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I haven't been posting or promoing stuff on Tumblr as much these days, but I'm trying to be a bit more active and the Holloweane Reverse AU kinda started on here so :)

In one universe, Darlene Holloway made a deal for power and the world forgot her. In another, it was Duke Keane who made the deal, and only *his* world that forgot him. Yet, if time has shattered once, what's to stop it happening again? What's to stop it from getting put back together *wrong*? (Aka tragedy + tragedy might not balance out entirely but might make things better all the same)

There's an unexpected sixth part now :)

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At long, long last --- so sorry 😂😭 --- I have begun! Here's chapter 1 :)

I'm currently trying to finish some of my long-form WIPs, but I just received two TGCF prompts that I'll work on once I do. Problem being, I'm indecisive 😂 So, to any folks out there who might be interested in TGCF fic...

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AU - Duke Keane and John MacNamara (Hatchetfield)

Here is a Summary for a story I will probably never write.

Inspired by “The Colour Green” by starpirate @aether-wasteland-s and “Bye-ya, Darlin” by SerpentCountess. @scripted-downfall Both are amazing and you really should read them.)

Duke/Miss Holloway and John MacNamara/Wilbur Cross dual role swap au.

If there was one constant among the multiple universe’s it was that empowered and cursed by the powers of the black Holloway and Wiley fought until one of them died. It was true in all the universes except for this one. This universe was the outlier. In this universe Wilbur Cross did not step through the portal to be tortured and changed into Wiley, leaving his partner John MacNamara to grieve and attempt to protect their world. In this universe Darlene Holloway did not make a deal with the Lords in Black to become a powerful, immortal champion who would never be remembered by her true love Douglas “Duke” Keane. In this world John was the one who walked into the black and was twisted and turned, his optimism crushed and his soul fragmented. In this world it was Duke who turned to the lords in desperation and was rewarded with the ability to help and robbed of the chance to make a permanent impression.

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Thank you for the tag!

Tagging @typicalopposite, @octopusangel, @witchy-writer-lady, @exhaustedpirate, @occasionally-normal-things-here, and anyone else who wants to do it :)

Challenging you all!

Put your music library on shuffle, then list the first five songs that come up in a poll to let people vote for which one they like the most!

Then tag Tumblr friends to keep the game going!

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Post-Brainwash Wilbur!

So in the past month I had this au in mind, is kinda of self indulgent since I want them to be happy but this is Hatchetfield, so of course there's going to be angst lol

So info dump time:

-In this universe, an inexplicable force was able to pull out Wiley from the Black & White and free him from Wiggly's control. He would be found on P.E.I.P HQ, where they would do some tests regarding of his slight mutations and possible trauma.

He regain his former identity as Wilbur Cross and would cooperate with P.E.I.P with the new information he has gained from the B&W, to find a way to stop the Lords for once.

Bc of his poor condition he is not allowed to go back to work yet, so he's living with John for the moment. Things could just be end like this, but there's a certain Fwendy-Wend who is not very happy that his warlock "Betrayed" him.

even tho Wilbur is amused by his new found freedom, he doesn't feel satisfied. He is not exactly the Wilbur Cross that John knew, no matter how much tries to be that man again, he doesn't feel like him anymore. How long would it take, until Wiggly finds him? Is this opportunity even real?

The au was highly inspired by SerpentCountess pastaverse, go read it, they're very good!

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Is there any chance the tmagp Archivist is Sasha? She was supposed to be Archivist instead of Jon in the first place, after all. Plus, in ep 37, the Archivist says "I see you" twice, which were Sasha's last words (or, rather, the words that Not!Sasha repeated) in tMA and all.

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Thank you for the tag :) Sorry for the delay!

Last Song: 清心音－亂魄抄 (qīngxīn yīn - luàn pò chāo) from the Untamed soundtrack

Favourite colour: black if it counts, red if it doesn't

Last movie: The Mummy, which was my favourite picture as a kid and my best friend had never seen it

Last TV Show: Twin Peaks! I'm rewatching it myself, and also decided to show it to the same best friend as above

Sweet/savoury/spicy? -> yes! all of the above :)

Relationship status: Single (continued canonically-hopeless pining)

Last thing I googled: insults from the Wild West (<- fic research)

Current obsession: I don't have one too deeply entrenched at the moment because work is bad right now, but highest is, I suppose, MXTX's various works

Looking forward to: this week ending 😅 This is gonna be an awful week, but things lighten up after (hopefully). Also, a few fic ideas I have.

