposed to her."

Charles’ eyes widen and he blinks quickly. "Oh."

"She rejected me. She couldn't be with someone poor and country like me and never would. I was crushed."

Charles' eyes soften. "I'm sorry."

Arthur shrugs, trying to shake off the emotions he feels. "Yeah, well, we've met up again, and, well, something happened, and Eliza was not happy about it."

Charles’ eyes widen, his mind already making assumptions. "...Oh..." he cringes.

Arthur realizes how he might have interpreted that and quickly shakes his head and holds out a palm. "It was nothing like that! But it still wasn't good. Eliza and I talked and we both agreed that I needed to figure out what I want. It's been that way ever since."

Charles is quiet, processing all that Arthur has told him. They continue walking through the woods. "Have you seen your ex-girlfriend since then?"

"Yes."

"Hmm."

"She keeps wanting to go out to dinner, but I don't want to do anything until we deal with these murders."

Charles hums thoughtfully again. "Hmm."

"What do you think I should do, Charles?"

Charles looks down at the ground as he ponders a moment. The silence between them makes Arthur a little uneasy. Maybe he said too much? He’s never been one to overshare, but anyone he normally talks to is already too involved in the situation.

Charles shrugs, letting his broad shoulders fall heavily. "I can't tell you to do anything, Arthur. It's your life. If you want to be with your ex-girlfriend, then it's best to establish those boundaries with Eliza. But if I can be honest, it seems strange to me that after reconnecting with Eliza, you are suddenly feeling forced to choose.” He eyes Arthur with an intense gaze. “Could that mean that your relationship with Eliza was never strong to begin with, or that you are just afraid to commit, as you kinda hinted at, earlier? You think it would be any different with your ex?"

Charles has a point. As Arthur is about to answer, Molasses barks once, and she and Copper charge into the trees.

"Something's up," Charles says, following after her.

Not another body, Arthur thinks to himself.

Then suddenly, they hear muffled screams.

Pushing some branches out of the way, Charles and Arthur find Molasses lunging at an unknown figure, quickly pinning him down. Copper, who remains beside Arthur, takes an offensive stance and barks repeatedly. Arthur and Charles spot a dead deer laying beside the man who is unable to get up as long as Molasses remains on top of him. Her barks are loud and intimidating, anyone would be deathly afraid of her.

But with the evidence before him, it is clear to Arthur that what Molasses has found is a poacher.

“Molasses, back!” Charles orders.

Molasses, her teeth bared and fur standing on end, yields to his authority and backs away.

Once freed, the poacher remains on the ground and scoots away slowly, but his eyes remain locked on the powerful canine. He pants heavily, and his hands tremble as he holds them out in front of him. For someone committing a crime, he’s a timid feller.

With guns at the ready, both Charles and Arthur stand stoically in front of the poacher, daring him to make a move. As he reaches for his rifle, Arthur swiftly kicks it out of his grasp, sending it flying across the forest floor. "You want to add attempted murder to your list?" he asks with a growl.

Charles storms over to the poacher, towering over his trembling form. With a swift movement and quick grip, he turns the welp over and places him in handcuffs.

"I just wanted one buck!” the man cries. “What's wrong with getting some meat?"

"It isn't deer season, and poaching is illegal. I guess you want to eat cheap meat from a can instead?" Charles turns him back over and helps him to his feet with ease, a testament to his brute strength.

"I've never done this before," the poacher pleads. "I just thought that since this area was off limits, nobody else would be here."

Arthur almost has to laugh; this poacher is further incriminating himself. "Poaching, trespassing..." Arthur lists.

Charles grips the world’s dumbest poacher tightly by the arm. "Do you have a hunting license?"

The poacher nods quickly. "Y-y-yes, it is in my back pocket."

Arthur cautiously approaches the lifeless deer carcass, his footsteps crunching on the dried leaves and twigs of the forest floor. His eyes scan over the animal, noting its matted fur and vacant gaze. Meanwhile, Charles rummages through the back pocket of the young man's jeans, his fingers sifting through the contents of a worn wallet. He carefully pulls out a hunting license and studies the identification information with furrowed brows. "Jimmy Brooks, is it?"

"Yes! My hunting license is real!" Jimmy insists.

Arthur turns around and looks at Jimmy Brooks. "Why would we think it isn't?" He gives Charles a look and then turns to Jimmy, his intense gaze making him squirm.

The poacher tries to avoid the game warden’s intense gaze, and he shifts uncomfortably on his feet while Charles’ grip on him remains firm. "I...erm...Well...there's talk."

"Talk?" Charles echoes.

"Yes. Talk about people having fake IDs. Lots of people have them. Now-now-I don't know any who do—but I know it happens…!"

Arthur strides over to Jimmy, his towering form casting a dark shadow over the younger man. His voice is low and menacing as he speaks, "How unfortunate for you. But if, by chance, I happen upon someone with a false identification who mentions your name, you will come to deeply regret your name ever bein’ Jimmy Brooks." The air around them seems to thicken with tension as Arthur's words hang in the air. Jimmy nervously shifts from foot to foot, feeling like a rabbit caught in the gaze of a predator. Beads of sweat form on his forehead as he realizes the gravity of the situation and the danger he has put himself in.

Jimmy Brooks's eyes widen and his voice quivers. "Oh, I promise, if you let me go, I won't poach again! I swear! N-not now, not ever…!"

Arthur lifts his chin, eyeing him with a confident eye. "We ain't lettin’ you go, Jimmy Brooks. But just remember,” Arthur points to his temple and grins menacingly. “I've got a good memory."

"A very good memory," Charles validates with a grin.

Arthur nods to the rookie. "See? Even my partner here knows it.” And with that, Arthur points his thumb back towards the direction they came. “Charles, take him back to the truck. I am going to bring the deer."

"Sure, Arthur." Charles takes Jimmy Brooks by the arm. "You are under arrest for illegal poaching and will be taken into custody. C'mon, let's go."

"I can't go to jail!"

Charles pushes him forward, not taking any of his whining. "I said, let's move! Molasses, let's go."

When Jimmy Brooks complies, Charles escorts him back to the truck. Molasses tails them closely, keeping her eyes fixed on the poacher she just captured.

As Arthur reaches for the deer, a low whimper catches his attention. He turns to see Copper frantically digging at the ground, his body tense and alert. Without hesitation, Arthur gets up and rushes over to the determined dog, his heart pounding in anticipation. As he approaches the spot where Copper is digging, he can feel a sense of urgency emanating from the animal. Gently pushing Copper aside, Arthur's hands eagerly reach for whatever it is that has captured the dog's interest.

"What is it, boy?" he asks breathlessly, his eyes scanning the ground for anything of interest.

With a final burst of energy, Copper moves out of the way, revealing a hidden object beneath the dirt. Arthur's heart stops as he realizes what it is—the familiar etching on the lid immediately catches Arthur's attention, and a knot forms in his stomach.

It is another tin box, just like the one he had given to his son.

***

Arthur finally comes out from between the trees and sees the yellow truck in the distance. He readjusts the deer on his shoulder and makes his way over. Charles is leaning against the passenger door, Mr. Brooks is handcuffed inside.

