#[Mun's Writing]

[lost-kingsmen]

Twilight Confessions of a Ghost (to a Ghost)

“....it was a traffic accident.” Danny paused mid-bite of his sandwich, but still chose to finish it and chew. The armored figure at his side didn’t chide him for the muffled hum of a question he responded with, and kept their gaze focused out over the glowing lights of Amity Park.

“I was riding my bike angry, on wet roads, and with no helmet, to boot, and the lorry driver had a headlight out. I don’t think he saw me at all, until we were both sliding.” A car passed by on the lonely street below, and Gawain paused to watch it cross their block. “I’m fairly sure the only thing that stopped us both going off the bridge was the crash barriers.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Danny interrupted, finally putting his sandwich down on the edge of the roof. He knew Gawain didn’t know anything about ghost culture. He’d never been to the Realms, and couldn’t know how taboo it was to ask a fellow ghost about their death - or how much trust it implied to tell another your own. Gawain looked over at him, and shrugged with the soft clank of metal plates rubbing together.

“We’ve both been dancing around the point all night, haven’t we?” He said. His tone sounded casual on the surface, but the atmosphere had turned somewhat sullen. Danny pushed his sandwich a little further away. “The way I reacted to your friend Johnny made a right scene, and I figured you were due an explanation.”

“You don’t owe anyone anything.” Danny frowned. “Not to sound like my sister, but that was clearly a trauma response. You don’t have to explain-“

“It made things more difficult for you, though.” Gawain retorted, turning to face him with an expression that was somehow clearly of concern, despite only being two ovals of light in a dark void. Danny always kind of wondered how that worked. “Those white suited berks nearly shot you out of the sky because you were too busy calming me down to see them coming!”

“That’s not the first time the GIW’s gotten the drop on me.” It was Danny’s turn to shrug. Normally, he would never admit that those nutcase agents were good at anything (they didn’t deserve the praise), but he didn’t like the implication that he should’ve left Gawain to calm himself down when he had - very clearly - been reliving something unspeakable. “It happens, sometimes. Everything worked out fine!”

“Working out ‘fine’ doesn’t mean it should have happened.” Gawain straightened up, now, and Danny frowned more. It was cosmically unfunny that the suit made his coworker taller than him, whether sitting or standing. “If that happened on a mission, a distraction like that might have-…” The haunted armor stopped himself mid-thought, and his eyes narrowed into thin slits (a gesture Danny was coming to understand meant ‘closed eyes’ or thought) before he made a sound like a sigh and his eyes became ovals once more.

“How’s your back doing?” Gawain asked instead, making an effort to lower his voice. He had started to raise it before he’d forced himself to calm down, and while Danny hadn’t flinched, he didn’t want to make any more of a scene in the hero’s hometown. Danny stared at him with an unreadable expression for a few seconds, letting his green eyes track the depths of Gawain’s helmet as if searching for something Then he let out a sigh of his own, and let his shoulders droop.

“Still a little sore,” He admitted. “But it’s healing fast. I should be able to pass it off as a sunburn, if I need to.” Gawain seemed satisfied (if not a little relieved) with this answer, and the pair returned to watching the town below. Danny glanced over at his sandwich, sitting cold and half-eaten on the edge of the roof, and folded it back up into it’s paper sack.

He just wasn’t feeling hungry anymore.

“….mine was a lab accident.” Danny said quietly after they’d sat on the roof for another hour in silence. “That’s why I wear a hazmat suit. I was touching things I shouldn’t have, in a place I shouldn’t have been, and….yeah.” His core twinged, for a moment, already anticipating something negative, even though his friend had already shown him such trust…but all he felt was a cool weight on his bicep as Gawain leaned over, ever so slightly, to lean into him.

“I’m sorry.” The knight said quietly.

“I’m sorry, too.” Danny all but whispered. He heard a soft rustling sound, and then several tiny sets of claws scraped against the material of his suit. Danny smiled fondly as Gawain’s three little spirits nuzzled into him - Griflet at one shoulder, Bran at his side, and Chopper in his hair. He lifted his hand, and Chopper immediately leaned out to nuzzle into his palm, to Gawain’s laughter.

“You know, she’s never taken to anyone else quite like she’s taken to you.” The knight said with a smile in his voice. Danny laughed.

“I have a way with animals, I guess.”

[god-of-the-frozen-heart]

Madelyn McQuail had given up hope of seeing her family again after her third night in the storage container.

She may have been only twelve, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew that a little girl from Chinatown wouldn’t be any kind of priority for the local cops (if her parents reported her missing in the first place. Her dad’s own criminal record made all of them cop-shy, and she knew they couldn’t afford to lose one of their only breadwinners, with two other kids to support). She could only hope that her parents kept some of her belongings to remember her by the next time they had to tighten the budget. She hoped it was the blanket her grandma had made her. It was all the woman had left behind when she’d passed.

Most of the kids being held with her felt the same way. Some of the young ones were still crying for their families, but the older ones knew the drill. For some of them, this wasn’t even their first time being kidnapped. Some of them (the girls, mostly) had stories of being taken from school or the park or off their parents’ front steps, and being rescued at the last second by one of Gotham’s shadowy heroes. These stories calmed some of the crying ones, but Madelyn thought it cruel to get their hopes up like that.

Even with the ever-growing number of vigilantes that prowled the Gotham streets, they couldn’t be everywhere at once, and if they weren’t here by now, then they were probably not coming.

But while most kids were resigned or tearful or in denial, there was one kid who’d gone to work as soon as their captors had locked the container door on them that night. Madelyn hadn’t said anything as she watched him draw a series of boxes on a relatively clear piece of their cardboard bedding - one large one with rounded corners, and three or four smaller ones on one side. Their captors had taken most of their belongings (mostly things they could sell, or identifying items that they could use for proof of life or blackmail), but some kids had been left with small, nonthreatening items like Cheryl’s half-eaten root beer lollipop and Marcus’ inhaler. This kid had probably managed to hide his stick of chalk in his hand, Madelyn figured or their captors had just not seen a need to take it.

When the artist was done with the boxes, though, he got up and began to shuffle around the boxes on his knees, scratching the chalk with his fingernail to turn it into powder, and draw a thin circle around the boxes. Madelyn furrowed her brow, and finally opened her mouth.

“What are you doing?” She asked. The kid looked at her, but didn’t say anything as he finished laying down his weird chalk circle. It looked like something she’d seen in one of her older brother’s favorite ghost hunting shows. “You’re wasting good chalk. They won’t let you have any more, you know.” The kid continued to ignore Madelyn, and reached up chalk-covered hands to his mouth to pull out a soggy roll of red ribbon. Madelyn curled her lip in disgust as the kid unrolled this short ribbon and laid it down perpendicular across the center of his biggest rectangle drawing. As he started scribbling something in one of the smaller rectangles with what remained of his chalk, Madelyn quietly scooted herself away from this freaky kid.

He’d lost his mind, and lost it good.

A sudden burst of muffled laughter from the men standing outside the container caused them all to fall into a tense silence, and the strange kid froze like a deer in the headlights. The laughter faded, and the kid slowly returned to scribbling before his chalk snapped, and he cursed. Madelyn didn’t know what the word meant - it didn’t sound like English, and it certainly wasn’t Mandarin - but it was clear from the tone that it was an exclamation of anger. A few more kids were staring now, as the creepy kid continued his scribbling with the sharp stub of chalk left in his hand. When he finished, he picked up as many broken chalk pieces as he could and stuffed them into the pocket of his shorts.

From another pocket, he pulled out a stick of gum and four cigarettes, Madelyn remembered one of their captors had dropped their carton earlier, and said a lot of colorful words when he couldn’t find all the ones that had rolled away. Kids began to whisper as the kid unwrapped the gum and threw it in his mouth, chewing wildly for a few seconds before spitting it out and ripping off pieces to stick the cigarettes upright within the largest rectangle - one in each corner. He then took off his striped shirt and flipped it inside out to retrieve some sort of trading card that was taped on the inside, and more kids scooted away from him as he put the card down in the center of the big rectangle, and started to chant something.

The words were still not English, and some of the younger kids began to cry again, confused and scared by the weird activity. Madelyn wondered what she’d done wrong to not only get kidnapped, but to get kidnapped along with some weird cultist child.

“Hey,” She said. The kid kept chanting. “Hey!” Madelyn raised her voice as much as she dared. She didn’t want their captors to think they were being too loud. They’d been warned about the consequences already. “Knock it off! You’re scaring the little ones.” The kid’s voice cracked, and he faltered on his words, but he kept chanting. Madelyn felt bad. Everyone coped differently, she knew that, and she knew that she couldn’t judge someone for how they reacted when their life was in danger. But this was making an already bad situation worse for the littlest kids there, and that just wasn’t-

“Arroo?” Madelyn’s thoughts ground to a halt about the same time as the rest of the storage container fell into an eerie silence. A red mist had begun to seep up from the seams in the container floor, just outside the weird kid’s chalk circle, and take on a vaguely canine shape from the paws up. As the children watched in stunned silence, a head appeared in the smoke, lowered as if to sniff the circle. A pair of bright blue eyes lit up in the smoke, as did a heart-shaped mark as the creature sat, and looked around at the gathered children. The kids cringed back as its icy stare passed over them, and when its head could turn no further, it leaned almost upside-down to look at those directly behind it.

A few sparks of nervous laughter went around, and the creature began to wag its tail. After getting a good look at all the children, the creature turned back to the boy who had summoned it, and licked his forehead with a bright blue, somewhat see-through tongue. Then, it ran off and jumped over a few of the children, who let out startled shrieks and ducked even as the creature passed through the wall of the container and disappeared.

All that was left behind were a few chalk paw prints on the cardboard flooring, and a heavy silence.

Madelyn almost broke it after a few minutes, if only to ask what the hell that had been, when the temperature in the container suddenly began to drop. The weird kid scooted away from his drawings as ice began to spread out from the center of it with a faint crackle. The few nervous whimpers this caused were quickly shushed as the ice spread across the floor and up the container walls in a smooth, thin layer - dusting frost on the edges of blankets and shoes and pant legs - until it came together again on the ceiling. As soon as it had, a column of snowflakes began to spiral down from where the ice had met on the ceiling, rapidly building up into the shape of something tall and humanoid.