No pressure tags (and less than 10 b/c I don't know that many people 😅): @typicalopposite, @octopusangel, @witchy-writer-lady, @exhaustedpirate, @occasionally-normal-things-here, and anyone else who wants to do it :)

10 people I want to get to know better

Omg thank you much for tagging me! @dearwormw00d :3

Last song: You're not alone, Allison Russel

Favorite colour: dark green

Last movie: Lord of the rings: The fellowship of the ring

Last tv show: The Gilded Age

Sweet/savoury/spicy: Sweet>Savory>Spicy

Relationship status: Single

Last thing i googled: hand holding pencil brush reference

Current obsession: One Piece, Nosferatu, Ethel Cain, my fem erik, Epic, Critical Role, studying the Enneagram again, Castlevania Nocture, The Apothecary Diaries, Witch Hat Atelier

Looking forward to: season 2 of the one piece live action, the oscars ( I want to see my beloved Fernanda Torres win), my necklaces that I've ordered, hadestown live recording, Superman, my next RPG session, Percy Jackson season 2! @insanely-creative-things @lepetitghostcat @fishing-rob @erik-christine @muirin007 @klausscrimshaw (ik it's not 10 but idk who to tag anymore, sorry ;-;)

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I'm currently trying to finish some of my long-form WIPs, but I just received two TGCF prompts that I'll work on once I do. Problem being, I'm indecisive 😂 So, to any folks out there who might be interested in TGCF fic...

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@noybusiness I did! Though I haven't found any of the books that, I understand, exit, so I haven't gone all the way through.

Okay, let’s see what’s happening over on The Winchesters:

• We’ve got someone whose greatest regret was not saying “I love you” to her husband before he disappeared.

• We’ve got someone who fell in love with a man who wasn’t human (“from totally different worlds”). He died; immediately after, she had his half-human/half-something-else son. She was scared of her son and inadvertently pushed him away. She still believes following your heart is never a mistake.

• We’ve got two parents who split because things weren’t the same after their adopted child died.

• We’ve got someone who’s come back from a faraway war, traumatized over losing his good buddy and imagining he sees him everywhere.

• He’s also infatuated with someone but the pair of them are convinced the other doesn’t feel the same way. One wants to be asked to stay; the other always pushes away. (Their long-suffering friends & family are like ugh would y’all just get together already this is painful to watch.)

• He also has a thing for men in uniform & loves seeing his friend dress up in funny little outfits.

• Oh he also has an anger problem and being manipulated by a god who calls himself Destiny did not help.

• We’ve got a headstrong (read: bossy, annoying as hell but you can’t help but love ’er) hunter with a soft spot for kids, following in her (missing) father’s footsteps, whose deepest trauma (in a subconscious that is a world of darkness with a trauma behind every door) was being told at five years old that she was destined for a life of violence. There’s a knife under her pillow—she likes to keep it close. She never was a child.

• But wait! Then there’s a freewheeling bisexual who lives on the road & speaks entirely in pop culture references.

Men will literally write thirteen(-plus?)-part sagas about giant intergalactic mind-controlling bugs in which every single character is themselves instead of going to therapy

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Convinced a friend to listen to The Magnus Archives and happened to be present when she got to MAG4 Page Turner. She just finished saying that if Ex Altiora keeps giving you vertigo, sir, then maybe you should PUT IT DOWN as it's clearly cursed or something when the words broke off into a yawn. "Sorry," she said. "Listening to these episodes always makes me so very sleepy. Anyway, on to the next-"

The irony apparently went unnoticed.

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how are you

Hi! I'm doing pretty well... I made the mistake of starting to listen to The Magnus Archives right now, just as my work is about to pick up, because oh, you know, I don't tend to like podcasts so I can definitely listen to one episode just to see what it's like and then stop and it'll all be fine and um. I'm far, far past one episode. r.i.p. me. but I'm having fun, so, uh, as the song goes: what a lovely way to burn, you know?

What about you (if you see this); all okay?