Charles lifts his head to see Arthur approaching and he nods in silent greeting. He leans away from the tailgate and calmly walks up to meet Arthur, speaking quietly. "I looked into this guy. Turns out he has a warrant for his arrest. He failed to appear in court for not reporting all his pen sales in his taxes.” His lips part into a smile and he laughs. “Can you imagine something that stupid?" Arthur doesn't respond like he normally would and Charles's face falls. "What's wrong?"

Arthur doesn't answer but places the deer in the back of the truck. He walks back over to Charles.

"Let's take Mr. Brooks to the Sheriff's office, then we'll talk."

Charles’ brow pinches, but he doesn’t argue. "Sure, Arthur."

With a solemn nod, Arthur gently helps Copper into the truck bed and climbs into the driver's seat. The engine rumbles to life with a low hum, filling the air with the familiar smell of gasoline. They drive in silence, the only sound being the rumble of the truck's tires on the gravel road.

Their first stop is the Sheriff's Department, where Jimmy Brooks will be staying for the night.

After that, well, Arthur has something to share with his partner.

***

Arthur and Charles stand in the parking lot as the sun shines through the surrounding pines. Arthur hardly spoke since they got in the truck, raising Charles's curiosity. And now that Mr. Brooks has been turned over Jimmy Brooks to the High Sierra Sheriff's Department, they are finally alone, and Charles can see about what has gotten Arthur in such a mood.

"Now, are you going to tell me what this is all about?" Charles asks, arms crossed.

Without speaking, Arthur reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the tin box.

"What's that?" Charles asks with a raised brow.

Arthur scratches his chin, his eyes never leaving the tin box that he placed on the center console. "You remember when we did the controlled burn?"

"Yeah…what about it?"

"Well, you hadn't come yet. We were checkin’ out the ash, and I spotted a tin box under a stump. I thought it was just a cool antique from some other time period. I...gave it to my son."

Charles nods slowly, his brow lifted. "Okay...?"

Arthur shifts on his feet and turns his body to face his partner. "The thing is, Charles, Copper found this box where we caught the poacher. It is the exact same, except this lock is different."

Charles blinks, putting together the clues himself. "So someone hid it there."

"Yes. I would have chucked this up to bein’ a fluke thing, but now findin’ this in a similar way? This can't be a coincidence. It weren't no geocache."

Charles’ gaze focuses on the box, his mind reeling. "We gotta see what's inside."

Hesitant, Arthur holds the box, hands trembling with a mix of trepidation and curiosity. With a free hand, he pulls out his pocket knife and flicks out the blade. With a quick shunk, he inserts the blade in between the lid and the base of the box, and the seal is broken. Carefully opening the lid, Charles and Arthur watch carefully.

They’ve struck gold.

Inside, they’ve found not riddles or trinkets, but a collection of forged hunting permits and false identification. Each one bears a different name for the same series of faces, a testament to the cunning and skill of whoever had created them.

And one of them, is Thomas Downes.

It is clear that this is no amateur's work—these are expertly crafted forgeries.

"Just like Jimmy Brooks said..." Charles says quietly and in awe. "That idiot was telling the truth."

Surrounded by a sea of deceitful papers, there is one name that stands out in stark contrast - Michael Barnes. The letters are etched onto the page in cold, unforgiving ink, and the realization hits Arthur like a physical blow to the chest. It is as if the name itself holds a threat, casting a dark shadow over everything it touches. He feels his heart race and his palms sweat as he stares at the damning evidence before him. How could he have been so blind?

"Michael...he's in danger," Arthur mutters, his voice laced with fear and urgency. "Whoever killed Downes had made him a fake ID. He could be next."

Charles's brow furrows, his eyes scanning the surrounding trees. "It's possible, but what if he's more than a potential victim? What if he had something to do with the killings? And wouldn't he already have his own real hunting ID?"

Arthur admits he doesn’t know Michael that well. Only seeing him in passing and lately on the television. Come to think of it, that was the last time he had seen him. "Well, I haven't seen or heard from him in a few weeks. We have to find out."

Dread creeps through Arthur's veins. Charles could be right, or could be wrong. Either way, he knows they have to find Michael before more lives are lost.

“We need to go to his office. That man has practically lived there for the past few months. Maybe something will turn up.”

Charles is quiet for a moment but then he nods his head. “I guess it is worth a shot. Better to investigate every lead than go without knowing.”

Arthur nods. “Agreed.” Then he begins to walk to the driver’s side of the truck. “Let’s get goin’.”

Without hesitation, they head towards Michael's office, hearts pounding in their chests.

***

Charles and Arthur approach the dark and quiet Department of Fish and Wildlife. They don’t get out of the truck right away, their eyes carefully watching the building for any signs of life.

"I don't think anyone's inside," Charles observes quietly.

Arthur nods, his gaze steely and focused. "Let's be quick, then."

As calm and as quiet as they can, they step out of the truck and carefully close the doors. They quicken their steps as they approach the building, still being watchful for the tree line and the road that leads to the parking lot. It feels like the parking lot stretches forever, until finally they reach the back door.

Using a key to enter the back of the building, they slip inside without incident.

So far so good.

The hallway is dark, the only sound being the odd bubbling from the water dispenser in the corner. Arthur feels a nudge in his arm.

“Follow me,” Charles whispers and though they can’t see each other, Arthur nods.

They begin to navigate the narrow hallway and seeing a faint light through one of the office windows, Arthur can see it is Captain Monroe's vacant office. At least he knows they won’t be confronted by him this time.

After passing his own office and the entryway to the front desk, they finally approach Michael's office.

Charles's fingers grip his pocket knife tightly, ready to jimmy the lock open with a swift and forceful movement. But before he can make a move, the door lets out a soft creak as it gently swings open on its own accord. The realization that the door is unlocked shocks them both, causing their hearts to race in anticipation as they exchange wary glances before cautiously pushing the door open further.

Once inside, they are met with chaos.

Papers are strewn everywhere, maps of mysterious routes pinned haphazardly on the walls. It is as if they had stumbled upon a web of deceit that sprawls beyond the forest's edge.

“What the hell…?” Arthur lets escape his lips.

Charles steps further into the room, leaving Arthur bewildered. “This isn’t good.” he walks over to Michael's desk and reviews some of the papers. “We gotta find out what happened.”

Arthur's unblinking gaze fixates on the light streaming in through the window, casting a harsh glare on the chaos that surrounds him. His eyes narrow as he notices a hidden compartment in the wall, its cover flung open and revealing a dark void within. The portrait of the governor, which once hung proudly above the compartment, now lies discarded on the ground in a shattered frame. Arthur's heart begins to race he quickly walks to it.

He again uses his pocket knife and pries it open, revealing a damning piece of evidence:

The very gun used to snuff out innocent lives. It is unmistakable—even through the wrapping, he sees the blood speckles on the barrel. This was worse than he had imagined, or hoped.

Arthur lets out a roaring gasp. "Charles...!"

With quick steps, Charles hurries over and peeks into the compartment. A tense silence fills the air as their eyes meet, a silent conversation passing between them. They both understand what lies before them—Michael, a comrade and fellow protector of the law, is none other than the elusive killer they have been searching for. He is no victim, but a predator in their midst.