The children huddled together in fear as the snowman grew taller, and started to solidify with the crunch of snow being packed down underfoot. Color spread across the solid white like dye dropped into water, and a collective gasp ran through the frightened crowd as the figure's exposed skull lifted, revealing glowing red lights in its eye sockets. The horned skulls of some sort of large animals adorned the beings shoulders like armor, shimmering with a coating of frost and dripping with long, sharp icicles, and a heavy cape of some dark red fur hung down from its back. As it moved, testing its limbs as if to be sure they all worked, the ice across its torso cracked and sang, though Madelyn couldn't see any pieces breaking off.

The smokey, dog-like creature returned as the figure finally seemed to take notice of its frightened audience - passing through the container walls and ice like they weren't even there - to circle around the figure with its tail held high in pride. Slowly, the towering being moved one of its legs to slide back, and lowered itself to one knee. The dog-like creature hurriedly circled to sit at the being's side, like a dog called to heel, and the figure turned its skull toward the weird kid.

"Soititko minulle, pikkuinen?" (Did you call to me, little one?) He asked in a soft, low voice. It made Madelyn think of her grumpy neighbor Mr. Henway, who had always scared her with his permanent crooked frown until she'd one day caught him feeding and talking to the stray cats behind their building.

"Minä tein." (I did.) The weird kid whispered back. Madelyn wondered why he sounded so scared, if this had been his plan all along. "Me kaikki haluamme kotiin." (We all want to go home.) His voice cracked, and the being's skull tilted. It made a low whistling sound that sent shivers down Madelyn's spine, and more of the dog-like creatures began appearing - out of the walls and the floor, as if they'd been waiting there for their cue - to circle around the being like the first. They tumbled over themselves like excited puppies at dinnertime before another command from the being straightened them out.

The being moved to stand up again, and the smokey beings at its feet moved towards the children. They seemed to grow bigger, but for a few, as they sat, forming a semi-translucent 'wall' between the children and the far end of the container, where the doors and their criminal guards stood. The being pushed off as he turned and glided towards the container doors on bladed boots, stopping before the barrier with ease and raising one hand to shoo away the ice that held it shut like a bothersome fly.

"Do not look." He told the children behind him with a thick accent that Madelyn could not place. "You will be safe in just a few moments." Madelyn sat up on her knees, trying to see over the pointed ears and wagging tails of the smokey hounds as the being lowered its shoulder and bashed open the container doors, but before she could see more, a paw on her shoulder pushed her back down.

The creature left its paw draped over the girl's shoulder as the guard shouted - first in surprise, then in fear - and then the sounds from outside were suddenly muffled. Madelyn thought she heard a gunshot, then maybe a splash, and then silence. A few of the hounds turned their heads around to look at the container door, but otherwise remained still until there was a strange, muted cracking sound, and they finally broke rank to excitedly mill around throughout the confused children. Through an archway in a wall of ice that dominated the container's now-open doors, the being returned. Madelyn caught a brief glimpse of one of their guards, frozen in a block of ice like the people she'd seen on the news the last time Mr. Freeze had run amok in the city, before the wall closed itself, and the figure once more lowered himself to one knee, though now with more space between himself and the children.

"....so," The figure spoke after several seconds of silence. "I found this on one of the bad guys. Does anyone here know how to use it?" The figure held out one hand and opened it to reveal a cell phone with a cracked case sitting on his palm. He placed it gently on the ground, and slid it across to the children, where Madelyn quickly grabbed it. "You can dial 9-1-1 for the police, yes?"

"Why didn't you just call?" The girl narrowed her eyes at the figure. She wasn't sure if it was courage or overwhelming panic she could feel rising in her chest now that the more human threat to their lives was gone. "Why do we have to do it?" The figure's skull seemed to deform to give the impression of raising one eyebrow, and he held up his massive gloved hand again.

"My fingers are too big for the buttons." He replied. Madelyn paused. That hadn't been the response she'd expected, but it wasn't wrong, either. She dialed the number with shaking fingers and held the phone to her ear. One of the hounds lay down at her side and rested its head on her legs, though she could only just feel its weight.

"Hello? 9-1-1?" Madelyn stared at the creature lying on her lap, because if she looked anywhere else, this weird, freaky, hopeful dream might end. Against the floor, she could see the shadow of the being as it slid across the floor to whisper again to the weird kid. "We need the police!"

[springvaletales]

Midnight Milestones and Lavender Bread

As they sat together on the kitchen floor, backs against the center island while they waited for the fire to cool enough to put in the readied dough, Michael wondered what he had been afraid of.

Vashael hadn't said anything about his scarring when he'd woken up alone and followed the smell of lavender and herbs to the kitchen. He hadn't said anything about the borrowed shirt loosely folded on a nearby chair so it wouldn't get dirty, or the flour so hastily tossed about on the counter that some of it missed and landed on the flooring. He had only removed his own shirt, draped it over the chair, and asked what they were making. Still a little stunned by the lack of reaction (and for being caught - he'd tried so hard to be silent), Michael had mumbled something about lavender bread and shuffled to the side to let Vashael reach the dough.

They worked in silence, for a little while, folding the tacky mixture over and over its filling of herbs and lavender. Despite the late (early?) hour, Vashael seemed content to take the strange turn of events at face value. Michael tried to let him. The anxious fire that had awoken him from slumber still simmered beneath his skin, and he didn't feel ready to talk about it. He didn't think he'd ever be ready. This silence was a blessing, actually.

….

"…they don't frighten you?" Michael finally gave in and broke the silence as he added another small pinch of dried lavender buds. There was little question as to what the 'they' he spoke of was. He was usually so careful about not revealing his upper arms, even when they embraced between the sheets in the dim light of a lantern. Vashael shook his head as they brushed hands folding the dough once more.

"No." He replied with a shrug as he looked the shorter man in the eyes. "Why would they? They're just scars." Michael was quick to turn his eyes away, and his hands pulled away from the dough to curl into loose fists on the floury countertop. The runes burned into his skin were ancient, but not lost knowledge. The previous emperor had so often used the magical binding to keep prisoners of war and politics captive wherever he pleased that anyone with even a passing interest in local history or arcane arts could recognize it.

Or it felt that way, at least.

"They're…proof of what I am." Michael said quietly. It was supposed to be an argument, but it came out too soft; even to his own ears it didn't sound convincing. "The product of a monster."

"They're proof of what you were." Vashael had stopped kneading then and reached over to take up Michael's flour-covered hands. "A captive to a monster." He intertwined their fingers loosely and leaned down to touch their foreheads together. "He did not make you. He hurt you." Michael stared up at the prince for a few seconds, unable to turn away from those earnest golden eyes, and struggling to categorize the emotions that were sent rushing through his veins by this statement.

Relief, perhaps, for hearing the reassurances that he was not something just as bad for having survived the torment of something worse? Grief? He had never truly gotten to confront the enormity of what he'd lost. There had never been time to stop moving forward (recovering, relearning, fitting in, keeping up) and look back toward what had been taken.

Maybe even a tiny bit of fear, for being so thoroughly seen so quickly. He'd barely said anything, and Vashael had read between every proverbial line with ease.

"They're just…scars…" He whispered, almost afraid to once more break the silence that had started to slowly fill back in between them as they stood in the moonlit dark kitchen. Vashael smiled wide and proud, his face awash with the pale blue light from the warlock's own eyes, and Michael felt the anxious flames recede. Slowly, Michael's fingers tightened from a loose entwining to a hold, and Vashael's responded in kind. The human took a deep, shaky breath, and the fire that had driven him out of bed that night suddenly seemed to cool.

The bread dough was forgotten for a little while (in favor of…more important things), and when it was finally remembered, Vashael re-lit the embers of the kitchen fire with a quick puff of fire breath. And as they sat together on the kitchen floor, hand in hand with their backs against the center island while they waited for the fire to cool enough to put in the readied dough, Michael smiled and wondered what he had been afraid of.

[ourfairdominion]

GerCan- Knight/Prince AU [part1 of ?]

(I haven't given this fic a proper title yet and this is the first draft. I'm thinking of posting it all on AO3 once/if I finish it.)

Prince!Matthew/ Knight!Ludwig

"Hey Matthew. I'm sorry, I won't be able to go hunting with you tomorrow. Father needs me to go with him to a meeting with another family."

"Is he trying to marry you off already?" Matthew joked, letting out a laugh trying to hide his disappointment from the older prince.

"No... or at least I hope not. Now I'm worried. Listen, I'm really sorry, I'll make it up to you." Alfred apologized again.

Matthew continued packing his bags, more trying to hide his face then anything "No worries. I can just go alone, and we can go together another time."

"Don't go alone. You know mother worries about you when you go off by yourself. Father worries too. What if something happens to you." He was worried but didn't want to show it too much. "Take a knight with you at least. I’m sure they’ll enjoy a bit of a break too."

“Fine, just get one who’s close to my age. I don’t want to be stuck with a stuffy old man.”

–

“Well at least he’s not old, and handsome.” Matthew thought as he looked over at the knight. 

Sir. Friedrich Wilhelm Ludwig Augustus von Beilschmidt, probably the most stuffy of the knights. He figured that Alfred chose him because he was probably the best choice to protect him. 

After a while into the ride Matthew finally spoke to break the silence .

“Sir. Fredrich?”

“Yes, your highness?” 

“Do you enjoy hunting?” 

“Yes, your highness. My older brother used to take me when I was younger, but I haven't gone for a few years.” The knight’s eyes never stopped scanning his surroundings as he spoke.

That was a lot more than Matthew was expecting to get out of the man. He had to be honest it was nice to have someone to come along with him, maybe it won’t be as bad as he thought. “Well, I know the best hunting spots. There are a bunch of boar around this part if that’s what you want. Or I know another place a bit further away that’s good for deer.”

“Whichever you prefer, your highness.” 

He let out a sigh. Back to formal talk, he was hoping he could have had a proper conversation but it wasn’t going to happen if the Knight was going to be so formal.

 “Sir. Fredrich. I know this isn’t proper but on this trip you may just call me Matthew.” 

Sir. Fredrich almost froze for a moment. Talking to someone from the royal family so formally was usually a big no, but it did seem like an order directly from a prince.

