#Looking for a Lady with Fangs and a Moustache

[mariana-oconnor]

Black Peter pt 2

I still maintain that Captain Carey shot himself with a harpoon. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some miles through the remains of widespread woods, which were once part of that great forest which for so long held the Saxon invaders at bay—the impenetrable “weald,” for sixty years the bulwark of Britain.

A mini history lesson from Watson for us. Was not expecting that. Thank you. This is very informative. And also an interesting little critical aside about industrialisation and deforestation in the Victorian era.

Stanley Hopkins [...] introduced us to a haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of the murdered man, whose gaunt and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of terror in the depths of her red-rimmed eyes, told of the years of hardship and ill-usage which she had endured. With her was her daughter, a pale, fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed defiantly at us as she told us that she was glad that her father was dead, and that she blessed the hand which had struck him down.

Firstly, good for her. Secondly, do these ladies not get names? No names available for them? They have to be immortalised only in their relationship to an abusive dead man. Although I supposed the daughter is described as 'her' daughter rather than Carey's.

Clearly they aren't viable suspects if they don't have names. Pity. They deserved to do it.

Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket, and had stooped to the lock, when he paused with a look of attention and surprise upon his face. “Someone has been tampering with it,” he said.

Someone wanted their book back, perhaps? But apparently someone not very good at picking locks. Sucks to be them.

"Let us walk in these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few hours to the birds and the flowers."

He does love his walks through the countryside.

It was past eleven o'clock when we formed our little ambuscade.

Excellent word. This is the second time it has arisen. Means 'ambush' and last time we saw it, I believe, was when the poor cook in Wisteria Lodge was arrested for a crime he did not commit, that the police officer in charge of arresting him knew he did not commit. That's an unfortunate connotation for a good word.

What savage creature was it which might steal upon us out of the darkness? Was it a fierce tiger of crime, which could only be taken fighting hard with flashing fang and claw, or would it prove to be some skulking jackal, dangerous only to the weak and unguarded?

Watson's really getting into this. We're back with the tigers again, but also Jackals. Rude, btw. Anubis might want a word. Jackals hunt bigger animals in groups. Honestly, I wouldn't want to meet a tiger or a jackal in the middle of the night.

'Tiger of Crime', though. What a phrase.

The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a black moustache which intensified the deadly pallor of his face. He could not have been much above twenty years of age. I have never seen any human being who appeared to be in such a pitiable fright, for his teeth were visibly chattering and he was shaking in every limb. He was dressed like a gentleman, in Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, with a cloth cap upon his head.

This was all very atmospheric until we got to the word knickerbockers, which just isn't a word I can ever take seriously. Honestly the problem with knickerbockers is that when you actually see a picture of them, they're really very boring looking. They shouldn't be. It's such a comedic word.

He returned with a large book, one of the log-books which formed a line upon the shelves. Leaning on the table he rapidly turned over the leaves of this volume until he came to the entry which he sought. Then, with an angry gesture of his clenched hand, he closed the book, replaced it in the corner, and put out the light.

OK, so not after the book they found, but just after some information from one of the books. Hmmmm.

“First of all, what is your name?” “It is John Hopley Neligan.”

Well now you've got a name, you're definitely a suspect. Luckily for you it has the same initials as in the book they found, which officially makes you Too Obvious.

“Can I speak confidentially?” “No, certainly not.”

At least they are being honest with him.

"It has always been said that my father stole all the securities and fled. It is not true. It was his belief that if he were given time in which to realize them all would be well and every creditor paid in full. He started in his little yacht for Norway just before the warrant was issued for his arrest."

...

Bye! I'm off to Norway, but I'm totes innocent and not stealing any money. See you!

"He left us a list of the securities he was taking, and he swore that he would come back with his honour cleared, and that none who had trusted him would suffer. Well, no word was ever heard from him again. Both the yacht and he vanished utterly."

... John... I hate to break this to you, but I don't think he was going to Norway to work things out.

Like, maybe in the story he was, but this is just such a fake death. "Daddy's gone to Norway to make everything better, little Johnny!" Mmhmm. The only way this could amuse me more is if he were in a canoe.

"We had a faithful friend, however, who is a business man, and it was he who discovered some time ago that some of the securities which my father had with him have reappeared on the London market."

You astonish me.

The entire framing of this story makes me feel like in the story Neligan Sr. is as innocent as his son believes and was done dastardly by Captain Carey in some way, but this story is so unbelievable. Gonna just nope out of there and sail to fucking Norway and that will totally solve all our problems? The logic. The reason. The chivalry of leaving your wife and child behind to deal with the disgrace and your disappearance alone. Daddy was a dickhead, Johnny boy.