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fluffy injured paul. go wild

I was gonna ask you how this was possible, anon, but honestly, I'm a bit better at this game than I think I am, and both of those things can (and could, probably???) coexist

so... I'm gonna do exactly what I can for this, and see where it goes 👀

His own voice thundered in his ears with the racing of his blood. Not just once— this wasn't one of those situations where he could hear his voice of reason telling him the best course of action— but, if he was counting correctly, twenty times or more, all in different places, and all saying different things. What he had deciphered was that not a single one of them held any presence in his head, but remarkably, that was no longer surprising. Through something he now deeply regretted but couldn't fully remember, he'd found that his office building was also home to a variable number of highly technical science experiments, all taking place in the basement that it seemed none of his colleagues knew existed. 

Research. The name of the company suddenly made a lot more sense to him. Coven spoke for itself— though he had never met the man behind the name, he had heard more than enough, and frankly, he felt he was right in hoping that he never got to meet him. Then there was the rest. His lot dealt with the communications aspect of it all, those scientists did the research... 

Power, he wasn't too sure about. If he was honest, he wasn't sure if he wanted to know about what "power" meant in the grander concept of this company, if even the research was being held back from them for that long. As far as he was aware, power was subjective, convenient to whatever someone needed it for. Power as in electricity (when things needed power bringing to them), or power as in status, wealth, control (when it very much needed to be taken away)... 

Or, in this very particular instance, power as in the energy needed to escape the research. A drive. A burning desire to satiate the screaming instinct telling him of the desperate need to escape. Right now, Paul Matthews was powered by pure adrenaline; a striking cocktail of paranoia bordering questionable sanity, sheer instinct, and a defiant want to not find out why there were twenty five murderous versions of himself after his blood. 

He ran. 

Without looking back, without a pause to think about anything, he ran. He didn't care where he ended up, but the dark paranoia that had ruled his mind from a stagnant throne for so many years had instructed that he had to get away, lest he wanted to be killed on the spot, and he had decided that was something he figured he ought to listen to. 

Thankfully, he knew what he was dealing with. It was simple. He was dealing with himself. Twenty five identical clones of himself. And the only thing keeping him from spiralling into a panic was acknowledging the fact that, because they were clones of him, surely that meant that they acted like him too. And, one thing he was definitely sure about was that he didn't know how to aim and fire a gun, at least, not with any degree of accuracy. This was a perfect outcome, at least he wasn't going to get himself shot as he made his escape. 

There was no direction to this, no cause for believing there was anywhere he could go, even if he wanted to. Who in their right minds would believe that he'd been chased out of the office by a whole bunch of people who didn't just look like him, but were him in every single way? In the moment, he couldn't think of anyone he could go to who would believe this entire turn of events, or really, anyone that would believe any part of it at all. If he was honest, he wouldn't have believed it himself if it wasn't happening to him, so he didn't know how he could expect anyone else to. 

The pounding of his footsteps carried him through the streets of the downtown area, and he dared to spare a glance behind him to make sure he wasn't being pursued. He gave himself just a moment to slow down and figure this out, when he realised that there was nobody directly behind him. If this was going to work— if he was going to make an actual getaway and not have to worry about what was going to happen after— then, crazy as it sounded, he was going to have to stop thinking like himself.  

What did that entail? 

First port of call was the getaway itself. The predictable thing for him to do was to head straight through downtown first, and then find a shortcut after that. That would be a very typical move in this kind of situation, and on one hand, he was partially willing to stick to that route, simply because he knew it. But, on the other, maybe that wasn't the best option, given that the clones would clearly expect him to go that way. 

How far ahead were they capable of thinking? Was it plausible to assume that they wouldn't think to comprehend it if he were to go on for unpredictability? Right now, that was one of the few hopes he had left, so he had to hold out on the fact that he was the only one with that thought process.  

He couldn't afford to ponder the alternative. 

Halfway down main street, he turned off into an alleyway he wouldn't have known was there if he hadn't been paying attention. After realising that it did, in fact, have an end to it, (after battling the particularly damning anxiety of having to turn around, and also wrestling with the fact that he would die if he turned around), he turned out of it and began to see the looming shadows of the woods on the horizon line. 

Perfect. 

He'd taken an unconventional path to get there, so he was hoping with some sincerity that such a long string of poorly calculated but well executed decisions had paid off. The woods was a safe bet, he could quite easily get lost in there, and then what were his clones going to do? Get equally as lost trying to find him? That would be an unfairly lucky advantage, but at this point, he was more than willing to accept that. 