“Of course…. Matthew.” 

“Thank you. So, do you want to hunt boar or deer?”  

“Deer, if that pleases you… Matthew.”

“Deer it is then. It’s a nice day for a longer ride anyway.” The prince smiled at him before starting to lead the way. 

—

After a little while of traveling Matthew came to a stop  and jumped off his horse with bow in hand.

“Your highn… Matthew?” Being so formal with the prince was very strange, but it was a direct order and he didn’t want to disobey.

“There are tracks over here that look fresh, I think there’s one around here.”  Matthew wandered around looking for other tracks and his knight found a place to tie off the horses so they wouldn't wander off. 

“This way Sir. Fredrich.” Matthew called back and pointed towards a narrow path through the thick brush. He looked so happy now that he was out in the woods. It was almost like out here he didn’t need to act princely, like he was out of the view of anyone who would disapprove of him not being proper. 

“Ludwig”

“Pardon?” 

“If we’re going to be informal on this trip, then you can call me Ludwig if it pleases you.” Ludwig felt awkward, but it felt like the right thing to do since the Prince seemed to be informal on the trip.

“Of course Ludwig.” Matthew gave him a warm smile before leading the way into the forest. For a moment he swore he saw Ludwig smile back.

—--

They made it back with their kill just as the sun was setting. Servants came out to take the large stag that they managed to track down and the smaller game they got along the way to be butchered. 

“I don’t think it’ll be ready until tomorrow but I can have some of the meat sent to you once they’re done, Sir.Fredrich.” Matthew switched back to a proper mannerisms now that he was back in the palace walls. “I could also have some of my cooks prepare a meal for the two of us for dinner tomorrow night if you would like.” 

Matthew wanted to get to know the Knight better now that they spent a whole day together away from the palace.

“I would very much like that. Your majesty.” Ludwig get a little bow to Matthew.

[fazbear-security]

Soul Shift - Ch. 6

Ao3

“Empty?” Freddy’s ears popped up in surprise, and he heard Chica gasp behind him. “What do you mean the office is empty?!”

“I mean it be empty.” Foxxy reiterated with a low growl, pointing his hook back down the west hall. “There be no-one in th’ office, fishbone ‘r other’ise.” The fox lashed his tail back and forth with an irritable and rusty creaking sound. “Just th’ lad’s bag on th’ chair.”

“But if his bag is there, that means he had to have come to work!” Chica bypassed the backstage stairs in favor of simply jumping down off the edge with a mighty clang. Bonnie followed her lead, and Freddy hesitated before hurrying backstage and down the stairs to meet them on the party hall floor. 

“Aye, but he ain’t there now.” Foxy gestured for the gang to follow him, and moved back down the hallway. Freddy tapped Chica on the shoulder and gestured her over to the other hall entrance as Bonnie followed Foxy. They wouldn’t all fit inside the office, and if they all wanted to see for themselves, some of them had to go through the other door.

“See?” Foxy gestured with both hand and hook from the west door at the empty office as the gang crowded around the doors. True to his words, there was nothing in the room but the lonely backpack sitting on the rolling chair. “Like I says: empty!”

“Oh no…” Bonnie leaned into the office and picked up the backpack from the chair, careful not to squeeze too hard and risk breaking anything inside. “This is definitely Mike’s - it’s got that same cartoon patch he has.” The bunny let go of the bag with one hand and reached across to pat the upper arm casing of his other arm. “You guys know, the one right here?”

“Yes, Bon, we’ve all seen his tattoo.” Freddy leaned his arm against the east door frame and wiggled his ears in thought. Why would their night guard have left his bag? They’d all seen him come running back after accidentally leaving it or some of its contents - usually his precious coffee, or homework from his siblings that he was reviewing - so for him to leave it behind was just….not like him.

“Could he be hiding from us…?” Chica’s voice expressed the sadness her beak could not.

“Th’ manager’s blasted rules tell th’ guards t’ne’r leave th’ office.” Foxy argued, folding his arms across his tattered torso. His tone notably softened, however. “Mike be many things, but th’ lad ain’t no rulebreaker.”

“But he is scared,” Freddy’s ears lowered as he sighed. Despite their best efforts, none of them had been able to reassure their night guard that they meant him no harm. Now, at least. “And humans will do a lot of strange things when they’re scared…

“Maybe Mike thought we’d never think to look for him anywhere but the office?” Bonnie offered up as he carefully put the bag back on the chair. Mike would want it right where he’d left it, when he came back.

“You’re right, Bonnie. Maybe he’s hiding somewhere?” Chica jumped on the thought. Scared or not, if Mike had taken the risk to hide outside of the office, then they had a better chance of catching him without having to worry about having those heavy doors slammed in their face. “Maybe we can find him, and finally talk to him!!”

“Aye, I bet we could, Chica.” Foxy nodded. Freddy tilted his head in silent disagreement, but said nothing. “There be only a few places ‘e could be ‘iding, an’ we c’n count out places like Parts ‘n Services an’ th’ supply closet.”

“Oh, yeah!” Bonnie’s ears perked up. “Mike always gags when the janitors have to get out the cleaning stuff, so he’d never hide where they stored it!”

“Gang, let’s reign it in, for a moment.” Freddy finally spoke up. “If Mike is so scared already tonight that he started off breaking the rules and hiding, I don’t think us hunting him down will make anything better-”

“Oh, but Freddy, this might be our only chance!” Chica argued back, putting on her best ‘pleading child’ face. Bonnie leaned in to join her for added effect. “Mike is too quick on the cameras and the buttons for us to get into the office normally-”

“And he doesn’t come out for pizza parties or karaoke or talent shows or even game nights-” Bonnie added in.

“-and we don’t want to have to go another year chasing him around just to talk to him, right?” Chica finished. Over their shoulders, Foxy was nodding along. Freddy felt very outnumbered, and sighed in defeat.

“Alright…” The bear straightened up and adjusted his hat. Hopefully Mike would be able to forgive them for this, somewhere in the future “I’m…I’m sure we can clear everything up once we’ve got him all sat down for the talk.” Bonnie and Chica both immediately brightened up.

“I’ll check the kitchen!” Chica volunteered, already pushing Freddy aside to run back down the east hallway. 

“And I’ll check the bathrooms!” Foxy wisely took one large step to the side as Bonnie turned and ran back out the west door, leaving the fox and the bear alone in the office. Freddy drummed his fingers against the security desk for a moment, looking around for any last clues that might have told him where their guard had disappeared to.

“I have a bad feeling about all this, Foxy.” He confessed. One drawer on the desk was slightly open, and Freddy carefully tugged on the edge with his large fingers to pull it further. There was nothing inside but a few dust bunnies and old batteries, like the kind used for flashlights. “I can’t put my finger on it, but this all just isn’t adding up right.”

“I di’n’t want t’say so in front ‘f th’ cheer squad, but…I be right there wit’ ye.” Foxy shifted to glance back over his shoulder, and kept his voice low, even though neither Chica nor Bonnie would have been able to hear him, at this distance. “There be somethin’ wicked goin’ on t’night, whe’r we like it ‘r not.”

“I hope we’re both wrong, Foxy.” Freddy nudged the drawer shut gently. “I don’t think this place can handle another tragedy.” He didn’t think he could handle another tragedy. Not after they’d been given this second chance. Not after things had been going so right for so long. Foxy reached out and placed a careful hook - the flat side, not the pointed, rusty curve - on the bear’s arm.

“Me, too.” He flipped up his eyepatch to let the other see just how sincere he was. “This ol’ fox’ll be happier’n a shark at chummin’ time t’be proven a lousy prophet.” Freddy’s ears lifted a little, but then, there was a distant crashing sound, followed by Bonnie’s voice shouting “I’m okay!”, and he shook his head. 

“We’d better catch up before they tear the place apart.” The bear stepped backwards out of the office. “I’ll check the offices, I suppose.”

“An’ I’ll take a look ‘round me cove.” Foxy also stepped back out of the office, and headed back down the west hall. “I be a deep, deep snoozer after a ‘ard day’s work doin’ nothin’. Mebee th’ lad slipped by me b’fore th’ midnight bells.” Freddy continued down the east hall, trying his best to not dwell on the strange, cold certainty in his processor that they were wasting time.

There were six hours left in the night shift. Surely they’d find their night guard before then.

---

Light fingers curled into the collar of the polyester shirt and tugged once, twice, then three times; each one growing more frantic than the one before. The fingers let go and hovered, unsure, before reaching out to try patting the face of the man they stood over. Upon receiving no reaction, the fingers retracted, and wound themselves together nervously.

Their owner paced back and forth on the concrete, every now and then looking up toward the basement door or around at the dark silhouettes of boxes, crates, and spare parts, as if expecting to see something. They were disappointed each time, and the figure grew more and more anxious before something hit their foot, and they froze. The flashlight rolled a few feet away before stopping, trailing tiny shards of glass from its shattered lens and bulb. The figure slowly sank to its knees beside the body, and gently reached out their hands to shake one of the arms.

“Please, please wake up already…” The little figure pleaded to the body at the bottom of the stairs. “You can’t sleep here; it’s cold and dark, and no-one will find you here until morning!” Their words fell on deaf ears, and the figure made a small noise of worry and bent their head down to the man’s chest. They listened for something, but whatever they heard didn’t seem to ease their worries, and they sat up.

“I-...I can fix this.” They promised, lifting the arm up from the elbow and hugging it to their slim chest. “I can put you back together, I just-. I need more time.” They looked around the basement, and scrambled up to run over to one of the larger, longer crates pushed against the wall. Dexterous little fingers flipped the metal latches holding down the lid, and the figure made a sound of exertion as they opened the box as far as they could.

“...okay, okay. I can work with this.” They said, almost to themselves as they closed the box, and turned back to the body. They knelt down again, and placed both hands flat on the chest. “This might…feel weird…b-but it’s going to be fine! I know what I’m doing!” They insisted, as if they were the one who needed convincing. The body did not respond, and the figure pressed down. A pale glow began to shine from beneath their hands, and after a few seconds, the glow brightened, and their hands sank down into the body.