"It struck me that if I could see what occurred in the month of August, 1883, on board the Sea Unicorn, I might settle the mystery of my father's fate."

Yes, I am going to put a narwhal gif whenever the ship name comes up. If ACD didn't want this to happen, he should have named the ship something else.

“You have nothing else to tell us?” He hesitated. “No; there is nothing.”

“Then how do you account for that?” cried Hopkins, as he held up the damning note-book, with the initials of our prisoner on the first leaf and the blood-stain on the cover.

Hopkins is really channelling Holmes here with his dramatic reveal.

And it seems like Neligan Jr here really should have been coming back to get his own book. He just didn't realise he'd dropped it. Which is weird. If I had been at a murder site earlier and then found out I had lost something, my mind would immediately spiral into 'oh shit, you dropped it at the murder site, you utter numpty', but apparently John Neligan does not doom spiral like I do. Apparently this possibility hasn't even occurred to him. Not a thought between those ears, huh?

“That is enough,” said Hopkins, sternly. “Whatever else you have to say you must say in court."

Or... you might say... You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say can be given in evidence.

Or... something like that. Eventually. When the official Police Caution comes in.

"As it turns out your presence was unnecessary, and I would have brought the case to this successful issue without you..."

Ah. Hopkins. You were doing so well up to this point. But now you've gone and cursed yourself. Sorry. I don't make the rules.

And then they all went to tea at the Brambletye Hotel and had lashings of tea.

But no... there is still another part. Obviously, because we all know Captain Carey was killed in a (not so) tragic Harpoon cleaning accident, so Mr Neligan has to be freed.

[somewatching]

‘Looking for a Lady with Fangs and a Moustache’ (2019) Review: Soul-searching chai Link: https://letterboxd.com/adeeshaey/film/looking-for-a-lady-with-fangs-and-a-moustache/

[littlefreya]

Behind Blue Eyes

Summary: Beaten and broken, August Walker walks the streets of an unnamed city while he is taken by sudden longing.

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (August's POV)

Words: 2k

Warnings: +18, angst, bad language, mentions of sex, mentions of alcohol, mentions of a breakup, longing, love, heartache. August being poetic AF and August being a prick and stealing candy.

A/N: This story was in my WIP drive for 2 years now and I finally got inspired to finish it. Beta'd by the amazing @agniavateira. I hope you'll enjoy it, I admit it's different from my usual stuff.

Behind Blue Eyes

Ghostly smoke carried onto the autumn breeze. It permeated my nostrils, making my throat itch and my tear ducts sting. The entire street smelled like burning elm leaves and some sort of tarty odour that resembled charred pumpkins. Might have been some ritualistic witchcraft. 

This time of the year made all sorts of freaks swarm the streets. 

I should know, I was one of them. With blood seeping out my nostrils and caking my moustache, I looked like something that crawled out of hell myself. 

Stumbling to the hotel, my feet nearly failed me. Whatever I was tonight, it wasn’t a man but a shadow at best, no more than the swarming pack of ghouls and demons that rushed toward me. Their white and green faces leered with taunt, eyes glowering hollow and fangs of red plastic greeted me with an insult. 

Fucking kids.

Unbalanced, I swayed from one side to the other. My long arm casually lunged forward, my hand diving straight into the pumpkin-shaped bucket a little boy was holding. Not batting a single eyelash, I grabbed a handful of candies.

“Hey, mister! That’s mine!” The kid whined with protest, lifting his mask to look at me with a distressed pout.

Unfazed by his stupid face, I snorted and stored the pillaged Halloween snacks down the pocket of my trench coat, offering him a scolding frown instead. “You damn kids should be in fucking bed, it’s almost 2 am.”

Was it actually? I lost track of time after my sixth glass of bourbon.

“Fuck off, boomer!” They shouted at me as I walked away. The Cheshire grin smeared on my face hurt my cheeks; I haven’t been this amused since I hate-fucked Hunt’s daughter against the window at HQ. But my smile shortly waned as every bone in my body kindly reminded me of the beating I took a few hours earlier. 

‘Screw this night.’ I balled my fist around the sweets in my pocket and spat a mouthful of blood on the curb. This assignment didn’t go as smooth as planned; someone informed the target and he was well aware and prepared for my arrival. As he mauled me down and pulled out a box-cutter I was sure this was going to be the one where I kicked the bucket.

A brush with death on the night of Halloween, how poetic.

'More like pathetic.' In that glacial moment when the blade kissed my throat, the only thing that lingered on my mind was her.