Taken over by the very idea of his own gripping desperation, he started running towards the treeline. And, he didn't stop either, not until the trees were covering him at all angles and he finally felt marginally more safe. Then, the injuries he'd already accrued from the effort of trying to get away from the clones got the better from him, and with the effort of running for as long as he had been, he was lucky he didn't pass out right there. Instead, his knees gave out from beneath him, and he collapsed into the grass, digging his hands into the dirt. 

He was still alive. 

God damn it, just when he'd been convinced that he wouldn't be able to make it, that he was going to come to some unholy fate brought about by his own luck or... Whatever else he was all but likely to succumb to, he'd actually made it out alive. 

In the middle of the woods. 

Forcing himself to catch his breath before he spiralled. 

Still listening to that darkening paranoia. 

Get a grip, Paul. You got out, they're not gonna find you here.

He took a breath, trying to get a grip in what was going on around him. The grass was cool underneath his hands, and he could feel the knees of his trousers starting to soak through from kneeling in the shaded dirt. He could feel a breeze, just strong enough to tug at his hair and shift the ends of his shirt sleeves. There was something almost comforting about it, waylaid by the terror that still racked his chest and forced his every breath out in sharp droves.

While he was still alone, he tried to figure out what was wrong with him, mainly to see if there was anything that needed immediate attention. He pushed himself back, letting the roots of an old tree catch him on his descent. A sigh left him, distant and very telling of the fact that he knew fine well that this wasn't over, but also knew that he was far too tired to even consider trying to escape again.

"Shit, man, are you— Paul?"

His attention was drawn in an instant by the sound of someone approaching, then stopping somewhat abruptly nearby, and then running to close the gap. He couldn't find the strength to look up fast enough, but managed to register a well broken in set of boots skid to a halt in front of him, and then the wearer crouched to meet his eye level. A familiar face registered in his line of sight. Not familiar enough that he immediately knew her name, but the moment he realised he didn't normally see her in worn down plaid and ripped jeans, her name came to him quickly.

"Emma?"

Emma, from the coffee shop. Emma, who always managed to muster the energy to greet him better than she greeted most other people, and then continue to bitch about whatever she could the moment she took her break.

"Paul, Jesus Christ, are you okay?"

He could feel what he thought was a bruise forming against his jaw. One of the clones had a knife, he swore he was dangerously close to something fatal happening... There was a blinding pain throbbing in his shoulder, and he was sure at this point that he probably wouldn't be able to get the fabric of his shirt off it now that it was likely to have been dried in for a while. Despite what he was telling himself to do, and despite the answer he wanted to give to Emma, he nodded, and shifted to try and make himself more comfortable.

"What're you doing in the woods?" She asked, looking him over. The moment she noticed the blood pooling through his blazer, she fell silent, and instinctively leaned forwards to pull it aside and really inspect what was going on down there. "And... What happened to you?"

"I could ask you the same question..." He glanced around, looking for any sort of tell that would give away just why Emma was in the woods. There was nothing unusual around them, other than the fact that she'd discarded her backpack to see to him, and it looked like the fabric had been caked in dried dirt and puddle water— definitely not the best of conditions, that was for sure.

"Sure you could," Emma shrugged, casually. "But that wouldn't explain why you're out here looking like you just ran a marathon, bleeding against a tree... What, were you fucking— attacked or something?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

The bluntness of his answer threw her almost entirely off guard. She blinked at him, though it wasn't clear whether that was because she was fumbling for an answer or because she was in genuine disbelief. The silence cast a heartbeat of tension between them, until she finally figured out which direction this was originally supposed to go in, and sighed, affirming her decision to herself with a nod. "Hold on a sec, I think I've got something to deal with that shoulder... But uh..."

"Right." What she needed him to do went unspoken, but Paul got the gist of it. She nodded, and turned away to fumble inside her backpack for supplies. While he was shrugging off his shirt, carefully peeling it away from the angry gash that sat at his shoulder, she rifled through the contents of her bag— none of which he could make out from where he was sitting, though he did think he could make out the corner of a plastic food bag poking out of the top— and looked for something that might be useful. Eventually, she made a satisfied sound, and pulled out a well used first aid kit, also spotted with layers of dirt.