Seconds later, they withdrew, and clutched between striped fingers was a small, ethereal orb of light. Something akin to smoke wafted from the orb, trailing back down into the body as the figure stood up, clutching the light to their own chest as they hurried back to the crate. They let go with one hand to lift the lid with all their strength, and stood up on their toes to reach down inside with their other hand, and shove the orb somewhere safe. The trail of smoke faded out of sight, and the figure braced the crate lid above their head with both hands, staring expectantly into the crate, before slowly, carefully, lowering it shut. 

“I’ll put you back…eventually.” The figure promised, fiddling with the metal latches, but not reclosing them. Nobody who worked here would notice. “You’ll be safe in there until I can figure out how to fix you.” They turned away from the crate, and hesitated over the body for a few more seconds before stepping around them and climbing up onto a cluttered work table with careful steps. Reaching up, the figure pulled open the cover of a vent on the wall, and climbed up inside, leaving the vent unlatched.

The basement sat in silence for the rest of the night.

[solitaria-fantasma]

((Happy Holidays, @talifu! I’m you’re secret santa! :D You asked for ‘found family fluff’, so I hope this is to your liking!))

“…..and Aunt Leigh says her presents should arrive in time for the new year, at least.” Vivi pinned the phone against her shoulder, as she needed both hands to properly tie the large, blue ribbon she was wrangling into an appropriately smooth bow. “It sucks they can’t arrive in time, but that’s just how it’s been, shipping through Country Convey, lately. Hate to say ‘she should have known better’, but-“ The woman stopped mid-sentence, and winced. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, mom.” Vivi tied off the bow, and spun around on her stool to set the wrapped box on top of a pile on the other end of the desk.

“Are you guys going to try and video call after the luncheon?” She asked as she stood up and hastily started one-handedly putting away her supplies; scissors go back in the pencil can, roll up the unused ribbon, fold over a piece of the tape so it doesn’t get stuck to anything, etc. “I know you guys have a packed schedule - it’s like the cruise crew doesn’t want to give you any time to contemplate international crime! ….ah, ah, ah, I heard dad laugh.” Vivi tossed the last roll of ribbon into the desk draw and once more pinned her phone against her shoulder as she gathered the pile of presents into her arms.

“….okay, so sometime after eight then?” The young woman shouldered open the door and sidestepped out into the hallway beyond, walking sideways to be able to see where she was going around her armful of gifts. “I’ll let everyone know so that we can eat beforehand. Don’t fall overboard. I love you!” She left the phone in place as she crab walked down the stairs as fast as she dared, and out the already-open apartment door. “Hey, Mystery, give me a hand, here!”

“I have none to spare.” The kitsune’s muffled voice came from inside the van parked at the end of the short walkway, and a moment later, the rear doors clicked, and slowly swung open. Her dog sat on the floor with his paws together, wagging his stubby tail smugly. “I do, however, have a few paws you can borrow.”

“Ha ha.” Mystery skittered back as Vivi plopped down the pile of presents where he’d been sitting. “Grandma says ‘hi’, by the way.”

“I’m certain she did.” Mystery twitched his ears as Vivi began sliding the presents back against the bench seat in such a way that they (hopefully) wouldn’t fall in transit. “Are we still picking up the Kingsmen? Or did Lance get his truck back yet?”

“We’re still picking them up.” Vivi climbed into the van and shut the doors behind her. “Gawain said he’d fly over on his own right about now, so it’ll just be Lance and Arthur. Oh, and don’t bring up the truck thing with Lance today - he’s about ready to duplex that tow company owner.” The woman rolled herself over the back of the bench seat, and Mystery watched her flail her way over with one ear cocked to the side before gathering his legs beneath him and hopping over himself. He climbed up into the passenger seat as Vivi clicked her seatbelt and turned the ignition, and quickly circled twice before settling down.

“Buckle up, ’Stree!” Vivi warned as she checked her mirrors. “We’re three minutes late, so I’ve got to make up that time!”

“While still obeying the speed limit I hoooOOOOPE!” Mystery let out a yelp as Vivi hit the gas pedal, and he was rudely flattened back against the seat.

…….

Arthur looked at the picture on the wall, and sighed quietly.

It was old, and covered with the dust of years of neglect. Lance didn’t use this closet for much more than storage, and he usually didn’t bother with anything above the fourth shelf, these days. The faces of the figures smiling back from the frame were all but obscured under the grime, and Arthur didn’t make any move to wipe it away. He wasn’t sure he could handle looking his parents in the eye on a good day, and let alone on a day like today.

Arthur turned away from the picture after a few minutes, and started half-heartedly sifting through the unorganized assortment of old boxes, tools, and sundry items. He shouldn’t be giving any thought to the people who clearly didn’t have any to give to him, he knew… after more than a decade without a single visit, phone call, or even a letter, they weren’t worth his time, nor any of his effort. But there was still that pit in the bottom of his stomach that couldn’t help but feel disappointed… as if he were missing out on-

“Did you find the tape yet?” Lance’s voice shouted from down the hall. Arthur shook himself out of his thoughts, and quickly grabbed a roll of Bourbon tape out of the box in front of him.

“Yeah, I got it.” He shouted back, stepping out of the closet. He paused with his hand on the doorknob, feeling the chill of the metal beneath his palm, and contemplating the chill he felt inside. Then, he took a deep breath, and shut the door on his past.

“Then let’s get going.” Lance was waiting by the front door, jacket tossed casually over one shoulder, and a full canvas bag over the other, as Arthur jogged into the front room of the apartment. “Your lady’s waiting outside already.”

“I just need to fix this real quick.” Arthur pulled a piece of tape from the dispenser and held the plastic in his mouth as he carefully lined up the torn edges of the wrapping paper to tape them back together. He’d been a little too rough with his prosthetic hand when gathering everything up, and had accidentally punched a small void in the package. The Pepper girls probably wouldn’t care about a small tear, but Arthur did, and he wasn’t about to give a ripped gift. “Th’rrr ree go.” Arthur spat out the tape dispenser, and tossed it on the hall table. “Now we can go.”

“Finally…” Lance opened the door and propped it open with one foot, waving his nephew through ahead of him. “Gawain headed over about ten minutes ago. Let’s go give him a little back up.” Arthur shook his head as he hustled down the front steps, but he wore a fond smile as he approached the van pulled up in the shop parking lot. Vivi opened the driver’s side door as he approached, and scooted herself over on the bench seat, squishing Mystery against the door until he fled into the footwell with a grumble.

“Not a scratch on her - just like I promised!” The woman smiled as Arthur leaned over the seat to add his presents to the pile. Lance opened the back doors and tossed in his own bag before climbing up, himself. “My folks say they’ll try to video call around 8pm, give or take. There’s a karaoke event they signed up for at seven, and that might make them late.”

“We should be done with dinner by then, either way.” Arthur readjusted the van’s mirrors for safety, and clicked his seatbelt on. “You all set back there, Uncle?”

“Just don’t take any turns at mach Jesus, and I’ll be fine.” Lance waved a hand over the back of the seats in response. Arthur laughed a little, and pulled out of the parking lot at a reasonable speed.

…….

“…aaaand, done!” Belle Pepper stepped back from the towering tree with a grin, and planted her hands on her hips. “Now it’s perfect!”

“I still think it needs some candles.” Cayenne muttered under her breath. Lewis lightly tapped his sister on top of her head.

“That would be a bigger fire hazard than me.” He reminded her gently. Cayenne blew a raspberry as she waved off her big brother’s hand. Lewis tried to put on his best stern frown, but he couldn’t quite manage to dampen his fond smile. “How about, instead, you help our guests set up their dinner shrine?” He asked, nodding across the room. A small gaggle of Deadbeats were gathered above one of two small, round tables, gleefully watching three orange spirits attempt to replicate their own masterful work. “I think they could use a hand…” He watched Bran’s carefully constructed pyramid of incense sticks wobble, and clatter off the table. “...or two.” He added

“Challenge accepted!” Cayenne made a show of rolling up her sleeves before marching across the room. “Hey ladies (and Griflet)! Let a real master show you how it’s done…” Lewis straightened up, and gestured for his Deadbeats to come and join him by the tree. Most of them obeyed, but for one or two stragglers who took their time peeling away from their front row seats to Cayenne’s lesson. Belle reached up to pat one of the magenta spirits on the head as they swirled around their master, and the little ghost made a short, high pitched sound of delight.

“Has Gawain ever had a shrine?” She asked curiously. “It doesn’t look like his little buddies have ever built one before.”

“We’ve made a few for special occasions,” Lewis shook his head. “But otherwise, not really. Vivi was worried that having full access to his sense of taste all the time again might be too overwhelming, so we’ve been trying to ease him into it.” Belle let the Deadbeat she’d been patting fly off to join its fellows circling the tree. She watched as the little spirits chirped at the decorations and batted at the tinsel, and frowned quietly.

“I hope this isn’t too much for him…” She murmured. Lewis looked down at her questioningly. “I know the fam can be a bit…overwhelming…this time of year.”

“Isn’t everyone’s?” Lewis smiled. “But I wouldn’t worry, chiquita.” The ghost ruffled his sister’s hair affectionately. “He’s survived twenty minutes in the kitchen with mama already. He’ll handle the aftermath no problemo.” Belle made a show of fixing her holiday hairdo, but just as she opened her mouth to admonish Lewis, Paprika came bursting out through the kitchen doors, holding a basket bursting with bread twists.

“FOOD’S READY!” The nine year old yelled out enthusiastically. Immediately, she was beset by a swirling cloud of Deadbeats, and Lewis whispered something under his non-existent breath before scrambling to shoo them away.

“Get, get!” The ghost scolded. “You can’t have any until everyone’s here, you know this! Riki, hurry! Get to the table!” Savina Pepper propped open the kitchen door with one foot as she watched her youngest sprint for the large party table already set for their many guests, pursued by the hungry deadbeats and her eldest.

“Hmm. The bread made it out of the kitchen this year.” She mused before turning to the blond standing beside her. “Let’s take advantage of the distraction to get the appetizers to the table while Cori gets dessert into the fridge.” She held the door open for their new guest, and then let the door swing shut as she took the lead. “Lance texted just a minute ago to say they were on their way, so we should be able to sit down in about ten minutes or so. Vivi can help us get your shrine set up as soon as she puts down all the gifts.”