How the phantom of her lips kissed below my sideburn, her scent so vivid yet drifting away. I couldn’t grasp it, couldn’t keep the sensation that was her entity. As the remnants of her reverie completely faded, came the pure rage. That asshole didn’t stand a chance once I gained the upper hand and started beating him to a bleeding pulp. 

I needed a drink after that—at least four to dull the pain and erase those ridiculous thoughts. 

Flares of striking pink and orange blinded my eyes as I finally made it to the hotel’s lobby. The honeyed spirit that laved my veins failed to take the edge off; rather than dimming my senses, it enhanced every physical and mental pain while I oscillated into a whirlpool of hurt. One by one, the memories hit me like a flash, gnawing at me while I made my way through the empty neon-lit lobby and advanced toward the elevator. 

Did I even remember what she looked like? Or was her face altered and changed by the fickle fingers of memory? 

Trying to keep on my feet I barged into the lift, surprising a middle-aged lady who stood against the translucent glass wall with eyes wide open and disdain written all over her wrinkled face. She curled her nose, either because of how badly I smelled or how bludgeoned I must have looked. 

“Ever had sex in an elevator?” I teased, grabbing the flaccid bulge in my groin with a suggestive wink. Horrified, she grunted at me and fled in an instant.   

Still laughing, I took the elevator and then sauntered toward the hotel room. My amusement surely died as my chest burnt with every heave and the unmistakable taste of iron climbed up my throat. 

“Shit…” I mumbled.  Exhausted, I sank into the cradling grave that was my bed, and my eyes soared to the ceiling. Memories of her lying beside me haunted my thoughts; the tender pads of her fingers, hovering over my hairy chest, the fragrance of her skin - subtle, like dry autumn leaves, wafted over me.

The idea that I might die here, in a city so far away from her, without her even knowing crept into my mind and a sense of painful hollowness wove in my gut. 

If I could only speak to her, one last time…

“I still have her number,” I mumbled into the dim light.

I never lost it. Like an idiot I kept moving it from one burner phone to the other, lying to the agency that it was an important informant. Fishing for the device from my pants pocket, I stared at the black mirror and stroked a bloody thumb over the opaque reflection. 

The last memory of her was sobs and screams, her pretty little face swelling as she cried because I told her I didn’t care about her.

And I really didn’t. At the time.

'Did I?'

My thumb slid to unlock the phone, seeking the directory for her name. And there it was, imprinted black on white. Just a name of a girl—a common name even—and yet my throat clenched just from uttering it on silent, chafed lips.

“Don’t do it…” I tried to reason with myself, remembering how she screamed at me that she never wants to see me again. Her eyes were so red I was afraid she'd cry blood and despite it all, she was pretty when she cried. 

“Don’t be that idiot…” I warned myself.

But then the sound of the line ringing filled the room like the guilt that poisoned my heart. 

'What heart?' I chuckled bitterly, my eyes squinting at the brightness of the screen while I stared and waited to hear her voice. “Answer princess, what time is it there anyway? Is it late?” 

“Hello? Who is this…?” 

My entire body stiffened once her voice penetrated my head. Crisp and sharp, buffered by the phone line yet her timbre was soft as always, just the way it was when we used to speak before that when I would call to say goodnight while on a mission. God, I lied to this woman more than I ever lied to anyone else in my entire life. 

I didn’t deserve her, and yet I wanted her too badly.  

“Hello?” she asked again, slightly groggy but not even an inch of agitation.

“Princess…” Finally, I managed to speak.

Silence fell on the other line and then her breath shuddered. She swallowed and exhaled loudly and all I could think of was how much I wanted to touch her face right now. It’s been a year, and yes, I might have been with a dozen other girls, but none of them was my sweet little angel with her tragic, soulful eyes. 

“August…”

After all this time, my name was on those lips again. Instinctively I scoffed on the bed, bliss warm and golden surged through my tendons. She remembered my voice… she didn’t hang up right away. 

“It’s three in the morning.” There was a deep sadness in her voice but no signs of anger, not that I could hear, so I pressed on, letting hope lead me astray. 

“It’s me, yeah. Did I wake you up?”

“Are you drunk?” 

I sniffed my own breath, the sour scent caused me to curl my nose. “No,” I lied. But she wasn’t fooled for a second. Words, as few as they were, slurred and she knew I was too proud to ever call a woman in order to tell her how much I fucking missed her. 

“Are you alone right now?” The thought of someone lying next to her made me clench my jaw. Surely, my heartbeats slowed and like a cougar, I tried to listen to her bedroom to detect any shift of fabric, any weight on the mattress that wasn’t hers.