"What the hell were you attacked by anyway?"

Paul faltered. Technically speaking, this wasn't going to be an easy question to answer. Emma wasn't going to believe him if he told any instance of the truth, so he elected to stay as far from that as he physically could. After eliminating that as an option, then, it was just a matter of what he _could_ say. "I don't..." After a fair amount of hesitation, and wondering whether he'd actually been silent for too long, he decided to just say _something_ in an effort to not make this any stranger than it already was. "I don't know if I can answer that question..."

"What, didn't you see em? Looks like they were right in front of you..."

Oh. Well, that was one thing he hadn't thought about in trying to come up with as many excuses as possible. "Yeah. It was too dark. Couldn't get a good enough view of them."

Emma hummed sympathetically and pulled a bandage out of the kit. "That's too bad. Woulda come in handy to know the faces of the bastards who—what, pulled a knife on you?"

"I guess I don't really wanna know what they looked like."

"You're lucky I don't," Emma teased, shaking her head. "They'd sure know about it if I did."

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Rose has been on the Island for two weeks without Samuel by her side. It's more separation than she's ever expected to experience.

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Prompt #14 for @pulpmusicalsfortnight2024: Family

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I would love to see something involving John/Howard/Wiley or Holloway/Duke/Wiley where Wiley uses his opponents affection for the (in his view) ‘weak’ character against them (maybe it backfires) doesn’t have to be shippy

Ooh this is interesting, I'm very behind it, let me get right on it!

Holloway was a little too intimately familiar with the idea of regret. As of yet, she hadn't found enough of a reason to regret the deal she'd made all those years ago; not enough to be able to feasibly take it back, at any rate. It came with its fair share of darkness, as was near enough the given for situations like these, and she had enough to think about in regards to the things she did regret, but she couldn't really afford to see herself trying to take it all back. 

 

No, she was smarter than that. That didn't mean to say she didn't regret anything. There was always the situationship— if that's what such an unholy partnership could even be considered as, especially given the other involved party—she'd managed to find, scrape out of the ashes, and then reform. It was a mess of a thing, forged from the strange, mangled trust that came with only one other person who was seemingly allowed to break the rules, and a kinship so out of left field that she couldn't have imagined it before it happened. But, in the spirit of giving credit where credit was due, she couldn't exactly regret that one if she tried, because at the end of the day, the other half of the situationship had practically saved her life a few years ago just by being in the vicinity. The only thing she regretted out of that one was who she had been unfortunately tied to in the process, and to whom she now technically owed her life. 

 

But, the deal she'd made— the powers she'd accrued— came with their prices, and one of them was just leaving her diner as the sun set over Hatchetfeld. 

 

Duke. 

 

God, did she love him. He loved her too, and out of everything, it was that which he always managed to remember. But, she couldn't do anything about it, not from her position, and not with what he could lose the moment he chose to be with her. However much she wanted to, she couldn't afford to reciprocate his mass of feelings, because that broke the rules. And she couldn't break the rules. That wasn't in the deal. Much to her knowledge, that would end with the deal terminating, and then who knew what could happen after that? 

 

The bell on the door tinkled a quiet goodbye to Duke as he left, a surprising pep in his step. At least he was in a good mood. That always counted for many an occasion when the two of them were together, but she just wished it was enough to make her feel satisfied. It didn't matter if his smile was radiant, or there was no end to the kindness laced into his very tone, it would never be enough until she could find a way to bend what wouldn't break, and force into her life a different perspective.  

 

She leaned against the counter and sighed, letting the moment pass. In that moment, typical to the fact that she could never get a moment's rest, the very air around her seemed to shift slightly, as if something had been displaced, or something that didn’t belong wormed into the fabric of the universe. And she knew exactly what that meant. 

 

Immediately, she straightened herself back up, and glanced briefly towards the book sitting on one of the shelves directly below her. 

 

Not yet. 

 

Only in an emergency. 

 

Something was about to appear, and she had braced herself enough times for it to know exactly what. She was less surprised about that part now, and more concerned with the matter of how, and where. In a force so stunning it would knock her off her feet? Or a light breeze leading a chill all the way to an empty barstool? They'd always had a flair for the dramatics, had the other half of the twisted kinship, and she only had the energy to appreciate it some of the time. Still, she'd come to expect nothing less when it came to matters concerning them, as this one happened to. 