Gawain trailed after the woman, moving his feet out of old habit, but making no sound as he followed her to the table, and placed down the bowls of tostones and chickaritos he’d been asked to carry. Across the table, Paprika slammed down the basket of bread twists and shoved it into the middle before diving under the table with a shriek of laughter, followed by a wave of magenta spirits. Lewis came to a stop at the table, and took a big, showy deep breath.

“Where do they get the energy, mama?” He asked rhetorically. Savina - mother of four and career child-friendly restaurant owner - only smiled knowingly and headed back toward the kitchen. Bran sidled up to Gawain’s right shoulder, clearly eyeing the unattended bread twists, and the ghost lightly bopped her on the snout.

“Absolutely not.” He told her. “We’re guests here, remember - I’ll not have you upsetting our hosts because you can’t wait five minutes to have a snack.” Bran made a dramatic (though quiet) wailing sound, and draped herself over Gawain’s shoulders like an empty sock. Lewis laughed out loud, and his hair rippled into a small flame before regaining its usual shape.

“Aww, don’t worry, Bran,” He told the little spirit. “There’ll be plenty of food left over for you guys, too.” A sudden knocking came at the door, and Bran quickly stood up at attention, as did all the Deadbeats that had been chasing Paprika. 

“Perfect timing.” Gawain sighed as Chopper and Grifflet zoomed by, picking up Bran on their way to hover at the front door. Lewis shook his head as Arthur walked in, and was immediately beset by a colorful cloud of excited little ghosts.

“We should probably go help them.” He said.

“Probably.” Gawain nodded. Still, neither ghost moved as a grinning Lance sneaked inside, using his nephew as a distraction, and Vivi simply bulldozed her way through them with her armful of presents, all wrapped in shades of blue.

…….

Hours later, when the crumbs had all been eaten and the dishes had all been washed, they all sat around at the base of the tree, strewn about on pillows stolen from upstairs bedrooms and chairs nicked from the queue benches. They played cards for peppermint sticks until, one by one, the children began to yawn, and were herded to bed by soft-voiced parents and equally-sleepy Deadbeats.

Eventually, even the young adults began to turn in. Gawain gave in to the call of sleep first, much to Vivi’s disbelief, allowing Bran to take hold of his anchor pendant as he retreated in rest. The orange spirit had wound her way up the decorated tree like a string of tinsel before snuggling down between a cork labeled with “He said yes!” and an orb covered in bright white glitter paint snowflakes. Gawain’s pendent dangled from her mouth, glowing faintly, just like the fairy lights wound around the branches, and Grifflet and Chopper soon joined them. Finally, even the Pepper parents decided to call it a night, and bid goodnight to the only four still awake.

Mystery carefully stretched his long limbs, mindful of the presents piled just at the edge of his reach, and laid his head down on his outstretched paws with a yawn. Lewis leaned back against his side, lazily scratching behind Mystery’s ear with one hand as he held a steaming mug of hot coco in the other. Arthur leaned against his side opposite the coco, and Vivi lay across both their laps, drunk on spiked eggnog and peppermint.

“What a night, huh boys?” The woman laughed quietly, staring up at the starry projection Gawain had conjured up for the girls at some point during the card came. He had run out of peppermint sticks to give away, so Belle had come up with a clever solution. “Great food, better company, warm boyfriends to lounge against…” She trailed off with another laugh as Arthur wiggled his trapped foot.

“The first of many, I hope.” Lewis held his mug up in a solo cheer, and for a moment, Arthur remembered the cold feeling in his stomach with sharp clarity. He looked up at the tree - at the mementos of happy memories lovingly crafted and hung in abundance, and the spirits sleeping scattered within its branches - and wondered, just for a moment, what a tree made by his parents would have looked like. There wouldn’t have been so many different colors of lights. There wouldn’t have been paper ornaments covered in glitter and feathers, meticulously prepared and saved from the first holiday of 2nd grade.

There wouldn’t have been orange branches and shimmery needles, carefully selected to enjoy the holiday without triggering a deep-rooted fear of the color green that still dogged his footsteps, even years later.

“Arthur?” The blond came back out of his thoughts to find Vivi propped up on her elbows, and Lewis looking down at him curiously. “You good over there? You’ve been pretty quiet.”

“I’m….good.” Arthur paused just long enough to avoid the dreaded ‘f’ word, and relaxed into Lewis’ side. Vivi wiggled herself around until she was lying parallel between her boyfriends’ legs, and Arthur moved his flesh hand to start running his fingers through her blue hair. “I was just doing some thinking, I guess.”

“Deep thoughts?” Lewis joked, and Arthur cracked a smile.

“Mariana Trench deep.” He retorted, and whatever remained of the cold feeling in his stomach suddenly felt much warmer. It didn’t matter what a tree decorated by his parents would have looked like, Arthur realized.

This one - decorated by his family - was much, much better.

[ravensroleplays]

Quick oneshot drabble before I get back to SotF :P

[nnyhil]

[@zbfrances gave me permission to write about their muses' death. Please don't attack me or Johnny. ;; Anyways, happy Ides of March!!]

He almost didn’t recognize the woman without her usual macabre make-up. Only when a knife was sinking into her gut did Johnny realize what he had done. “F-frances…?” His face softened from an insane grin to a small frown. He immediately removed the knife, but that only let more red liquid pour out from the wound. The public murder spree caused by some pointless comment came to a sudden halt. He watched as the woman sputtered up blood with a pained groan. Perhaps she was trying to say something. There was the fear and dread in her eye that Johnny never wanted to see.

He was covered head to toe with blood and gore. The chaos around them was crimson and loud; however, right now the noise faded in Johnny’s ears as he tried to focus on his dear friend. “What– what’re you doing here?” He asked with tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

A cough, then a weak reply. “...just tryna run…”

“I mean, before that! Before this!! Were you following me? Or… Or was this just a huge accident? A mistake…?” Panic and regret swirled into a knot in his chest. This time he didn’t get a response. Johnny held his friend and watched the color drain from her face. The life in her eyes was leaving rapidly. If he wanted her to hear something, he had to say it now. After all, hearing was the last thing to go. “I… I never wanted this to happen. Not to you! I tried to keep my distance! I did!! I promise this was never how I wanted things to end…” He wasn’t one for physical touch, but he couldn’t stop himself from pulling his dear friend into a bloody embrace. “I’m sorry…”

Frances went completely limp without a word. Johnny didn’t get any sort of closure. No ‘it’s okay’ or ‘I understand’. He didn’t deserve that sort of thing. He never did. Tears ran down his cheeks as he let her body fall to the ground like a rag doll. He was so focused on her he didn’t hear the large loud footsteps swiftly approach him.

All of a sudden he was violently grabbed by his thin shoulders and spun around. “What did you do to Frances?!” An angry muscular blonde man shouted in his face. “C-conrad…?” Was all Johnny could stutter out before the man grabbed and twisted his wrist to make him let go of his comically large knife. Then a fist slammed into his face and everything went black.

Johnny suddenly woke up with a start. He gasped for air. His body was covered in a cold layer of sweat. He glanced around rapidly to take in his new surroundings. He was in his car now. He looked down at himself. No blood. No gore. That must have been a dream– or a nightmare rather. Even so, he still felt the heartbreak of killing someone that definitely didn’t deserve it. Frances had been nothing but nice to him from the moment they met. “I gotta stop visiting that food truck…” He grumbled to himself. He didn’t want to risk his nightmare becoming reality. This is why he loathed sleep so much.

“And stop seeing that girl you like so much?” Reverend Meat chimed in from the passenger seat.

He immediately glared and scowled. What the hell was that ceramic piece of shit on to now? “I’m going to throw you out the window, into highway traffic, going 88 miles per hour.” Johnny hissed and threatened the cursed object.

Reverend Meat was not at all bothered by the threat. “If it will make you feel better, go ahead. You know you can’t get rid of me.”

[dimorphodon-defect]

She didn’t have much to her designation to move, when the time came.

Her small handful of Polaroids from Carly, Nau’s gifted drawing of Offshore, and all of her felted figures had fit inside the wooden Fenn Farms crate that Red Alert side-eyed when she walked by with it, and her flashcards had been easy enough to balance on top of that. It was a meager collection of possessions that left Dragonsbane feeling just a touch more self-conscious than usual as she walked down the hallway with Wheeljack, her entire post-Deception life held carefully in her servos.

“…and the lab is right down the hallway,” The engineer was saying. Dragonsbane’s optics flashed in a blink as she pulled herself out of her thoughts. “Now, I know the Dinobots have got a bit of a, uh…reputation…but they’re all real swell mechs, once you get to know them.” He promised. “They’ve already cleared out a space for you in the cave - one that’s a lot bigger than the storage closet you had before. There’s nothing to be worried about!”

“Are you worried?” Dragonsbane asked. Wheeljack hesitated, his head panels flashing soundlessly or a moment or two as he searched for the right words.

“No.” Wheeljack said at length. “The Dinobots can be…a lot, but they’re not a bad lot. They’re just misunderstood.” Hound came jogging down the hall on his way to the main entrance, and Dragonsbane tucked her wings in a little tighter to let him pass. “Besides, Prime made a good argument when he spoke to me.

“Bots who were built to work on a team do a whole lot better if they’re kept with a team, and you’ve really only been in the lab or your quarters since you got here.” He looked at Dragonsbane. “That kind of isolation isn’t good for your processor.” The femme’s wings sagged at the observation, though her expression remained stubbornly neutral. “And the Dinobots are historically picky about the mechs they interact with, so the fact that they’re the ones who asked for you to move in speaks volumes already about what they think of you.”

“What, did I make a good impression?” Dragonsbane scoffed. “I picked a fight with one of them!” Completely unintentionally, mind you. How was she supposed to know that Slag had been passing by her door when she’d thrown her empty wool crate over her shoulder in exasperation?

“That’ll do it.” Wheeljack nodded, and finally stopped in front of a giant set of sliding doors that had once led to some sort of hanger, before the Ark had crashed. Here, the mech turned to Dragonsbane, and put a servo on her shoulder. “Remember, I’m just around the corner if you need anything. You just let me know.” He told her.

“I will.” Dragonsbane nodded, quietly wondering how soon she’d need to take him up on his offer. Wheeljack gave her shoulder one last reassuring pat before reaching over and tapping at the keypad installed beside the hanger doors. The heavy doors unlocked with a muffled ‘clunk’, and slowly began to hiss open.