But there is more. As Arthur carefully nudges the gun to the side, he spots a passport. He picks it up, holding it into the light. It reads:

MICAH BELL

Micah Bell. The name echoes through Arthur's mind like a distant memory, a whisper of recognition. He remembers reading that name before—in newspapers, and even in the files he had tirelessly searched through just weeks before. Micah Bell is infamous, a well-known drug lord who has evaded capture for years despite being labeled as a fugitive. And now, it seems, he has been hiding in plain sight all along, right under their noses. Arthur can’t help but feel a sense of disbelief and betrayal at learning this shocking truth about someone he had once considered an ally, albeit a difficult one. It is like peeling back layers of false appearances to reveal the dark and dangerous reality hidden beneath.

"We can't trust anyone," Charles whispers, his voice barely audible amidst the heavy silence. "Not even Captain Monroe. He could be also involved somehow."

Arthur's grip tightens around the carefully wrapped gun, his knuckles turning white. His mind races, piecing together the fragments of the conspiracy that unravels before them. He hopes the captain isn’t involved. He’d rather he just be incredibly naive than involved.

But that isn’t his biggest problem.

He feels his jaw clench as he continues to eye the damning evidence. "We have to confront Michael ourselves. There ain’t enough time to involve anyone else."

"Where do you think he went?" Charles asks.

Arthur thinks a moment. There seems to be a pattern. Turning away from the compartment, he goes to the scattered maps of High Sierra on the wall. Lifting a finger, he scans the map carefully for a moment. Then, with a thud of his index finger, he points to a region in the Northeastern woods.

"Here was the first body." Then to Redwood Falls, which has also been marked. "There was the second."

Charles nods and points to another area on the map. "And here was the controlled burn."

Arthur feels his heart pound in his chest, and the pieces finally are coming together, along with the dangers it implies. "Look, Charles. He's trying to prohibit anyone from comin’ here. He must be dealin’ drugs in the woods. Finishin’ what he started years ago before he got caught. Those ocean maps are delivery routes from Mexico."

Then Charles asks the next important question, "So, in this area, where have we not gone?"

They scan the map and see a shape forming in the regions where a body was found. There is a spot that remains untouched.

Arthur points at it, his voice low and confident. "There. Redemption Cavern. It has been blocked off for several years on account of the bats."

Charles nods. "A perfect place to store it all."

"Exactly."

There’s not a moment to lose. Charles pats Arthur’s shoulder. "Let's move, Arthur."

With secrets revealed and their mission clear, Arthur and Charles hurry to put Molasses and Copper in the kennels. They don’t want to risk them being killed, as they don’t know what to expect.

Then, they go to their lockers and retrieve their gear. Two rifles, bulletproof vests, flashlights, and axes.

Then they exit out the back and hurry to the truck, their breaths calm and steps sure. Arthur takes the wheel and turning on the ignition, he shares one more look with Charles.

“Are you ready for this?”

Charles doesn’t hesitate. “Let’s get him, Arthur.”

As Arthur hurriedly drives out of the parking lot and onto the dirt road, silence falls between them for a moment.

After they cover a few miles, the headlights illuminating the path in front of them, Charles finally speaks. "He knew we were onto something," he murmurs, his voice tinged with anger. "He left his office open. He's baiting us. He must've thought we were getting too close."

Charles has a point, and this thought had been on Arthur’s mind for the last mile and a half. "I know. Michael Barnes. Micah Bell. Why didn't I make the connection sooner?"

Charles nods, his thoughts measured and cautious. "He wants to silence us, to protect his twisted plan."

"I know."

"We could die tonight, Arthur. He knows we're coming."

Arthur can’t shake the thoughts of Eliza and Isaac from his mind. They are about to embark on a journey into the unknown, and he can’t help but worry for their safety. He longs to call them, to hear their voices one last time and perhaps tell his son that he loves him, but they are now out of cell service range. The faint sound of their laughter and chatter echoes in his memory as he braces himself for what is to come. With each passing mile, he knows that there is no turning back.

Arthur’s hands grip the steering wheel and his eyes remain focused ahead. "I know."

Thank you for reading!

Tag Requests: @moeitsu @photo1030 @cassietrn

[derrothh]

Remembering [Zevlor x Tav]

A ficlet that takes place after one of my little Zevlor series on AO3.

You can read the whole series here: Black Cottage. First 8 chapters are SFW, and the last ones... well... what's an AO3 series without a little bit of spice?

Thank you to moth in the Discord server for the prompt <3

Hintha never thought, nor wanted, to visit this place again. Yet here she was, standing in an alleyway in the rebuilding city of Elturel.

The sun, just one now, was passing in and out of clouds above them. Despite the city being back in the Material Plane, it still brought a feeling of unease. The city had forever changed; scarred.

“Easy, Hintha,” Zevlor murmured with a gravelly tone next to her. The backs of their hands brushed against one another. “We can always return tomorrow. Finding this place is a tremendous step.”

Hintha shook her head. “No, no,” she replied softly. “I… just needed a moment.”

It was a plain alleyway. Incredibly unassuming. Before the Descent, she probably walked by it at least a half dozen times without acknowledging its existence. Now… every brick was lodged in her memory.

How else could a mother remember the site which she lost her children? Abandoned her children? Froze in their greatest hour of need and left one to try-

Her jaw tightened. Stop. She had to stop.

Her hand twitched and locked pinkies with Zevlor’s own. He twisted and grasped her hand securely. A sliver of cool metal around one of his fingers grounded her.

Hintha was back on the Material Plane.

“Thank you,” she rasped.

“My words before stand,” he said. “It is… difficult being back here, in Elturel, by itself. I’m not certain I can go back to the High Cathedral myself.”

“I’ll be with you,” she assured and looked up at him. His brow was tightly pinched with his jaw set. It was reminiscent of the first times she saw him, back at the Grove. A half veneer of confidence, certainty. She brushed the back of his hand with her thumb. “I’ll always be there with you.”

The expression on Zevlor’s face cracked a little. He loosened and the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. “I know, my love. And I am eternally grateful for it,” he said before leaning down to place a soft kiss on her forehead. All these years later, it still sent tingles down her spine. “However, I believe it is my turn to be there for you.”

Hintha glanced back down at her free hand. Was it right, to leave a bouquet of flowers? Anything more would likely get stolen. A placard would get taken and melted down for scrap. The alleyway was concealed enough that others wouldn’t think twice about being caught.

Her hand clenched tighter around the flowers. She distinctly remembered that Cyimble liked daisies but Tavaalin’s favourite flowers danced just out of her memory. It twisted her heart fierce.

She attempted to bat the thought aside with a step forward, gently pulling Zevlor along with her.

They stepped forward. Nothing happened. Was something supposed to?

There were occasional broken bottle, a discarded crate, and general gunk. No sign of the Hells. Even the stench of sulphur had faded. Signs of disrepair and fights were present but it was uncertain whether they were from life on the surface or below. Only memories lingered now. She wasn’t sure if she liked that.

Hintha took a deep breath and set down the flowers on the crate. She tried to place the stems in a crack to jam them upright but they fell over. It stung more than she anticipated.

But Zevlor only gently let go of her hand and reached down to grab another little container that had been discarded. He set it on the crate and readjusted the flowers to lean against them. It wasn’t straight, but at least it was better than before.

“There,” he stated and stood back. “To Tavaalin and Cyimble Omoriad.”