“Don’t do this,” she deflected, “you left me, remember? You didn’t want a relationship.”

‘I made a mistake, I want you, princess.’ I knew that now more than ever. I wanted to wake up next to her every morning, to have her sleeping on my chest, her little head resting on my pec while I caressed her hair.

Maybe with her, I could be normal. In my mind, I could see it all clearly;  little potted herbs growing on our kitchen’s window ledge, friends coming over for a summer BBQ while I’m flipping burgers and she’s serving rolls in a summer dress. She would roll her eyes at my bad puns while I’ll sneak a cup at that delicious ass.

My sight became even blurrier, and something wet and warm rolled down the corners of my eyes. With a broken voice, I half-whispered, “I miss you…” 

She remained silent, or at least she tried to, but the sound of her little sniffles was noticeable even through the hand that must have covered her mouth.

“Remember Malibu? Remember how I ate you out on the beach, during sunrise? You were so beautiful when you came around my mouth, your body arching on the sand, the first rays of sunlight kissed your nipples and showered your torso with warmth. You told me you could love me forever that day. Do you still feel that way?”

She pulled at her nose and swallowed slowly. I could see those beautiful eyes going glassy and for a moment there, I felt like that jerk again—the jerk that made his beautiful woman cry.

“Do you?” I asked again. 

“Did you just call me to validate yourself?”

Answering a question with a question. Of course, my woman had always been wise. 

“How many others have there been? Is there a list? Are you going through us all right now because you are bored and need to feel like a man?”

A faint grin stretched across my face. There it was, the anger, but it wasn’t because she hated me. No. It meant she still cared and perhaps she was even a little bit jealous if she asked about ‘others’.

“Angel, in all those long, excruciating months there was just you. I only ever wanted you.” 

“August…”

An odd wail came from the other line, cutting her off mid-sentence. Alarmed, she let a sharp gasp and covered the handle to muffle the sounds.

‘Did she get a cat?’ I frowned dumbfounded but briefly the realisation hit and I shot up from the bed, pressing the phone so close to my ear it seared. 

It’s been a year, enough time for...

“Is that…? Is it my ba…”

“I am sorry, I have to go,” she responded in obvious panic. 

“Wait!”

I could hear her rushing out of bed, the rustling of the fabric whooshing while the cries grew louder and ravenous. “Please, August, just go to bed. You will forget all about me in the morning and move on with your life like you always did.” 

The connection was severed as she hung up the phone. The cold, monotonous tune screamed through the device like the life support monitor of a dead man. But at that very moment, my heart was anything but lifeless; it pounded in my chest as if it was beating for the first time in many years. 

Half-sat on the bed, I exhaled with sheer astonishment, my fingers still tingling at the discovery as I held onto the phone. 'You couldn’t let me leave, couldn’t you princess?' She kept a piece of me inside her, a piece that will forever symbolise how much she truly loved me. 

A breathless chuckle left my throat. Fuck, it hurt but I couldn't care less anymore. Amid the blood and crushed bones, hope began to sprout, spreading throughout my chest and bringing life to what used to feel like a graveyard.

After all the years, there was a purpose, and I knew what had to be done. And maybe she'd hate me at first, perhaps she'd resent me for coming back, but now that we were a family, there was no way I was to be denied.

'I’m coming home, baby. Daddy is coming home.’ 

[kayr0ss]

So... Is It Her First Day? (Diakko)

[LWA, Fluff, a lot of Fluff, Established Relationship, Pls Help Diana,  slight Hamanda]

Summary: Diana found herself sneaking out of Luna Nova past curfew to visit a convenience store. Why was she even here?

Oh right. Her girlfriend was cranky, on her period, and driving her absolutely insane.

-

Diana stood at the hallway, unsure of how to process the fact that Akko had just very gently ushered her out of the Red Team's dormitory, shoving her textbooks into her arms while she told her, quote, “not to come anywhere near me with homework within the next twenty-four hours, Diana, I swear to Beatrix—”

Then silence. Because Akko closed the door.

At her face.

Diana blinked towards the heavy slab of wood that stood between herself and Akko. What could she have possibly done wrong?

“Cavendish.”

She whipped her head towards her left. To her surprise, enlightenment on the situation was about to come from Sucy of all people.

“You do not want to go in there right now,” she grabbed Diana by the sleeve.

“Surely there’s no need to drag me across the hallway—”

“Yes, there is.” The purple-haired witch spoke with the authority of experience. “It’s Akko’s first day and that is a shitstorm if I ever saw one.”

“First… day?” Diana had an idea what the other witch meant, but it paid to be thorough.