“They here!” A towering figure dropped down from somewhere above to land with a thunderous crash in front of the doors before they had even opened halfway, and Dragonsbane barely resisted the urge to jump back. As it was, her wings snapped open defensively, and just barely avoided smacking Wheeljack.

“Hey there, Swoop!” The engineer greeted the excitable Dinobot while Dragonsbane stared up the mech twice her size with wide optics. Was she just destined to be the smallest one in every group?! “Is everybody ready?”

“Yes!” The Pteronadon practically pirouetted aside as Wheeljack crossed the threshold. Dragonsbane hesitantly folded her wings and followed after him. “Him, Snarl and him, Grimlock still have rocks to move, but they almost done.” He looked down at the crate in Dragonsbane’s hands. “That all you got?”

“It’s all I have.” Dragonsbane flared her wings back out in a move she didn’t really think about. Swoop just stared at her, smile unchanging.

“You, Dragon, will have to start collecting something.” He laughed. “That not going to fill up the shelves!”

“Why don’t I give you guys a little time to get to know each other?” Wheeljack suggested. Dragonsbane shot him a panicked look. “I’ll stop by with Optimus Prime in an hour or two, and we’ll go over the last few details of the move.” He looked at Dragonsbane, and lowered his voice reassuringly. “I’ll keep my comm open the whole time, okay? You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, sure…” Dragonsbane watched Wheeljack step back out of the room with a growing sense of dread, and tensed when Swoop’s shadow fell over her.

“Come with me.” The mech held out one hand and started herding her deeper into the room. “The others are excited to meet you!”

“Ooooh, I don’t think ‘excited’ is the right word.” Dragonsbane shifted her grip on her belongings, careful not to snap the planks of the crate.

Here went nothing.

Further into the room (really, it was more like a warehouse, at this size), the other four Dinobots were gathered near a pile of rocky debris. Dragonsbane became acutely aware that she barely reached the hips of the shortest of them as Swoop ushered her closer, and pulled her wings tightly to her back as four sets of sharp optics zeroed in on her. There was a tense silence, for a few moments, and then it was broken by Grimlock snorting out a laugh.

“This the one who kicked your aft?” He elbowed Slag, ignoring the glare he got in return. Slag slapped the offending limb away viciously, and Dragonsbane flinched.

“I mean, technically, I’m the one who got my aft kicked.” She argued, audial fins flattening under the scrutiny. “I, uh. I very much lost that fight.”

“That what us Dinobots like.” Grimlock nodded, as if he’d just dispensed some sage advice. “You pick fight and lose, but still survive. That means you tough.”

“Her talk smart.” Sludge grumbled. Dragonsbane wasn’t sure if that was a compliment.

“Here, let me, Swoop, take things!” The femme reacted too late to save her belongings as they were snatched out of her servos, and tried to follow as Swoop walked off into the freshly-excavated room to drop them on the berth that had been dragged into the space. The ground shook as the Dinobots followed them like a herd of sheep.

“Me, Snarl, told you room too big.” Snarl scoffed as Dragonsbane climbed up onto the berth to check on the crate. Good. The flashcards hadn’t cracked.

“See? She too tiny for it.”

“It better than closet she in before.” Slag retorted. “She like Swoop - she need space for wings.”

“Me, Grimlock, not un-digging room.” Grimlock stated firmly. “Room stay big, so I say!” Slag and Snarl immediately began to argue louder, and Swoop made a show of rolling his optics. What a first impression this was making on their new member.

Dragonsbane put back the few flashcards that had fallen out of the open box, and sat back on her heels. This felt…familiar…and not in a bad way, either.

…what was that Wheeljack had said about bots built to work as a team?

———

Two hours later, Wheeljack stood in front of the Dinobot’s hangar entrance once more, with Optimus Prime at his side. There was a concerning amount of noise coming from the other side, but he couldn’t hear any cries of distress, at least. The engineer typed in the entrance code on the keypad, and managed to wait patiently until it had opened enough for his frame to fit through.

He still crossed the threshold before the doors were fully open.

“I’m back! How is every one getting-….along.” Wheeljack stopped after only a few steps, fins flashing in silence as he lost the rest of his sentence. Optimus Prime followed him inside, and placed a hand on Wheeljack’s shoulder struts. “I believe we can safely assume that their introduction went smoothly.” The Prime said with just the barest hint of a chuckle in his voice. Wheeljack made a noise that wasn’t quite affirmation. He should probably have prepared himself for something like this.

“Do it again! I almost had it!” Dragonsbane insisted. Sludge adjusted his servo position quickly before crouching down and throwing the femme upwards with a good amount of strength. Dragonsbane stretched out at the peak of the toss, and latched her own servos around the handle of a sword that had been stuck up in the ceiling for the past four months. “I got it!”

The gathered Dinobots let out a collective roar of success, and Dragonsbane hauled herself up on the trapped sword and let herself drop - once, twice! When the blade came free with a shnk and a small shower of rocky debris, the Dinobots scattered back, and the femme managed to land on her peds right in the middle of them. She straightened up, covered in rock dust, and leaned the sword as big as she was over her shoulder strut.

“Now, uh…whose was this again?” Dragonsbane was the first to notice their two mech audience, and quickly un-shouldered the blade. “Oh, Wheeljack! Optimus Prime, sir!”

“Dragonsbane,” Optimus Prime greeted back. “I’m glad to see you’re all getting along.”

“Of course we get along.” Grimlock scoffed as he leaned down to grab the sword. “She Dinobot. Us Dinobots get along. Uh…usually.” He shrugged. If he noticed the way Dragonsbane looked up at him, optics wide in something between surprise and awe, he ignored it.

“Of course, how silly of me.” Optimus Prime chose not to argue. They seemed to have achieved the preferred outcome - arguing would do nothing but set them back. “Now, there’s just a few quick things we need to finalize…”

[aaaaamorphous-entity]

Ho Ho Ho, enjoy the double Walk A Mile update ✌

[muntiller2]

any edenhua brainworms lately?

Very little unfortunately 😞 I've been jumping fandoms which means I've been writing less for hi3. This, however, doesn't mean i don't have something to share >:3

Here's a snippet from a given au i started writing long ago:

“Fu Hua, since you asked. Just Hua is fine.”

Eden jumps, “Oh! Nice to meet you, I'm Eden.”

“Mm.”

For a moment Eden almost expects more, perhaps a bit of a stronger reaction. She’s not full of herself, never that, but she’s always so used to people recognizing her by name alone that she’s almost confused at the lack of response.

But then again, Hua was short of crying alone on the roof of a gymnasium for whatever reason just a minute ago. That’s a pretty good reason to not care about anything else.

Eden leans back with a small sigh.

“Do you play?” She asks as she motions to the guitar case and for a moment the girl seems to freeze.

“Um…”

“Sorry if that sounds a little sudden,” Sensing the shift in the air, Eden smiles rather awkwardly, “I play in my spare time and it’s nice to meet other people who share the hobby.”

It’s what seems to catch the girl on her tracks, helping her relax just a bit. With the way her shoulders drop ever so slightly, her near empty look turning just a bit brighter, Eden is sure she said the right thing.

“Just… just a small amount,” Hua seems to hesitate, before letting go of the case to rest it carefully on the ground, “It’d be nice to learn eventually, I suppose.”

[lost-kingsmen]

A Cold Night in Gotham

Ao3

It hadn't been difficult to find the site of the summoning. If the eerie clouds hanging in the sky hadn't been clue enough, the frost painting fractals across the concrete and floating in the water in the height of summer were a dead giveaway.

The knight touched down on the ice where it thickened at the threshold of the shipping container, and knocked on a piece of door that had been blown outward into a twisted metal shred twice before simply phasing through the wall of blue ice that blocked off the container’s interior. He didn’t spare more than a glance for the frozen chunks of ice entombing the unfortunate men who had been left on guard.

It was probably a mercy, compared to what the local vigilante would have inflicted on them.

As soon as Gawain’s suit cleared the icy barrier, the flame atop his helmet flared and split off into three pieces. Griflet, Chopper and Branwen crawled down his shoulders and arms in their more corporeal forms. Gawain crossed his arms over his chest and leveled the hulking skeletal entity seated across the room with a stern glare.

“Again?” He asked rhetorically. All activity within the container abruptly ceased as fifteen pairs of eyes snapped to the newcomer, wary and frightened in equal measure but for one. The entity did not falter under the knight’s glare, and made no move to rise from where he sat on the ground. When the stranger in gleaming armor was not treated as a threat, the group of near-trafficked children slowly began to relax, and one of them even threw a snowball at another.

Griflet, Branwen, and Chopper all dropped to the icy floor below and scampered across the ice, using their little claws as crampons, and falling over one another in pursuit of the snowball, and the rest of the tension seemed to break. A few of the children laughed, and they resumed playing among the drifts of snow and ice. The skeletal entity leaned their elbows over their knees andmade a sound like a sigh.

"Yes, again." He growled out. A child slid between them, laughing as they were chased by another, seemingly unbothered by the icy coldness of the room. "Look, I feel a summons, I answer a summons. It's not my fault this city has a trafficking problem."

"It is your fault so many children apparently know how to summon you." Gawain argued. Another child ran by, pulling two more on a makeshift sled with Branwen’s help. "This is the third time this month you've been summoned to Gotham, specifically. Gotham. Eventually you're going to get the attention of the locals. Goodness knows how you haven't already."

"Melkein toivon, etten olisi soittanut sinulle..." Red lights rolled around dark, cracked eye sockets in a dismissive gesture. "Are you gonna get me home or just stand there and lecture me?"

“Who says I can’t do both?” Gawain stepped to one side to avoid a child sliding across the floor, laughing as Griflet rolled a sizable snowball after him. “Your husband will make me a double ghost if I don’t get you home, not to mention your father…” He moved toward the center of the container, where the ice seemed to radiate outward from a circle of frozen spikes.

In the center of the circle was a rough summoning graph, drawn in black marker against the steel floor and sealed beneath a clear layer of ice. Four stolen cigarettes stuck upright in chewed gum stood in for the candles, and a red ribbon from somebody’s hair was placed in between them. In the middle, on top of the ribbon, lay a single, battered trading card with bent corners. Gawain knelt down and picked up the trading card, careful not to catch it on the seams of his hand.