 

So, when the shift did little more than open the door to make way for them sauntering through the entrance, it took her off guard. That was a little too normal for her liking. Either that meant something was wrong, or worse, something had caught their interest and they were trying to make it obvious. 

 

There was no mistaking the presence that they commanded. The aura so potent it was practically radiating, the flash of venom waiting behind their tongue to lace with their darkest of warnings, and the inescapable feeling of being watched by the undead, all in the same tall, thin package. They were a force to be reckoned with, and she knew that she had to consider herself lucky that they were willing to stay on her side. One alarming nightmare had revealed what might happen if that wasn't the case, and she decided that she'd rather not think about that if she could help it. They were on her side. That was all that mattered. 

 

But, despite all of that, they'd used the front door. Despite their power, and the force they commanded, and the fact that they could quite easily kill her if they ever so much as disagreed, they had strolled in through the front door like anyone else would've. Their attention had been turned by something, and just before they could close the door behind themself, they shot a quick glance back and seemed to tail someone with a look until whoever it was ended up long out of sight. 

 

Holloway examined them carefully. She wished she knew anything at all about them, that would certainly satiate some level of curiosity. People were often easy enough to read, but clearly whatever this matter was transcended personhood, and they really did prove it. So, there was nothing. Nothing, of course, but a name— which she was planning on using as a weapon if she needed to— and the fact that this being now actually sitting on one of her barstools was incredibly powerful. 

 

They didn't say anything of their own accord at first, but the emerald residing in their eyes shone with the need to give their presence a purpose in some way or another, and she could tell. She decided to do the honours for both of them, punctuating her question with a neat eyebrow raise. "What is it this time, Wiley?" 

 

Wiley huffed a breath of laughter, as dry and humourless a thing as it was always known to be. "Can always count on you for a warm welcome, huh?" 

 

Her expression hardened. One of the good things about... Whatever it was the two of them had going was that Wiley was not around often. On the same hand as their naturally intimidating presence was their tendency to avoid; an instinct which came with an alarming accuracy in beating around the bush, and the tendency to pull at just the right strings to rile her up a little. She had figured out their ways, but it didn't make the combination of those things any less tedious. Worse, she was sure they'd worked it out, too. 

 

"If it's killing time you're after, I don't do that here." 

 

"Oh, an' don't I know it... Marisa, if I was lookin' t'waste a bit of time, I wouldn't find myself here, that's for sure. Plenty more people have their dealings with me, and you always were a stickler for the rules." They leaned in a little closer, and briefly, their attention was once again grabbed by the doorway. When they turned back, they were smirking. "Rules were made to be broken, darlin'." 

 

And they were proof of that, were they not? In remembering her name, in having the capacity to know her in a way that nobody else did. That was the other reason they fascinated her, and she still hadn't figured out how they managed it. 

 

"What do you want?" 

 

"Nothin'. It was your beau who caught my attention, actually. Of all the people you coulda picked, you chose him..."  

 

Her brow furrowed. "There's nothing wrong with him." 

 

Theirs raised. "Oh, I'm sure he's the best you'll ever have, an' I bet you want him so badly... But it ain't worth it, sweetheart. He ain't worth it."

 

"That's none of your business." 

 

"I think it is... Y'see, that man, that name... It ain't good news. Unless that little memory curse suddenly backfired against ya, I'm sure as hell is cold you know what I'm talkin' about." 

 

She gave it pause for thought, but it didn't take a lot of deliberation to realise exactly what they meant. Wiley rarely hid their intentions when it came to their words, especially not around her, so she knew that this wasn't going to take more than surface level thinking. It didn't take long for it to become strikingly obvious what they meant. Duke Keane... Keane... The name spoke for itself, really. Told loud, unignorable stories about the years past, and why she and Wiley ended up in each other's kin in the first place.

 

"Poor, poor Douglas. He don't know the half of it. Ain't got the mind to figure that his dear daddy wasn't the biggest fan of the likes'a you an' me... He don't know about me at all, does he?" There was something almost curious hidden among the accusatory tone set about by what they'd just said. 

 

She shook her head. Closed her eyes for a moment. "No. He doesn't."

 

"Damn shame. I oughta tell him all about what that bastard father of his did, huh?" A sinister smile crossed their face, and they looked over at her from under their brow. She could tell they were planning something, but it was just a matter of finding out what before they got to enact it.