“Of her period.” Sucy glared back. “Don’t you have those? Also, you live with two other women in the dorm.”

“I just wanted to be sure.” Diana said in a clipped voice before pulling her sleeve free of Sucy’s grip and matching her pace down the hallway. “And what might you suggest I do?”

“Why would you have to do anything? Just leave her alo—” Then Sucy paused, smirking. “Right. I almost forgot. You’re her girlfriend now.”       

It still made her blush whenever she explicitly remembered it, although she would have preferred not to look so flustered in front of Sucy.

Akko was her girlfriend for all of fourteen days by now.

The newest development in their relationship was something of a serendipitous moment. A pleasant surprise, so to speak—even if it seemed the two of them were the only ones surprised at the news. Were we that dense? Diana frowned, recalling how Hannah and Barbara sighed in relief rather than shock when she told them.

“Food.” Sucy had blurted out.

Diana looked at her inquisitively, and then she realized the pair of them were on the way to the… kitchens?

“Food is our go-to.” The other woman supplied. “Lotte will already be at the kitchens. Doesn’t fix her shitty mood completely, but it helps.”

“That’s… quite thoughtful of you, Sucy.”

The purple-haired witch shot her a massive eyeroll. “Don’t give me that look. Do you have any idea how much of a pain in the ass Akko is when she’s like that? It’s exasperating.”

---

All it took was one crate labeled ‘exotic ingredients’ for Sucy to lose track of the purpose of their kitchen visit.

“Diana’s her girlfriend.” Sucy had told Lotte, already trailing the goblins due to deliver the ingredients to the potions lab, “I’m out—this is her job now as far as I’m concerned.”

Lotte smiled apologetically, scratching at the back of her head while she opened the door into the kitchens and inviting Diana to come inside.

“This is really sweet of you,” the bespectacled woman said.

Suddenly she felt self-conscious, growing hot under the collar. Beatrix. How long was it going to take before the mere thought that she and Akko were dating would stop making her blush?

But at the same time—it made her smile. Lotte had always been observant, so the way she knowingly smiled back could only mean she knew what she was smiling oh-so-softly about. She briefly wondered if the butterflies in her stomach were glaringly obvious as well.

Diana’s eyes widened in surprise when she stepped through the door.

The kitchens were much bigger than she imagined. The walls were thick, aged stone, with pillars that shot up into the high ceiling, connected by arches for support. It looked a bit like a smithy with all the stone, smoke, and fire—but she realized that it wasn’t sweltering at all. There were metal air vents that ran above the kitchen, looking out-of-place but keeping the area well-ventilated with modern technology. And the aromas! She was hit by a delectable sensory over-load that made her (already fluttering) stomach grumble.

“Heya, Lotte!”

A friendly-looking goblin with a lopsided smile trudged towards them, landing a heavy slap on Lotte’s shoulder (“Ouch!”).

“Barry!” Lotte whined, rubbing at where he had greeted her.

“Sorry!” Barry scratched his head. He had bushy brows and fangs that stuck out of his lower lip, and yet despite it all he managed to look so… friendly. Perhaps the apron had something to do with it? “We just get excited when you guys visit.” Large eyes flitted towards Diana and then widened in recognition.

“Hello.” She cleared her throat, unused to being scrutinized. “I’m Diana Caven—”

“Hey guys!” Barry had called over his shoulder, grinning. “It’s Comrade Akko’s girlfriend!”

Comrade?

She looked back towards the staff who were busy with work, several of them turning towards her and waving. There were even some cheers. But they quickly fell back to cooking, which made sense—dinner time was coming soon. Oh. Perhaps now was not the best time to be bothering them with the concerns of a teenager who hadn’t the slightest inkling how to woo a cranky significant other.

“So we finally get to meet’cha!” Two burly troll hands settled heavily on her shoulder. “Why didn’t you guys bring her in sooner, Lotte?”

“You know how it goes,” Lotte chuckled mirthfully, still rubbing the sore spot on her shoulder. “School gets busy!”

“Good thing you’ve got us to keep those rumblin’ bellies full, amirite Jean?”

Coming up from behind him was another troll (Jean, she supposed?). He was a bit taller and leaner, with an expression that reminded her of snobbish pastry chefs she’s met when vacationing abroad. Except, troll-like.

“I can’t believe Comrade Akko had chosen a member of the oppressive bourgeoise for a fling!”

Diana blanched along with Lotte. Bourgeoise? That she could forgive. But—a fling?

“We’re very much in a serious relationship.” Diana found herself seizing up the taller troll, cheeks flushing in indignation at the thought that they were just a fling.