“The cigarettes are a creative substitute.” He said quietly. The entity shrugged.

“They used what they had available.” He said back just as quietly. Gawain floated back toward the entity, and held out the card. The entity took it in one heavy, gloved hand, and passed it on to a young girl with a gaunt face and bloodshot eyes. She took it and pressed it to her chest, sniffling, and buried her face against the entity’s shoulder. A red shape moved behind her, and a canine-like blob rested its head on her own.

“I expected more of your polter-pack to be around, Ivan.” Gawain commented, a smile on the edge of his voice. The girl made a watery laughing sound, and the entity - Ivan, just like the name on the trading card - swiveled his skull to glare at the knight.

“They’re keeping the perimeter clear, at least until the local heroes show up…and don’t call them that.” He growled. “We’re not giving them some gimmicky name.”

“I think we are.” Gawain’s eyes turned up in a smile. The makeshift sled passed them by again, this time carrying three children as Branwen dragged it backwards in her teeth, her claws scrabbling at the ice in a frantic pace. “It’s been said out loud now. It’s not going away.” Ivan muttered something in Finnish that was probably impolite and slowly shifted his weight to begin standing up, giving the children leaning on him or near him time to move, themselves.

“I’ll corral the little ones.” He decided. “You make sure the coast is clear, and we’ll follow you out.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” Gawain ignored the amused snort he got in response, and whistled a quick tune. His three little spirits came running back to him, and he phased them back through the icy wall without a word further.

[malika-carnelian]

🚫Are there blogs you just won’t follow or characters you won’t interact with? 😒 Have you disliked a person/muse that everyone else loved?

// Of course I didn't forget about these meme things, HEH! *shootmeintheheadpls* @loyal-logik

Are there blogs you just won't follow or characters you won't interact with?

•Duh, on the Transformers franchise fandoms is kinda impossible. I'm too much of a fan to refuse interactions by any of the Characters coming from it lol but regarding the blogs, only those created by minors and, especially, VERY especially... those guided by toxic people.

Really, I'd never follow a toxic person, too old for that shiet.

Have you disliked a person/muse that everyone else loved?

•Duhx2, same thing about the Transformers characters, as for the people... yes, it happened, but only because to my own perspective they were toxic :) (in the end I was even right and they abandoned those who liked them lol, that's called bad karma-)

[springvaletales]

Waking Up (From the Perspective of Someone Who was Fully Lucid)

((A companion piece to this one, because the more I worked on the worldbuilding around the Curse, the more I looked back and realized that Michael would not have been coherent enough to hold a conversation that quickly, and it Bothered Me enough to make me write more.))

It had been thirty-one hours since they'd brought Michael home from the Deadlands keep, and Vashael had yet to leave his side.

Velenna had warned him that Michael wouldn't awaken on his own for at least a day, if not more. The amount of mana that the curse (he was cursed, and had kept it secret) required to reform his body was enormous, and Michael's depleted reserves would have to regenerate before his body would have enough energy to be awake. Knowing this, Vashael stayed by his bedside anyway. Whenever Michael woke, he wanted to be there. He had to be there. He had to reach out every few hours to check for a pulse (eerily calm, but there nonetheless) and watch his friend's chest rise and fall in slow, steady breaths.

It was the only thing that reassured him this dream - this second chance where he didn't cause his best friend's death - was real.

Velenna left him to it, for the most part, only entering the basement to stoke the fire that warmed the house, or offer the prince a meal. Occasionally she would check on Michael, but she alway seemed sullenly satisfied with what she found, and never did more than adjust the blankets covering him or gently card her claws through his hair in a motherly way. Vashael watched these moments in silence, and hoped that her lack of differing treatment was a good sign. He wondered how many times had this had happened for such a situation to become routine for her; for Michael.

It made him feel ill to think too long about, so he sought out a distraction from his thoughts.

It felt almost intrusive to look around Michael's room without his permission, but Vashael had never been good at sitting down and doing nothing. His eyes couldn't help but wander around the stone and wooden walls and take in how an unused corner of a basement had been walled off and turned into his friend's personal haven. He'd been there before, of course, but it had never been for too long. Most of their nights together happened on the road, or while camping, or in taverns, or even in Vashael's own bedroom in the palace. Michael had always made the visits to his level of Velenna's home quick ones...usually just long enough to retrieve a book or a scroll that would have been useful to their latest adventure.

The room was fairly simple in its decorating, with a bed, a desk, a vanity, a small bookcase, two chairs and a pair of small woven rugs to fill the space. Vashael would have found it rather spartan, if not for the enchanted snapshots pinned all over the wall between the desk and bookcase, and the books stacked on the chair or turned down on the rug, as if the reader would be back at any moment. The desk was covered in parchment paper and maps stained with charcoal and ink, and on its top edge were several small boxes filled with scrolls, a closed torchflower, and nearly every single stone that Vashael could recall gifting to the man. Small brass figurines weighed down the edges of the topmost map, or served as markers on paths marked out across the hand drawn landscapes.

Vashael couldn't help but notice the resemblance between the figures (a dragon, a cobra, a bull, and a crane) and their friends, and how the marked path followed the route Naoka, Haaruma, and Bashur were supposed to take on their current quest.

The rest of the room, however, felt almost sharply divided from these fond reminders of Michael's inquisitive nature and care for his friends. The top of the vanity - which itself was pushed up against the wall opposite the bed - was covered in a thin layer of dust, despite the spotlessness of the room around it. The mirror was covered by an old piece of heavy, tattered cloth, and slightly askew, as if it had been thrown there once and never adjusted. It didn't seem like it was used much.

The wardrobe squeezed into the alcove just beside the bed showed more signs of active use, and one door stood ajar, as if someone had been in too much of a hurry to close it when they left. Inside, Vashael could see a few clothing items hurriedly folded on the floor, rather than hung on the rack above. Most of the clothes were simple linen or cotton with simple designs in muted shades of red or brown, or spare uniforms for Bethany's Tavern. One coat was carefully hung on the back of this open door - all fine silk and soft fur trimming - and Vashael felt his lips move to smile at the sight of it.

He'd bought that coat for Michael just months ago, after seeing him eye it longingly in a shop window when the group had stopped in Redfeather City to resupply on their journey home, and still remembered the look of surprise and cautious joy on his friend's face when he'd found it laid out on his bed at the inn later that day.

The only other thing of interest in the room was a series of tally marks scratched into the headboard of the bed. Vashael wasn't quite sure what these were for, but he had a theory...and it made his skin prickle just to think about. Were they a counter for how many days Michael had laid in bed, too exhausted from the side effects of his resurrection to get up? Or were they a counter for how many times he had come back?

Vashael was standing across the room, staring at but not really seeing the collection of enchanted photographs pinned up to the wooden walls as these thoughts whirled through his head when a sudden sharp gasp broke the silence that had reigned almost supreme for more than a day. The prince spun around to face the bed, and his heart soared to see those blue eyes open.

"Michael?" His joy quickly turned to concern as he rushed to the bedside and leaned over the human, and Michael stared through him for a second or two before his eyes managed to focus. "What's wrong - are you hurt? Should I get Velenna?" He fretted. He'd seen with his own eyes that the grievous injury that had caused his death was healed without even a scar to show for it. Was something else wrong?

Instead of answering, Michael started trying to sit up. Vashael froze in shock for a moment (Velenna had said he wouldn't have the strength to move for at least another day after waking) before he sat down on the edge of the bed and gently pushed his friend back down against the slope of pillows.

"Hey, hey, don't get up..." He admonished. Michael's response was a frustrated huff, even as he relented and stopped fighting to rise. He tried to reach out his right hand instead, but it visibly shook from the effort to lift it just a few inches. Instinctively, Vashael took Michael's wrist in his left hand and pressed the human's palm to the front of his silken shirt.

"Listen, Velenna said you're going to be all worn out, for a while." Vashael started to rub his thumb across the back of Michael's hand, and that seemed to calm him more. "Anything you need, your mother or I can get for you, for now." Michael looked at him, and whispered something, but the prince couldn't quite make out the words. He kept up his soothing circles as Michael's eyelids fell halfway, despite him still struggling to talk, and swallowed past the lump in his throat.

"...you were right, by the way." Vashael said quietly. Michael's eyelids flickered open a bit further as he was spoken to, but he still seemed to struggle to focus. "That was very scary." Michael's lips moved again, and Vashael stared at them as then formed a jumbled apology. His own lips pressed into a thin line in an effort not to quiver, and he fought down the emotion rising to the top of his throat. There was no need to get emotional. Everything was fine now.

Everything was fine.

....

"Before you died-." Vashael stopped himself when his voice cracked in grief, and swallowed thickly. He stopped rubbing his thumb over the back of Michael's hand and shifted to cover it with his palm, instead. "I held you until you passed, you know." He said in a quieter voice. He wasn't sure how much Michael remembered of the previous few days - Velenna said it was never much - but he wanted his friend to know that he hadn't been alone. "I listened to your heart stop, and then you fell apart in my arms. Quite literally." He laughed, and the sound raked like claws at his heart as he cast his eyes down to the patchwork bedspread.

There was nothing funny about watching your lover die because of your own stupid decisions.

"...Velenna wasn't surprised, either. She knew exactly where you would be." Vashael felt his eyes begin to sting at the implication this rose, and the lump in his throat did its best to strangle him. "Why did she know that?" He looked back up, but Michael's eyes were closed. For a moment, Vashael's heart sank. Velenna had said that these moments of wakefulness would be short, after all....but then he felt the cold fingers pinned beneath his twitch, and curl against the fabric of his shirt. Michael's eyes still didn't open, but his lips moved. His voice came in cracks and rare, whispered words, and though Vashael strained to catch them in the silence, the only words he could make out were 'I', 'stupid', and 'sorry'.

The prince's heart sank again. Was Michael blaming himself?

"Hey..." Vashael cradled the side of his lover's face with his free hand, and Michael's eyes snapped open, as if startled. He didn't pull away, however, and quickly relaxed as if the prince's hand were the only thing holding his head up. Maybe it was. "I'm...I'm sorry, too." Vashael said quietly. Something hot slid down the side of his face, and he tried so hard to ignore it.