However, all of her thoughts were interrupted in the same way they always were working in this place; by the front door opening and announcing the entrance of someone else.

 

"Sorry, I forgot my—" 

 

Duke stood in the open doorway, one hand still resting on the door. He clearly hadn't run in, because he wasn't particularly out of breath, but he did seem to have some urgency about him. Such a rush often came with nerves, as Holloway knew well enough from working with him for all these years, but could also stem from that unexplainable panic that came with realising something had been left behind, as was the case with so many people. She knew exactly what— she'd seen it just before Wiley had appeared, and slipped it under the counter until he noticed it was missing and inevitably returned for it— and it was only a matter of time until he came back, but she had been hoping it wouldn't be until Wiley had long since left her behind. 

 

He wandered in, trying and failing to ignore the way that they were regarding him from the barstool. In the moment when Holloway ducked under the counter to retrieve the wallet that he'd forgotten when he left, they flashed him a grin laced in that infamous venom, and she came back to him looking a little shaken. 

 

"Here ya go," she hummed, trying for all it was worth to both keep his name out of the conversation (she felt more at ease that way, it was better or her mind to assume that not saying his name meant that he wouldn't be recognised so easily, even though she knew that it was futile) and bring him back into the moment. 

 

He nodded quickly, a little lost in it. "... Thanks."

 

As he turned to leave—understandably more eager now to go about his business than he had been before, left a little uneasy by being under such sinister scrutinisation— Wiley decided to make themself known, to say something of their own accord instead of being prompted into action by the automation of a question. They held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. The air shifted again. Holloway was almost certain that Duke felt it too. So, it wasn't just her. They had such a level of power, such a strong displacement in the world, that everyone around them noticed it... That was as curious as it was frightening, as it seemed everything was with them. What had she gotten herself into?

 

"Now, you must be the Keane boy," They hummed, looking him up and down. "Y'know, they're right about what they say. That particular apple ain't fallen far at all..."

 

"Huh?"

 

Holloway shot them a particularly vicious warning glare, and they caught it, but they paid no mind to it. "That's you, ain't it? The old sheriff's son?"

 

"Uh... Yeah?" Duke had stiffened, shifting in place. Despite the fact that he was the subject of interest, he was the only one made unsure about what was going on, and why it seemed like she was trying to keep this stranger he'd never seen before from saying something particularly damning. He had no idea what they could have against him, but he was still in the right mind to assume the worst, because that's what his innate fear told him to do. He looked to Holloway, who tried to reassure without words that it wouldn't go in the direction she thought it would.

 

She could hope, at least, because Wiley still looked more amused than they did enraged, despite what they'd just been talking about.

 

It couldn't be ignored, no matter how badly she wanted to. She couldn't get away from the fact that Duke's father had been a descendant of what the people around here called 'hatchet men'. They had been notorious in the decades past for assuming control over the town, and eradicating not only those who got in their way, but anyone like herself and Wiley. She had known about them from the moment she came into town, and had been foolish enough to believe that the deal she'd then recently made would keep her safe.

 

Sure, the past couldn't carry into the present, she knew that well, but there was a good reason why they suddenly seemed so bridled to have Duke in their presence. It had been well over ten years since they'd ambled into her diner, shoving open the door with their shoulder because of the copious amounts of blood on their hands. It had been well over ten years since she realised that she wasn't entirely alone in this strange game of lost memory and anonymous living.

 

They had met before that incident, of course. By chance, in the middle of the woods, when she had inadvertently caused a little trouble in the presence of the wrong people and found herself having to get away before she was caught. She'd figured out how to cause a more major reset, and Wiley had caught her on the run, trying to get far enough away that it didn't matter what she did. They'd actually spoken in the woods that night. She'd ended up confessing from whom she was running, and they had made the rather ominous promise that she would always be safe from the likes of those she was escaping in the Witchwood. 

 

The strangest part about it was the fact that they weren't from around the area at all, but had been completely correct in every regard. That night, desperate and convinced that they weren't going to remember her by the time she walked away, she had stayed a while under the shade of the tree and just... talked. And her companion talked too. Never anything personal, and never more than an answer to what she had said (mostly direct, very much straight to the point. She later came to figure that wasn't just the natural awkwardness that came with meeting someone for the first time, but how it seemed they always had been) but it was enough to just get something out of someone that didn't seem to mind the fact that she couldn't keep her ordinarily sound nerves in check.