“C’mon, buddy. If she’s okay in Lotte and Comrade Akko’s book, then she’s good with the kitchen trolls!” Barry smiled brightly.

“Speaking of Akko,” Lotte interjected. “It’s that time of the month.”

Barry and Jean were struck with urgency and realization.

“First day?” Jean said quickly, brushing his manicured moustache.

“Yup.”

“Alright. Follow me, ladies.”

---

“I’m quite sure this is against regulation.” Diana set her hand on Lotte’s shoulder, allowing magic to soothe the inevitable bruising that would have come from Barry’s slap.

“Don’t let the trolls hear you say that!” Lotte said quietly. “They love her. Oh, but thanks for healing that—it’s… not like any of the magic they do at the infirmary.”

“It’s a Cavendish skill.”

Her mother had taught it to her at a very young age—to soothe a toothache here, or a pulled muscle there.

They were in a small separated room connected to the kitchens which might have been used to house treasure back when Luna Nova was a proper medieval castle. These days it was used more or less similarly, except the ‘treasure’ was a collection of candied applies, tarts, an impressive meat selection, and various types of bread.

“So this is where she goes whenever she sneaks out for snacks past curfew. I can’t believe the trolls condone this.”

“It’s Akko.” Lotte deadpanned.

She was right. This was entirely unsurprising—something to do with having fought for fair labor practices, she supposed.

“You know,” the other woman started, looking over a selection of sweets which Akko might like. “I’m really glad you two are finally together!”

Diana smiled in appreciation, looking down towards several baguettes while a light dusting of pink fell on her cheeks. “Thank you.”

“It’s really cute! And took no small amount of Akko going crazy about her feelings for you for months on end.”

“She did?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” Lotte seemed to shudder at the memory. “It drove us crazy too.”

Diana blinked, feeling the odd need to apologize. “Well she does have the tendency to vent her frustrations in a more… outward manner.”

“Yeah,” Lotte giggled. “Screaming into pillows, banging her head into the wall while wailing about your “perfect freaking hair”, and don’t even get me started about that whole week she dedicated to practicing her grand monologue of professing her feelings to you!”

“Oh, she told me about that.”

“It was a disaster wasn’t it?”

“She tripped on her words.” Diana fondly recalled. “And then—”

“—said ‘I fucking like you!’.” Lotte completed, apparently having heard the story from the source itself. She groaned at her usage of such an expletive.

Then they sputtered into quiet, friendly laughter.

Diana never got to spend much time with Lotte, much less alone, but she was one of Akko’s closest friends and she had no plans of denying how enjoyable their conversation had been thus far.

“I feel like I should get to you know more, both you and Sucy.” The blonde said with a little bit of shyness.

“You sure about Sucy?” Lotte grinned.

Diana laughed mirthfully, “Akko said the Red Team was inseparable—take it or leave it.”

“Glad to see our friend is in good hands, then!”

“I…” she began slowly, “Plan to do this—being together, that is—as best as I possibly can.” Diana admitted, sighing wistfully. “I’ll take all the good and the bad that comes with her.”

She blinked up at the other woman, conscious of the lack of response to her sudden admission. Lotte was… swooning with what looked like hearts in her eyes?

“Oh my god!” She squealed. “That’s so romantic!”

---

Half an hour later, Diana was once again in front of the Red Team’s dormitory. Her hand flexed nervously around the handle of a food basket and she rolled her eyes at herself. Why was she nervous? All she was doing was giving Akko food!

She raised her hand confidently to rap at the door—

—and then pulled it back, running her fingers through her hair in frustration.

“By Jennifer,” she muttered to herself in annoyance. “How hard should it be to knock on someone’s door?”

But then said door opened, and red eyes were blinking at her.

“Diana?” Akko murmured. “I heard shuffling from the outside, I wanted to check it out but didn’t expect it was you.”

She looked disheveled, with her hair all over the place and her pajamas askew. She was holding a bag of warm compress and Diana felt worry shoot up at the thought that something was ailing her enough to skip dinner.

“Akko,” she started, stepping forward to lay her hand on her arm. “Is everything alright?”

“Nope,” the brunette wailed, stepping forward and dropping her head on Diana’s shoulder. “My uterus wants to kill me and this weather is making it worse! But I’m sorry about earlier.” She mumbled into her sleeve. “I didn’t mean to be so pushy. I got super stressed thinking about taking that Runes exam tomorrow while feeling this way—just seeing your books wanted to make me cry!” She rambled on. “Oh—what’s that?”

She pulled away, staring at the basket in Diana’s hand.