A lump formed in Hintha’s throat and she found Zevlor’s hand again. “To my beloved sons,” she whispered, her voice beginning to crack. “I hope you’ve both found peace, and know that I miss you both so much.”

The daisies, even in the dim light, stood out amongst the dreariness of the alleyway. Little sprigs of ferns and leaves defended them against the harsh cobbles. It was starkly so bright, so full of life.

Zevlor rubbed the back of her hand. “I never had the privilege to meet either of you, but from what your mother has told me, I would have been endlessly proud of you both,” he said and smiled sadly.

Something long broken mended a little more closed in her chest. Mist solidified into a tear and dribbled down her face. She quickly wiped it away.

“I love you, my little hellions,” she whispered.

“And I would have loved you boys too.”

[bright-tatters]

Tatters #7

Good Fortune:

Some weeks they don’t assign me to the Tatterdemalion Ward. (You called it that once in a speech, ragamuffin that it is.) I go out on off nights and I see streets made of asphalt, buildings of stone and brick. Lamps that work with reliable electricity – other wards have all this. What damnation fell upon the Tatterdemalions? Every Ward is rife with fists; why is this the bruised one?

Do I blame you, like my brothers do, or thank you that it isn’t worse?

I see a star almost directly overhead at nine PM. I looked up some star maps and wheels of time to determine: Bendameron, the Vulture. Someone somewhere thought that would be clever.

Look up, some night. They say the vulture guarded the ancient Methams from the unbound Torch that would have destroyed the cities of man.

 Fortune leaned back in his overstuffed leather chair. His second drink swirled gently in his left hand. Constable Poet’s latest deranged rant lay on the cluttered desk in front of him.

The distant Council was rejoicing, and Fortune was in a bad mood.

The police would be by within the hour after a preventable disturbance, and Fortune had nothing to do but wait. He wondered whether Piper would come himself. He exhaled frustration and inhaled gin. He thumbed through a pile on his desk to the achingly clear photograph of a man his own age built like a bear and groomed like an accident in progress. That enemy of the Ward spoke madness and then changed city policies to ease strain on that very same Ward. He was a native. He was an enemy. The inconsistency distressed Fortune at a level he could not easily articulate.

Then Fortune went for the most ridiculous innocent pastime he could think of. The one he had never deigned to do before. The one whose inconsistencies might someday be useful.

He shook off a pen and held it over a good, heavy blank card.

Mr. Poet,

You are persistent.

You mentioned you came from what you so drolly term the Tatterdemalion Ward. Did you ever see the back route to Obble’s Telescope? A strange diamond in a great deal of rough. It’s magnificent when you’re the one prescribing which way it points, a particular pleasure I possess.

Tomorrow at ninth bell. The door will be unlocked. Come alone. I won’t, but sooner or later one of us must show some trust. I volunteer you.

Respectfully,

F.

 He illuminated the crimson F with precise strokes, and made the “Colm Poet” on the envelope elaborate. The police officer called Piper was an enthusiastic writer but not an expert calligrapher; it was one point of advantage to Fortune. He liked advantages.

He sealed the card and handed it to a runner outside, then settled alertly in his chair to await his less charming visitors. He traced the old scar on his jaw amid his insistent stubble. His mind tumbled, some part of it always idling in the moments between the actions. At least, it had been idle a year ago. Now some part stayed preoccupied, no matter what he did.

*

A letter every two weeks for six months could draw a reasonable portrait of a soul. Colm Poet was, so far as he would admit, sensitive, lightly irreverent, admiring of fashion, art, and physics. Fortune got the impression that he worked hard for the veneer of polish evident in his missives. Poet admitted to having grown up in Tatters. In Tatterdemalion, he liked to call it. In this he had something in common with Fortune.

He was strange, interesting, terribly talkative. The unsolicited photograph he had spent lived rent free in Fortune’s head. A big rough-hewn man with a dark smile: a stranger, nothing more. A stranger who liked to dump letters in Fortune’s lap.

In physical terms, it didn’t take long to get ready for the execution, or whatever it was Fortune expected, with the insistent policeman. He parted his brown-and-gray hair to trouble his temples with fine straight strokes. He shaved his lean face, though the dark hair under translucently pale skin was never really gone. He lightly highlighted the inner corners of his faint-washed blue eyes because he hated how small they were. It was one of the few areas where he wanted more light.

He wore tailored trousers over boots that poetically never quite washed clean. Not a speck was permitted to stray to his white shirt, dark vest, red ascot, and the darker red Da Fenix jacket that one of his carefully stashed letters had noted. He tucked the crystal watch into his vest; no use owning something worth as much as every assassination you ever contracted if you couldn’t rub it in a Centralter’s face. And a cop, even one from Tatters, was basically a Centralter. The watch rested opposite Marguerite’s little volume of poetry. He wore mismatched cufflinks: mother of pearl discs on one wrist, clusters of teardrop garnets on the other. You could say a lot from a distance with cufflinks.

He left his bedroom, which was only slightly larger than his walk-in closet. He only visited to transform and lose consciousness. “Snipes?”

The little man was lounging on a red sofa in the hallway, polishing something tubular and metal. “Boss?”

Fortune spread his arms and spun. “Missing anything?”

Snipes eyed him. “Knives.”

“In my boot, you know me.”

“Pistol.”

“A gesture of good faith on my part. Besides, I’ll have you on watch.” He flourished his wrists under the white and red embellishments.

Snipes perked up, happy to see the signal of potential mayhem. “Where to, boss?”

To silence a madman, one so crazy he surely must be met to be believed. The novelty dazzled. “Up.”

[nitrosodiumfmp]

A Greater Look at Architecture

When I visit places, I often take pictures of interesting or striking buildings, so I have a good catalog of references to look at when planning the look of Sinister's city.

This image shows a large grey-brown brick building, sporting an almost brutalist clock tower. In the foreground, there is also another building of the same material and style, but with a rounded corner. Without all the colouring of the atmosphere and light objects, Sinister's buildings end up looking very similar to this one. It's an architectural style I think looks very grim and dystopian, while also appearing quite interesting. It's also pretty timeless. A lot of the images I plan to show have a blend of time periods, but this one seems entirely out of time. I want to say it adheres to the style from the 60s and 70s, but it could've been from way earlier too. If it's not apparent as well, I really like towers. A skyline with varying heights of buildings creates a very striking silhouette - you have the multiple light towers from the test map, and the Dock map has the light-tower on the left of spawn, and the gear-covered turret on the right side. It can also create a sense of oppression, which links to the more dystopian trappings of this building style - the sky is crowded by manmade pillars of stone, practically blotting out the sun.

This is a series of walkways between two old red-brick industrial buildings. Once again, it seems very out of time, and makes me think of various TF2 maps (which I did briefly speak about when trying to pin down Sinister's aesthetic). It was built for a purpose, obviously, but there's this strange crookedness to it as well. That window... doesn't look real. Not once have I seen anything through it.

Here's a more metropolitan setting. The skyscrapers in the back are in the more contemporary "slab of glass" style of the 21st century, but the ones in the foreground adhere to an almost Art Deco look. Tiered roofs, curved bits, interesting and blocky silhouettes, they almost resemble something from 1920s New York. I love that look (definitely lifted from my childhood love of Bioshock), and it retains a sort of timelessness about it too. If I had to hazard a guess, these ones here were probably built in the 80s or 90s, but buildings have had that silhouette for up to a century before.