 

But seeing them like that on that day— manic shine in their eyes, blood covering their hands that she couldn't be entirely sure was someone else's— had really forced her hand. She remembered her sudden need to ask every question that was on her mind, and how she'd managed to catch them as they emerged from the bathroom, fingertips stained in a dried-on red that wouldn't come off with the effort of simple diner bathroom soap.

 

Caught by the fact that she was inescapable, they had sighed and pressed themself against the wall, sparing the odd glance down to their hands, as if looking at them enough would change what was going on there.

 

===

 

"Found that bastard sheriff where he didn't belong," they shrugged, as if the state of their hands could be compensated for by a statement so simple. "Ain't nowhere else I coulda gone in this state, y'know... Figured you might be alone in here at this hour..."

 

"What'd you do?" Holloway knew, even then, that she couldn't help but to ask. "What... What happened?"

 

"I did what I had to." There was something unreadable in their expression, hidden behind the darkness in their eyes. "They were inches away from drivin' you outta this fuckin' town and you know it. Let's just say, that sheriff ain't gonna be a problem no more."

 

She stared once again at the red tint staining their fingers, their palms, running in jagged lines down their wrists. No point in questioning what had really happened there. The fact that they had turned to her was all the proof she needed to know they'd just returned from killing the sheriff. And frankly, she wasn't entirely sure how she felt about that one, other than the fact that she had to remember that this was a murder, and she shouldn't be feeling so relieved.

 

Yet, she couldn't help it.

 

Relief was about the only thing she could feel, gazing down at all that red and knowing where it had come from.

 

Even through all that, she could see that there was a different motive to that most brutal of acts. Her eyebrow raised. "You didn't just do this for me." And, even though the implication was there, she had no right to think it in the first place. The two of them had barely spoken for long enough to constitute any kind of acquaintance status, and she was still getting over the fact that they'd remembered her over and over since the first time they spoke.

 

"Maybe not, but does it matter?"

 

The slightest of nods followed that, as if she had any right pretending that she was certain about anything with so much going on in her immediate train of thought. "Maybe it does. He was in the woods, wasn't he?"

 

They stiffened, drew in a breath, clenched one hand into a fist. "Mhm. Scoutin' the place out. Thought he was real fuckin' clever. Apparently, I was in his business."

 

"Were you?"

 

"I was mindin' my own out there, ain't no policed area in the goddamn woods." Their eyes met hers, and she realised she was wrong about ever having thought there was brown in among that emerald green. "Far as you needta care, you ain't gonna get driven outta this town, cos the last guy who really cared 'bout that is dead."

 

===

 

"You look like him."

 

Holloway heard the weight behind that statement; years of the truth being concealed in favour of what they'd told her. They were tense, but unlike Duke, they were doing an incredible job of not showing it. Shooting a glance at Holloway, they pushed themself off the barstool, and hummed. "Anyway, it's been a pleasure as always, but I can't stick around. Evenin', then, Holloway. Mr Keane."

 

Duke missed the way they rolled their shoulders back on the way out, relieving the stiffness that clearly resided there, but Holloway caught it. She still didn't know what had really happened that night, and at this point, she was sure that she didn't want to know either. If it could shake the unshakeable, then there was a part of her that was absolutely convinced that she was, in fact, better off believing that their motivation to do what they had resided in a strange instinct to see her stay in the town.

 

"What the... Hell just happened?" Duke was trying to rationalise it to himself, but it wasn't working. It didn't matter what he told himself, there was no way to explain being recognised by someone he'd never seen before, then being told he looked like his father. While that was true, there was barely anyone left in the town that even remembered that. It wasn't like he'd had a particularly memorable face. People only recalled him as a person at all because of how he died, and the fact that the murderer was never caught. "Who was that?"

 

"An old... Friend, I suppose."

[scripted-downfall]

It was the work of moments for AJ Griffin to take a swig of rum and seal his fate. The aftermath is everyone's problem.

-- -- --

Prompt #13 for @pulpmusicalsfortnight2024: Possession (Alternate)

[scripted-downfall]

@pulpmusicalsfortnight2024 day twelve: non-canon ship