“I’ve brought you dinner.” Diana said softly, pleased that Akko was feeling better and even more so at how she sparkled at the thought of ‘food.’ This girl could be so simple, it made the blonde smile.

“Mou—I don’t deserve you!” She wailed, eagerly opening the cloth wrap in the basket right there at the doorway.

And then Akko groaned. She looked like she was going to cry. Why did she look like she was going to cry? Beatrix, help me. Diana swallowed.

“I’m so tired of potatoes!” Akko threw her hands upwards, lip trembling. “Does this school not order anything else?”

She stomped back to her bed, grumbling about starch and rice and ‘Okaa-san’s stew!’ before face-planting into the pillows.

Diana stood cluelessly at the doorway. Should she come on in or… just give her space?

But then Akko suddenly sprang back upward, running towards Diana before taking a fistful of her collar, pulling her in and—

Kissing her.

Very deeply.

She had never been so pleasantly confused in her life.

“I’m so sorry!” Akko pouted. “That was so ungrateful of me. Thank you! I’m starving!” She grabbed the basket. “I hate it when I’m like this—Kami-sama—I’ll be better tomorrow, I promise. You don’t have to deal with this and I’ll make it up to you okay? And-I-love-you!”

“I—I love you t—”

And then the door was back.

At her face.

For the second time today.

Was it acceptable to scream in the hallways at dinner time?

---

Feeling desperate and increasingly frustrated after dinner, she walked towards the Green Team’s dormitory, seeking the advice of someone she never wanted to ask: the only other witch in their group who had a girlfriend and experience with this matter.

Amanda.

Hannah wasn’t nearly as temperamental as Akko during that time of the month, but she wasn’t easy to get along with either. To her credit, it seemed the American witch was actually managing it quite well.

“Diana Cavendish.” Amanda smirked once she opened the door. “In the flesh. How can we help you?”

She flushed despite herself and gave a soft nod towards Jasminka and Constanze who waived at her from inside.

“I would like to seek your opinion on a matter.”

Amanda actually looked surprised. “Never thought I’d hear that from you.”

“Akko is…” Diana gestured aimlessly, trying to find the right words. “On her period.”

“Oh.”

Why was O’Neill looking at her that way? “Well?”

“So you’re having trouble dealing with the… ya know?”

“I don’t.” Diana pursed her lips. She was so tired at this point.  “I don’t know.”

“No fucking way.” Amanda gawked. “I can’t believe you’re asking me about this.”

“What is it that’s so hard to believe about me wanting to be a good partner?” Diana fumed, her patience wearing thing. Wasn’t that what she was supposed to do? Make Akko feel better when in a foul mood?

Amanda whistled. “I mean… can’t you deal with it on your own?”

“On my own?”

“Yeah!” Amanda nodded enthusiastically. “The urge, I meant. Even I don’t push Hannah when it’s her red season. We just wait it out. Being intimate can get really messy when there’s bloo—”

She slammed the door shut so hard it might have hit Amanda’s nose.

---

Her attempt to learn more from the Green Team was a spectacularly embarrassing failure, and so Diana resigned herself to leaving Akko with space and shutting herself in her dorm.

“Trouble in paradise?” Hannah piped in, noticing the forlorn expression on her usually impassive face. “And why are you looking at me like that?”

Forget about what Amanda said, forget about what Amanda said.

“You could say that.” Diana admitted, not in the mood to hide anything. They were her best friends anyway.

Barbara watched with interested as Diana walked over to her desk and seated herself, catching her head in her hands with a sigh.

“So what happened?” The raven-haired witch leaned forward.

“Akko’s in a mood.” The blonde replied in a muffled voice. “I can’t make heads-or-tails of what to do about it.”

“Is she jealous?” Hannah guessed.

Diana shook her head.

“Injured?”

She shook her head again.

“On her period?”

“First day.” Diana confirmed.

It was met with a synchronized “Ooooh.”

“She hexed Amanda one time she bugged her on her period right?”

“Yeah.” Hannah tried not to snicker. “Burned her skirt. Never knew Akko could pull that spell off.”

Diana rubbed at her temples. “Why is that everyone else seems to know about her apparently infamous temperament and I don’t?”

“Because,” Barbara started, “she made it a point to steer clear of you so she doesn’t snap up or, and I quote “burden you”. And some people really do have it worse than others. My cousin had cramps so bad she would have to miss classes sometimes. I think Akko’s got something similar.”

Diana vaguely recalled days when Akko seemed more reserved than usual. She also had her fair share of spending the day at the infirmary every few months.

“She told you this?”

“Lotte did.” She said off-handedly. “Night-fall convention.”