This image, like most showing the docklands, was frantically taken from a coach window. It shows a wide open street, a concrete overpass, and various grey-brown tower blocks in the back. They're grimy and vaguely brutalist, very likely residential buildings. One thing that I don't plan to replicate; this part of the city is very wide open, with ample space for both vehicles on the road and pedestrians on the pavement. If you haven't noticed, I built most of the Dock map without a distinction between road and street. It was built as a game level before a real-life place, and on an immersive level, it wasn't designed around the tenets of modern city planning. The largest things to go through the streets are Equalizers and those big carts, used for moving boats around the Dock area. Otherwise, they are basically labyrinthine and narrow, similar to how Gotham was portrayed in Batman (1989).

This is another image showcasing a blend of architectural styles. On the left, in the foreground, there are some classical buildings; with their jutting turrets and spires, they're a hallmark of any vaguely historic town. Notice that they also curve around the street, a juxtaposition with the buildings on the right. These were probably built in the 70s, and while it's not an amazing look artistically, the way that the perspective makes all the blocks layer onto each other is certainly an interesting look. Then we have the outlier; the tower on the left, in the background. It doesn't seem to adhere to any time period I know of, and it also seems very out of place. It also seems fake or too small, like it's a veneer of an actual building. It's a look that reminds me of Half Life 2 - in that game, all the city skyscrapers are really small, but are projected much larger then they actually are in the skybox. If you play Gmod, you can fly out into the distance and find a tiny city block, and if you stand in it, you'll appear gigantic alongside the buildings on the horizon. The whole blend of slightly depressing tower blocks and assimilated historical buildings does look like Half Life 2, if only slightly.

I took all these images with purpose (apart from 4, which was an impulsive snap), as they appear almost as dioramas of real places; curated snapshots. Maybe it's this way that my brain works that has led me to pursuing game design, but isn't a tiny snapshot of an implied larger location a video game level? In Image 1, the clock tower creates an imposing, distinctive silhouette, leading the player in. In Image 2, the walkway appears fake because it's not an area the player will ever be in. In Image 3, the layering of skyscrapers with the more distinctive ones at the front create the illusion that the block is larger than it actually is. In Image 5, the street level is more detailed, while the skyscrapers imply a larger cityscape, despite the fact that the player will never be able to enter them. I believe the designers of Bioshock once said in an interview or something that they built each part of the game as an area in a theme park. They're a playable area designed to feel like a real place. It's this sort of philosophy that I've taken to heart, although perhaps unintentionally. The Dock, for example, is two warehouses and a waterfront of four shops. But you get the idea of what it's supposed to be. The cityscape beyond the seawall is a hodge-podge of blocks, but you understand that it implies a greater city area that the player can't reach yet.

I'm going to use the same line of thinking in the City level. It's not an actual city, it's a tiny approximation of a city for you to play through.

[yeuxverts00]

This is incredibly common in architecture as well — especially architecture trying to borrow from a classical aesthetic without actually understanding why buildings used to be built that way — and it drives me up the fucking wall. Steel lintel I can see you under that jack arch, you aren’t fooling anyone. Mitred stone corners. And for the love of god stop putting thin brick veneer on the fronts of buildings when you can’t even be fucked to turn the corner with it, you’re cheap, we get it. I love architecture of every vernacular, style and form, it’s the lie that’s annoying.

I fucking despise when things fake being higher quality than they are. I don't mean like slapping a slightly misspelled brand name onto an identical non-designer product for purely aesthetic reasons I mean like rivets or thread that are actually glued down rather than punched or stitched. Fake pockets on jeans that are actually just an extra seam. Heavy looking chain that's plastic or very soft flimsy metal rather than anything sturdy. I bought boots which looked like they had a stitched sole 8 months ago and lo and behold the glue holding the sole on is revealing itself by falling apart. You PUT a STITCH IN THERE. YOU HAD THE NEEDLE AND THREAD. AND YOU DIDNT ACTUALLY STITCH DOWN THE FUCKING SOLES. Oh it makes me so mad. Cheap cunts taking the aesthetics of durability or practicality while handing you a product that won't last you the year

[acme-pest]

Beyond the Walls: Surprising Places Termites Hide in Wynne AR Homes

The very thought of termites in Wynne AR can send a shiver down any homeowner's spine. These silent destroyers work tirelessly, often undetected for years, causing billions in damage annually to properties across the country. While most people envision termites infesting basements, crawl spaces, or visible wooden structures, these cunning pests are far more resourceful than you might think. To truly defend your Wynne AR home, you need to think "beyond the walls" and understand their most surprising, hidden hideouts.

Masters of Disguise: Why Termites Are So Hard to Detect

Termites thrive on secrecy. Their colonies exist mostly underground or deep within wood, meaning by the time you see visible signs – like mud tubes or discarded wings – an infestation might already be extensive. They constantly seek out two things: wood (their primary food source) and moisture. This relentless pursuit leads them to unexpected corners of your home where dampness or wood-to-soil contact provides the perfect entry point.

Surprising Termite Hiding Spots in Your Wynne AR Home

Beyond the obvious, here are some commonly overlooked areas where termites can lurk, silently compromising your home's integrity:

The Attic and Roofline:

Why surprising: Most people look down, not up.

How they hide: Leaky roofs, damaged fascia boards, or overflowing gutters can create moisture-rich environments in your attic. Subterranean termites can build mud tubes up exterior walls to reach this damp wood, or drywood termites might directly enter through damaged eaves or vents. Moist attic insulation is a prime target.

Attached Decks, Porches, and Patios:

Why surprising: They're outside, right?

How they hide: Any wood component with direct soil contact is a major risk. Termites can tunnel unseen through the soil under concrete slabs, enter through expansion joints or cracks, and then access the wooden support structures of your deck or porch. Moisture trapped under decking or near foundation plantings makes it even more appealing.

Firewood Piles (Stored Too Close to the House):

Why surprising: A common homeowner practice.

How they hide: Firewood is a direct food source and a perfect nesting ground. Storing it directly against your house or on the ground creates a literal bridge for termites to easily transition from the woodpile into your home's foundation or walls.

Old Tree Stumps and Dead Roots:

Why surprising: They seem like garden debris.

How they hide: Decaying tree stumps or extensive root systems from dead trees provide an excellent food source and shelter for termite colonies. These roots can extend far underground, tunneling directly beneath your home's foundation and offering a discreet pathway indoors.

Beneath Exterior Siding (Especially Brick Veneer):

Why surprising: Hidden from plain sight.

How they hide: Moisture can get trapped behind certain types of siding, creating a consistently damp environment. Termites can build mud tubes completely unseen behind siding or brick veneer, gaining undetected access to the wooden structural elements of your home.

Built-in Planters and Flower Beds Adjacent to the Foundation:

Why surprising: They enhance curb appeal.

How they hide: Soil piled directly against your home's foundation creates consistent moisture and conceals termite activity. Termites can tunnel unnoticed through this soil and directly into the foundation or any wooden structural elements that touch the ground.

Moisture-Prone Interior Areas (Bathrooms, Kitchens, Utility Rooms):

Why surprising: They're inside.