"I'm the idiot who thought we could handle those bandits ourselves. I almost got us both killed-...." Michael's eyes still struggled to focus on his own, but Vashael held their gaze when he could. "If not for this...curse..." His voice cracked again, and he had to stop to regain his composure. Gods, but it hurt to say out loud. "...I would have gotten you killed." He started to shift - to readjust his balance on the edge of the bed - but before he could pull away, Michael's free hand met his and pressed insistently.

He had little more strength then a light breeze, and Vashael could have easily pulled away, but he didn't. He let Michael hold his hand in place and nuzzle against his palm, and watched his blue eyes flutter shut again as he whispered the clearest words of the night:

"I'm still here."

"...you're still here." Vashael agreed with a weak smile, stroking his thumb across his friend's cheek. This action proved to be too soothing, and Michael's head grew heavier in Vashael's hand until he could slide it out from beneath without resistance. Carefully, Vashael shifted his weight and climbed over Michael to lie beside him on the mattress, all the while still holding his other hand. The bed was a little too small for someone of Vashael's height, but he simply let his feet hang off the end as he curled up alongside his best friend.

[misteria247]

I'm realizing that Stan is actually incredibly smart. Like in a Ford kind of way to some extent.

Like yes Stan's street smart and life smart but he's also got the smarts that Ford's praised for. Because he had rebuilt the portal and figured out his brother's notes and equations.

Like do you know how hard math is on Ford and Fiddleford's level of expertise??? How complicated and delicate it is????? Especially the kind that brings portals to life???? And Stan figured it out. Had taught himself to read and comprehend these difficult things. Difficult things that requires college degrees in science and mathematics.

And Stan did this on an incomplete high school grade level of academics.

That's fucking nuts. Sure it took 30 years but he learned it. By himself, can you imagine how frustrated he got, teaching himself Ford's educational level??? Using his mechanical skills of fixing his car to be up to par to Fiddleford's impressive craftsmanship????

And I can just see how Ford and Fiddleford react post apocalypse. Ford doing equations and science stuff and talking while Fiddleford listens and gives his input when Stan pipes up unintentionally and puts his hat into the ring. And it's mathematically sound?? And these two men are just blown away cuz what the actual hell?? Ford's immediately questioning Stan, wanting to hear his thoughts while Fiddleford watches impressed and Stan's mortified and a bit overwhelmed. Or Fiddleford working on something and Ford's watching him when Stan points out a better way to make a part work and Fidds is like omg thank you Stanley??? And Ford's looking at his little brother dumbfounded and itching to bomb him with questions and whatnot.

Stan never knows peace afterwards.

[fazbear-security]

Soul Shift - Ch. 1

Ao3

A thick packet of paper was tossed onto the desk, narrowly missing the crystal ashtray and the cigar balanced on it. The man seated there looked up over his glasses pointedly, and after a few seconds’ pause, his irritated visitor turned and closed the office door behind himself with far more care. With a hum of acknowledgement, the man at the desk picked up the cigar first, and then the paper packet, and held it out to get a better look.

“We need to do something about that yuck.” The second man dropped down into a spare chair near the desk and sagged down to where he could balance his head on his fingertips. “He’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

“I agree.” The man with the cigar puffed as he flipped a few pages of the incident report. “We’re lucky Dr. Wilkenson only wanted to move on from the whole disaster, and chose not to press charges…but we can’t fire him.” Another puff, another cloud of smoke. “His work is impeccable. The building is always immaculate in the morning, and the stage assets haven’t been this clean since 1986. Apart from this one incident, he’s been a model employee.”

“A model employee who’s one bad day away from ruining the very good thing we have going, here.” Chair man argued, sitting up and running one hand through his graying hair to push it out of his eyes. “The longer he hangs around, the greater the risk that he’ll figure out where the budget’s been disappearing to and-”

“And if we fire him for anything other than a justly fireable offense, he’ll sue us with all the power of the most up and coming law firm in the city.” Cigar man shot back sternly. “Or have you forgotten, Terry, that the sister who picks him up every time he covers a day shift on Tuesdays and Thursdays is Coraline Jones of Jones & Berrenheimer, LLC?” Terry leaned his elbows heavily on his knees, and tugged his tie loose with, perhaps, a bit more force than was necessary.

“I didn’t forget, Sal…” He muttered under his breath. “Brat won’t shut up about her once you get him started.”

“Corporate barely had our backs after Houston,” The man at the desk - Sal - put down the incident report and raised his hands with crooked fingers to act as air quotes. “Moved back to Louisiana suddenly.” He lowered his hands and took the cigar out of his mouth to tap some of its loose ashes into the crystal tray. “If we knowingly invite a wrongful termination lawsuit, they won’t just throw us under the bus, they’ll tie us to the train tracks themselves.” Terry narrowed his eyes, but looked away from Sal’s bespectacled glare after only a few seconds.

Sal leaned back in his chair with a creak, and Terry looked down at his shoes, pressing his knuckles against his lips in thought. He hated it, but his partner-in-crime was right. There was no easy way to fire Mike Schmidt, and with the way he’d been making friends on the day shift, it would be no cake walk to convince another employee to lie for them. Damn…he’d thought they could count on the split between the day and the night shifts pretty reliably, too.

“....what if we didn’t fire him?” Terry spoke up after the quiet in the office had stretched for several long, tense minutes. Sal breathed out a ring of cigar smoke and turned his head just enough to look at the other man through his bifocals. “What if…” Terry sat up a little straighter. “He just took a page out of Houston’s book.”

“It won’t work.” Sal blew another rink of smoke toward the ceiling fan lazily spinning above his desk. “Whatever he does on the night shift has kept those mechanical beasts at bay for more than a year. If he hasn’t slipped up by now, then he’s not going to slip up soon.”

“Then we make sure he slips up.” Terry’s fingers started to twitch, and he unlaced them to drum them against his knees. “We’ll rig the fuse box in the basement. Put a bunk fuse in place of a good one.” He thought out loud. “When the power switches over to the generator at midnight, the fuse’ll blow, and the generator will be shut down.” He reasoned. “No power, no doors, no chance. Bye-bye Schmidt.”

“....” Sal slowly sat up at this and looked at his partner with an unreadable expression. “Terry,” He said quietly, as if concerned his voice might carry too far. “You’re talking about murder. That’s a life sentence.”

“We’re already looking at a felony if word of our little racket gets out.” Terry argued back, though he lowered his own voice to match his manager’s. “Besides, corporate’s already in deep, covering up this kind of thing. We’re not at fault if the company’s machines suddenly go rogue and mince the night guard over a programming error, right?”

“He’s a kid.” Sal reached up and took his cigar out of his mouth. “His family comes here almost every day - hell, a quarter of our birthday parties in the summer come from the foster home alone-”

“He’s a twenty-something college drop out with anger issues.” Terry argued, standing up from his chair. “And he used to be one of those fosters, right? He’s damaged goods - he’s already had one outburst at work - what’s to say he hasn’t another around a kid? That he won’t have another one during a busy party day, except this time, somebody gets hurt, and we get swamped in lawsuits?” A small, sharp smile was starting to creep across the man’s face. “We’d be doing a service, if you think of it that way.”

“This is worse than embezzlement.” Sal muttered around his hand as he pushed up his glasses to rub his face. God, he could already feel the migraine coming on.  “You understand that this is worse, don’t you? Murder is always worse!”

“This is protection.” Terry planted his palms on the desk and leaned over Sal. “We have spent more than a decade pocketing spare change from the corporate budget just to build up the nest eggs that they refuse to give us, and if we don’t do something about this very real liability in the building, we’re risking it all.” Terry plucked the cigar from Sal’s limp fingers and stubbed it out in the ashtray. “I’m not going to risk my granddaughter’s college funds in the hope that Schmidt will keep his nose out of our business, and I know you wouldn’t risk your grandbaby’s medical coverage...would you?”

The chair scraped loudly over the old wooden floor as Sal suddenly stood up, and Terry jerked back in surprise. He’d been hoping to get a rise out of his long time partner, but he hadn’t been expecting such a cold, hardened glare. The man raised his hands off the desk, half-placatingly, as Sal picked up the cigar and held it between them.

“Never ruin my Belicoso again.” He threatened lowly before dropping it back into the crystal tray. “...you said you had a broken fuse for the box?”

“Yeah. Kitchen staff reported it last week. Jeremy (the old one) swapped it out on Friday but left the burnt one sitting on top of the box.” Terry replied, still tense and poised to dodge an outburst. “There’s a back-up in the box, still, but if we swap them around, then the generator will stay off when the power cut happens, and we won’t risk a fire.”

“Then the next time someone needs more supplies, volunteer to bring them up from the basement, and switch out the fuses.” Sal turned away from the desk, massaging his temples with one hand. God forgive them for what they were about to do, if he had any mercy left. “Lock the door behind you once you’re done. You and I will arrive bright and early, before Anders gets in, and clear out whatever suit they use.

“We’ll double down on the advertisement of the new character corporate sent over, and say that Schmidt just didn’t show for his shift. No video means no evidence, and if the police come sniffing around, then we dress up the incident report a bit more.” Sal shrugged. “Throw in a few added swear words and threats of violence, I don’t know.”

“A dead man can’t file a defamation lawsuit.” Terry agreed with a smile that bore a striking resemblance to a hungry shark. Sal very pointedly did not look at it. “I’ll make sure Schmidt’s day shifts are covered ‘as a favor’. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the break.”

“I’m sure…” Sal took a deep breath, and then, with his back still to his partner, waved a hand to dismiss him. “Get back out on the floor before the staff start to whisper.” He ordered. Terry didn’t respond, but Sal heard the door open and close, and slowly turned around to stand over his desk. He picked up a small, ornate frame that held a picture of a little toddler with hollow cheeks and a glowing smile. He rubbed his thumb over the edge of the frame, and the placard that read ‘Grandpa’s Strongest Angel’, and slowly put it back on the desk.

He sat down, and picked up the incident report before burying it at the bottom of his lowest desk drawer. Then, he turned on the monitor of the computer sitting to one side of the desk, and navigated through the files to the payroll folder.

Schmidt wouldn’t be needing a final paycheck after tonight.