How they hide: Leaky pipes, condensation, or persistent high humidity inside walls can attract termites up into the home. These areas provide the moisture source that termites need to survive, allowing them to establish satellite colonies or forage from main colonies that are drawn by the interior moisture.

Why a Professional Termite Inspection is Your Best Defense in Wynne AR

Given how adept termites are at staying hidden in these surprising locations, DIY detection is incredibly challenging, if not impossible. By the time you spot a visible sign, significant damage may have already occurred. This is why a professional termite inspection in Wynne AR is your most critical defense. Experts have the specialized tools, training, and experience to identify subtle signs of termite activity in unexpected places. They understand the behavior of local termite species and the specific vulnerabilities of homes in the Wynne AR area.

Don't Let Termites Compromise Your Wynne AR Home

Termites are incredibly resilient and persistent, often causing extensive structural damage before any homeowner becomes aware of their presence. Protecting your Wynne AR home means understanding their sneaky habits and looking beyond the obvious. Don't let these silent destroyers compromise your biggest investment. A proactive approach, backed by expert knowledge and regular inspections, is your strongest defense against termites in Wynne AR.

Suspect termites, or just want peace of mind for your Wynne AR home? Don't wait for visible damage to appear. Contact ACME Pest Management today for a thorough, professional termite inspection.

Visit our website to schedule your inspection and learn how we can protect your home year-round from all types of pests.

Disclaimer: This article provides general information about common termite hiding spots and the importance of professional pest management. It does not constitute specific inspection, treatment, or structural advice. Every home is unique, and actual termite activity can vary. It is essential to consult with qualified, licensed pest control professionals for a thorough inspection, accurate diagnosis, and appropriate treatment plan for your specific situation. Do not rely solely on the information presented here for pest management decisions.

[restoreworks]

Structural Stability Starts with Proper Lintel and Masonry Maintenance

Understanding the Function and Importance of Lintels

In any masonry structure, lintels play a critical role in distributing weight above doors, windows, and other openings. These horizontal support elements, often made of steel or reinforced concrete, prevent the masonry above from sagging or collapsing. Over time, exposure to moisture and freeze-thaw cycles can cause corrosion and cracking. Once compromised, a lintel repair becomes essential to restoring the structural integrity of the wall and ensuring long-term building performance.

When Replacement Is the Only Option

While minor cracks or surface rust can sometimes be resolved with targeted restoration, advanced deterioration often calls for full lintel replacement. In these cases, simply patching over the damage won’t be enough to stabilize the structure. The replacement process involves removing surrounding bricks, installing a new lintel, and reinstalling the masonry above with updated flashing and waterproofing techniques to prevent recurring issues.

Local Factors That Accelerate Lintel Damage

Chicago’s extreme weather patterns significantly increase the risk of moisture intrusion and material degradation. Sub-zero winters, driving rain, and high humidity levels all contribute to the early failure of steel components in exterior walls. That’s why lintel replacement Chicago services are in high demand. Professionals in this region understand the unique demands of the climate and design solutions that hold up under pressure.

Identifying Telltale Signs of Trouble

Building owners and managers should be vigilant for visible signs of lintel damage, such as diagonal cracks extending from the corners of windows, bowing brickwork, or rust stains bleeding through mortar joints. These issues don’t just affect curb appeal; they signal deeper structural concerns that can lead to major safety hazards. In these cases, seeking immediate lintel repair Chicago is a proactive step that can prevent more extensive and expensive restoration work down the road.

Commercial Structures Require Specialized Expertise

Large-scale buildings, such as schools, warehouses, and apartment complexes, pose unique challenges during structural repair. A commercial masonry lintel repair contractor Chicago brings the necessary experience and equipment to manage these high-volume, high-risk jobs. From staging and scaffolding to permits and tenant coordination, commercial lintel repairs demand a coordinated approach that blends structural knowledge with efficient execution.

How Lintel Failures Affect Overall Building Health

Ignoring a failing lintel doesn’t just compromise one part of a wall; it can lead to widespread masonry issues across the entire façade. Water infiltration, mold, and interior damage often follow once gaps or movement around the lintel are left unchecked. With Chicago lintel replacement, experienced technicians perform full assessments and install durable components that strengthen the building envelope from the inside out.

Selecting the Right Team for the Job

Choosing a qualified lintel replacement company is just as important as deciding when to repair or replace. Property owners should look for a contractor that specializes in structural masonry, offers detailed project plans, and has a track record of successful restorations. Quality workmanship during replacement ensures that your lintel system lasts for decades, not just a few years.

The Overlooked Impact of Shelf Angles

Shelf angles serve a similar support function in taller masonry buildings, helping to transfer load from brick veneer to the structural frame. When these metal components corrode or fail, the brickwork above can sag or separate. That’s why shelf angle repairs are often performed alongside lintel work. Repairing both systems together helps restore even load distribution and reduces the risk of recurring problems across the structure.

Preserving Masonry with Targeted Lintel Restoration

Over time, even well-constructed masonry can degrade without proper intervention. Cracks, shifting bricks, and bowing façades often trace back to compromised lintels. Through expert masonry lintel repair, contractors can preserve both the form and function of your building. Reinforcing this critical component not only strengthens the wall but also protects the aesthetic and value of the property for years to come.

[1300findleak]

Leak Detection Sydney - Poor Roof Plumbing in 4 Suburbs - Why poor building standards are causing so many leaks!

Water leaks are a homeowner's nightmare, capable of causing extensive damage, fostering mould growth, and leading to costly structural repairs. In Sydney, with its diverse range of properties from classic brick veneers to modern high-rise apartments, the prevalence of water ingress is a growing concern. While age and wear can certainly play a role, our recent investigations at 1300 FINDLEAK consistently reveal a more troubling truth: poor building standards, particularly in roof plumbing and flashing, are a primary culprit behind many persistent and damaging leaks. This isn't just about old homes; even relatively new constructions are falling victim to inadequate building practices.

Sydney's weather, characterized by periods of heavy, wind-driven rain, relentlessly tests the integrity of building envelopes. When construction standards fall short, these weather events expose critical vulnerabilities, leading to water damage, mould, rising damp, and even severe structural issues like slab heave. At 1300 FINDLEAK, we specialise in pinpointing these elusive leaks using advanced, non-invasive tools like thermal imaging and moisture surveys. Our recent case studies across various Sydney suburbs highlight how fundamental flaws in building practices are creating widespread problems, often leaving homeowners and strata managers frustrated and out of pocket.

Case Study 1: Little Bay – The Perils of Non-Compliant Flashing

At a two-level brick veneer house in Little Bay, NSW, we investigated water ingress into the ground floor garage ceiling cavity. While the leak wasn't active on our arrival, it had been a recurring issue during heavy wind-driven rain. The property featured a rainscreen system on its first floor, designed to manage water effectively. However, our inspection uncovered glaring non-compliances.

The under wall apron upstand, a crucial component for directing water away, was a mere 30mm – significantly undersized – and, critically, it was not correctly lapped by the building wrap. This fundamental error means water can easily bypass the protective layers. To make matters worse, a previous attempt to stop the leak involved a builder spray-foaming a section of this apron upstand at the footing. This is a non-compliant and ineffective repair method that traps water rather than diverting it. The overall roof plumbing installation was observed to be poor, with essential returns and folds missing, and non-compliant pressure flashing evident. These defects create multiple pathways for water to penetrate the garage ceiling. Such shoddy workmanship highlights how cutting corners on critical waterproofing elements can lead to chronic and expensive problems, necessitating a licensed roof plumber for comprehensive rectification.

Case Study 2: Panania – Multiple Points of Failure

Our investigation at Panania, NSW, a two-level brick veneer house, revealed water ingress into the garage, office, and first-floor landing ceiling cavities. Although the leak wasn't active on our visit, it was a known issue during heavy rain. This property showcased how a combination of seemingly minor defects can lead to widespread water damage.

Above the garage, an enclosed tiled balcony presented a major problem: its overflow was not properly secured or sealed, allowing water to escape. On the flat metal roof section covering the rest of the garage, we found unsecured flashing and fractured control joints. These compromised areas are prime entry points for water, especially under load. Moving to the first-floor landing, the Decktite (a type of pipe flashing) was found to be unsecured and improperly sealed. In the office area, a fractured control joint at the corner of the exterior cladding further contributed to the ingress. Each of these individual defects, if left unaddressed, compromises the building's waterproof envelope. Collectively, they create a complex web of vulnerabilities, allowing water to penetrate multiple internal areas. This case underscores the importance of a holistic approach to leak detection, as fixing one issue might not solve the problem if other entry points remain.

Case Study 3: Bellavista – Box Gutter Blunders

At Bellavista, NSW, a two-level brick veneer house, we investigated water ingress into the laundry ceiling cavity. The leak was not active when we arrived, but had been a persistent problem during heavy rain events. Our findings pointed directly to severe deficiencies in the roof's box gutter system.

The box gutter on the top roof, situated directly above the affected laundry, was consistently holding water – a clear sign of inadequate fall and drainage. Crucially, there was no sump installed, which is a vital component for efficient water collection and discharge in a box gutter system. This absence means water ponds, increasing the likelihood of penetration. Furthermore, the upstand of the box gutter lap was only partially sealed, and the through-wall penetration to the rain head exhibited an unsealed fold on its inner side. These unsealed points act as direct conduits for water, allowing it to bypass the intended drainage path and enter the ceiling cavity. The overall roof plumbing installation was deemed poor, with these specific defects representing significant compliance concerns. Such fundamental design and installation flaws in critical drainage components are a common cause of chronic leaks, demanding professional rectification to prevent ongoing water damage.

Case Study 4: Meadowbank – Cascading Leaks from Terrace to Bedroom

Our inspection at the penthouse of Meadowbank, NSW, a high-rise apartment building, focused on water ingress into the living ceiling cavity below a staircase leading to an outdoor terrace. While the leak wasn't active on our visit, it was a known issue during heavy wind-driven rain. This case highlighted how a single point of failure can lead to cascading damage in unexpected areas.

The outdoor terrace featured a door and two fixed window panes. A controlled load test revealed that the north-facing fixed window sill had failed, allowing water to penetrate. More alarmingly, the fire door adjacent to the landing was struggling under load, permitting water to enter internally. Our investigation confirmed that the ingress from this fire door was the direct cause of a separate leak observed in the bedroom window directly below. This demonstrates how water, once inside the building envelope, can travel along internal structures and manifest in seemingly unrelated locations. The failure of a fire door to prevent water ingress is not only a waterproofing defect but also a serious safety concern. These defects are clear examples of inadequate construction that compromise both the building's integrity and its occupants' safety.

The Root Cause: Why Are Standards Falling Short?

These case studies from Little Bay, Panania, Bellavista, and Meadowbank paint a clear picture: many water leaks in Sydney are not simply due to aging infrastructure, but rather stem from fundamental flaws in building standards and practices. Common issues include:

Inadequate Flashing and Lapping: Flashing is the unsung hero of waterproofing, yet it's often poorly installed, incorrectly lapped, or even omitted entirely. This allows water to bypass the primary building materials and enter cavities.

Compromised Control Joints: These vital joints are designed to accommodate building movement, but when they are fractured, perished, or improperly sealed (e.g., with rigid render instead of flexible sealant), they become direct pathways for water.

Poor Drainage Design and Installation: Issues like ponding gutters, missing sumps, blocked weep holes, and incorrect falls mean water isn't efficiently removed from critical areas, leading to overflow and ingress.

Substandard Repairs: "DIY" or unqualified repairs, such as spray-foaming over leaks or using incorrect materials, often exacerbate the problem by trapping water or creating new vulnerabilities, rather than solving the root cause.

Lack of Compliance Adherence: Many of these defects directly contravene the National Construction Code (NCC) and Australian Standards, indicating a systemic issue with quality control and oversight during construction.

These deficiencies often arise from a combination of factors: rushed construction schedules, a lack of skilled tradespeople, cost-cutting measures that compromise material quality or installation time, and insufficient supervision to ensure adherence to best practices. The long-term cost of these shortcuts far outweighs any initial savings, leading to extensive damage, health hazards from mould, and significant remediation expenses for property owners.

Don't Let Poor Standards Soak Your Investment

Water leaks, particularly those caused by underlying building defects, are complex and require expert diagnosis. Relying on superficial fixes or unqualified trades can lead to recurring problems and escalating damage. At 1300 FINDLEAK, we pride ourselves on our non-invasive, evidence-based approach to leak detection. Using advanced thermal imaging, moisture surveys, and targeted water testing, we pinpoint the exact source of water ingress, even when it's hidden behind walls or under floors.

If you're experiencing persistent leaks, water damage, mould, rising damp, or suspect issues like slab heave in your Sydney property, don't wait for the problem to worsen. Early and accurate detection is key to preventing costly repairs and safeguarding your investment. Trust Australia's leading leak detection specialists to provide you with a comprehensive report, identifying defects, compliance issues, and clear repair recommendations. Contact 1300 FINDLEAK today – we find leaks plumbers can't!

[nycskylineconstruction]

General Contractor in Bronx, NY – NYC Skyline Construction

When it comes to home renovation, commercial construction, or any kind of building project, having the right general contractor makes all the difference. In the Bronx, NY, NYC Skyline Construction stands out as a trusted, full-service general contractor with a strong reputation for quality, reliability, and customer satisfaction. From interior renovations to structural upgrades, we bring decades of experience, licensed professionals, and a client-first approach to every job.

Why Choose a General Contractor?

Whether you’re planning to remodel a bathroom, renovate an entire apartment, or build a commercial property, a general contractor coordinates and manages every aspect of the project. This includes hiring subcontractors, obtaining permits, sourcing materials, staying on schedule, and ensuring everything is up to code. In short, a general contractor is your go-to expert who brings your vision to life while saving you time, stress, and money.

Why NYC Skyline Construction?

There are plenty of contractors out there, but here’s why NYC Skyline Construction is a preferred General Contractor in Bronx:

Licensed & Insured: We are fully licensed and insured to perform residential and commercial construction throughout New York City.

Experienced Team: Our team includes skilled carpenters, electricians, plumbers, masons, and project managers with years of hands-on experience.

Customer-Centric: We prioritize clear communication, transparency, and complete customer satisfaction.

Local Knowledge: Being based in NYC, we understand local building codes, permit processes, and the unique architectural character of Bronx neighborhoods.

Services We Offer in the Bronx

At NYC Skyline Construction, we offer a wide range of general contracting services tailored to meet the needs of homeowners, landlords, developers, and business owners. Here’s a closer look at what we do:

1. Home Renovations

From kitchen upgrades to full-gut apartment renovations, we handle every phase of your home improvement project. Our team transforms outdated interiors into modern, functional, and beautiful spaces.

Kitchen & Bathroom Remodeling

Flooring Installation

Painting & Drywall

Custom Carpentry

Lighting & Electrical Upgrades

2. Commercial Construction

Need to build or renovate an office, restaurant, or retail space in the Bronx? We manage commercial build-outs with an emphasis on efficiency, compliance, and quality.

Interior Build-Outs

Storefront Renovations

ADA Compliance Updates

Office Reconfigurations

Structural Modifications

3. Additions & Extensions

Growing family? Expanding business? We design and build additions that blend seamlessly with your existing structure while adding square footage and value.

Room Additions

Second-Story Expansions

Rear or Side Extensions

Garage Conversions

Basement Finishing

4. Roofing & Waterproofing

New York weather can be rough on roofs and foundations. Our team offers dependable roofing and waterproofing solutions to protect your investment.

Flat & Sloped Roof Installation

Roof Repairs & Maintenance

Basement Waterproofing

Foundation Crack Repair

Exterior Sealing

5. Masonry & Concrete Work

We also specialize in structural and decorative masonry and concrete services that enhance both function and curb appeal.

Sidewalk & Driveway Installation

Brick Repointing

Stucco & Stone Veneers

Retaining Walls

Concrete Patios & Steps

What Sets NYC Skyline Construction Apart?

Transparent Estimates

Before we begin any project, we provide a clear, itemized estimate. There are no hidden fees or surprise charges—just honest pricing based on your scope and budget.

Project Management

We take full ownership of each project, from initial planning through final inspection. Our project managers oversee every detail, ensuring timely progress, quality craftsmanship, and excellent communication throughout.

Commitment to Quality

We never cut corners. From premium materials to skilled workmanship, everything we do is built to last. We’re not satisfied until you are.

Local References & Testimonials

Don’t just take our word for it. We have a long list of satisfied clients across the Bronx and the greater NYC area. Our reputation speaks for itself—check out our online reviews, or ask us for local references.

Bronx Neighborhoods We Serve

As a general contractor based in NYC, we proudly serve clients across the Bronx, including:

Riverdale

Pelham Bay

Kingsbridge

Morris Park

Fordham

Throggs Neck

Soundview

Wakefield

Melrose

Mott Haven

Whether you live in a co-op, own a brownstone, or operate a small business in the Bronx, we bring top-tier construction solutions right to your door.

Our Process – What to Expect

When you work with NYC Skyline Construction, you’re getting more than just a contractor—you’re getting a committed partner. Here’s what our typical project process looks like:

Initial Consultation We’ll meet with you to understand your goals, space, timeline, and budget.

Proposal & Estimate You’ll receive a detailed proposal outlining all labor, materials, and costs involved.

Design & Planning We help with architectural plans, permits, and any required approvals.

Construction Phase Our team executes the project with careful coordination, keeping the site clean and minimizing disruptions.

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Outdoor Kitchen Cabinet Designs: Style Meets Functionality In The Aussie Backyard

Introduction

Creating the perfect outdoor kitchen involves more than just picking a BBQ grill and a fridge. Cabinetry plays a vital role in both the appearance and performance of your outdoor space. Well-designed cabinets enhance usability, offer crucial storage, and protect your equipment from Australia’s diverse weather conditions. With thoughtful outdoor kitchen cabinet designs, you can bring both beauty and functionality into your backyard.

Let’s take a closer look at how to choose the right cabinet styles, materials, and layouts to suit Sydney’s climate and your outdoor lifestyle.

1. Why Are Outdoor Kitchen Cabinets So Important?

Essential for Storage You’ll need space for utensils, serving ware, BBQ tools, condiments, and cleaning supplies. Well-planned cabinets ensure everything is within arm’s reach.

Defines the Style of the Kitchen Cabinet design heavily influences the overall look—modern, rustic, industrial, coastal, or Hamptons. With the right finish and configuration, they can tie your whole space together.

Weather Resistance Outdoor environments expose cabinets to moisture, UV rays, salt, and dirt. Purpose-built outdoor cabinetry withstands the elements much better than indoor materials.

Increases Property Appeal A sleek, integrated cabinet setup adds visual appeal and enhances property value. Buyers are drawn to homes with high-functioning, stylish outdoor spaces.

Improves Workflow and Organisation By grouping your sink, fridge, prep area, and BBQ with surrounding cabinetry, you can move efficiently through your cooking and cleaning processes.

2. What Materials Work Best Outdoors?

Stainless Steel A top choice for outdoor cabinets. Stainless steel is corrosion-resistant, easy to clean, and gives a professional kitchen look. Look for marine-grade (316) for coastal areas.

Aluminium Powder-coated aluminium cabinets are lightweight, rustproof, and available in various colours and textures. They’re ideal for homeowners seeking low maintenance with aesthetic flexibility.

High-Density Polyethylene (HDPE) A durable plastic material that mimics timber or stone textures while resisting UV, stains, and water. Great for modern or coastal-themed spaces.

Weather-Resistant Timber Alternatives While real timber needs high maintenance, composite woods and sealed hardwoods can offer warmth and charm if properly treated.

Stone Veneer and Brick Bases For a permanent, built-in feel, consider stone or brick surrounds paired with stainless steel drawers and doors.

3. What Are the Best Design Layouts?

Straight Line Layout Ideal for narrow spaces or apartment balconies. All components line up against one wall, keeping everything compact and accessible.

L-Shaped Design Maximises corner space and creates a natural work triangle between prep, cook, and clean zones.

U-Shaped Configuration Perfect for larger areas, this layout provides ample bench space and allows for multiple people to cook and interact comfortably.

Island Bench with Cabinetry A popular choice for entertaining—guests can sit on one side while you prep and serve on the other. Adds a social dimension to the cooking space.

Modular Cabinetry Customisable and movable options that allow flexibility. Great for people who want to expand or reconfigure later.

4. Tips for Choosing the Right Cabinet Designs

Consider Function First Think about what you’ll store—cutlery, glassware, cleaning products, or pots? Make sure your cabinet layout supports your typical use.

Match With Appliances Ensure cabinetry fits around your BBQ, fridge, sink, and other appliances. Built-in designs offer a more streamlined appearance.

Opt for Soft-Close Hinges and Drawers These make outdoor cooking smoother and help protect doors from wind and impact.

Think Long-Term Choose weatherproof materials and secure fixing systems. It’s better to invest in durable cabinetry now than to repair or replace later.

Aesthetic Consistency Coordinate colours, textures, and finishes with your home\u2019s exterior design. This creates a cohesive, stylish outdoor area.

Conclusion

When thoughtfully planned, outdoor kitchen cabinet designs can dramatically improve the functionality and aesthetics of your outdoor cooking space. With durable materials, smart layouts, and stylish finishes, you’ll create a kitchen that not only withstands Sydney’s climate but also enhances your entertaining experience for years to come. Whether you're cooking for the family or hosting a backyard party, great cabinet design makes everything easier—and more enjoyable.