“You talk about Akko and me during a—”

“We’re romantics!” She said defensively. “And we were right about you two. But anyway, what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ve been trying to do something about it. I brought her food.”

“And?”

“She’s tired of potatoes.”

Hannah sighed. “We all are. Even you—don’t deny it! I see the face you make whenever it’s potatoes for dinner again.”

She made a face?

“She’s probably craving for comfort food.” Hannah hummed to herself. “Tough luck, Japan is half-way across the world.

“Oh.” Barbara perked up, glancing over to Hannah. “What about that place Amanda sneaks out to get you snacks from?”

Hannah glanced warily over to Diana, who was raising her eyebrow in question. “Oh, fine. Don’t tell on her okay? She’s just trying to be sweet.”

“I won’t.” Diana sighed. “But I’m not Amanda. I’m not going to sneak out into the town past curfew just to buy Akko snacks.”

---

She was sneaking out into the town past curfew just to buy Akko snacks.

Beatrix, she mulled over to herself, pulling up the collar of the her capelet coat. What has become of me?

It was a warm night, unsurprising given the sizzling afternoon sun they suffered through earlier that day. She’d have to thank Professor Ursula for giving her a pass. Glastonbury, while still a bit of an ‘old town’, was beginning to modernize with the advent of the new magical age. More students enrolling at Luna Nova meant more business for the nearby towns, and the influx of children from non-magical families brought with it a union of old tradition and contemporary establishments.

One of which was the ‘Convenience Store.’ As per Hannah’s explanation, this type of establishment was open all hours through the day and night, and typically sold snacks and refreshments to address one’s cravings.

Unfortunately, said Convenience Store was a fifteen-minute broom ride away from school, and she hated having to sneak about. Not very convenient, if she could say so herself. She found it shorty after her arrival to town—it was hard to miss with its bright, off-white lights that glowed through Glastonbury’s dark and dreary streets. She tentatively pushed the glass door open. There was a young man snoozing behind the cash register.

She rolled her eyes, feeling painfully out of place in a store that screamed ‘twenty-first century.’ Why was she here again?

Right. Her girlfriend had cramps and was likely craving.

“Excuse me.”

He didn’t stir.

She cleared her throat, deliberately louder. “Excuse me.”

When he finally awoke, he regarded her with a groggy stare. “Yeah?”

“Do you have any snacks?”

“Help yourself,” he drawled lazily, gesturing towards the rows upon rows of brightly-colored chocolates, candies, and chips. There were coolers at back end of the store with a multitude of energy drinks and juices. Towards the left of the counter was freezer. “That one has ice cream.”

Where was she even going to start? By the nine, there so many choices! Feeling the need to vent, she had blurted out: “I have a cranky girlfriend on her period and I’m so very near my wits end.”

“Oh.” His eyes widened in sympathy. “I got you. Friend of O’Neill’s?”

“So to speak.”

“First time?”

She nodded.

“Alright kid, my name is Marty and I think you and I are gonna be good friends.”

Five minutes into their conversation, Diana realized that Marty was… quite interesting and not at all unpleasant.

“So we’ve narrowed it down to chocolates, and ice cream.”

“She’s quite fond of chocolates. You said these were imported from Asia?”

“Japan!” He grinned proudly.

Perfect.

“I’ll… get one in every flavor.”

“Go hard or go home, amirite?” Marty laughed.

“And…” she glanced over the ice cream cooler. “One pint of each flavor you have.”

Marty blinked.

Costs didn’t matter. Might as well make the most of being part of the ‘oppressive’ bourgeois.

---

“I had a feeling you’d still be up.” Diana whispered softly through the opening of Akko’s dorm. “Please don’t shut the door at my face again.”

“I’m sorry about that!” Akko cried out, but Diana held up her finger in a gesture to keep her quiet.

“Sucy and Lotte might wake up.”

“What’s going on?” Akko inquired. “It’s really late now, Dia.”

“M—May I come in?”

They slipped into the Red Team’s dormitory with hushed voices and the sound of shuffling feet. Diana should have asked Akko’s roommates before inviting herself to stay the night, but she’d rather not wake them and she could leave first thing in the morning.

Akko’s bright red eyes glistened in wonder at the plastic bag Diana was carrying. “W—Where did you get these?”

“In town,” she supplied cryptically.

“You snuck out.” Akko gawked.

“The method is unimportant.” Diana replied. And then her voice and gaze softened. “What matters is… do you like them?”

“I would have screamed in joy if you haven’t been trying to keep me quiet!” Akko  said under her breath, pulling on Diana’s arm to sit beside her at her bed. “L—Let me take your coat.”

“That’s not necessary,” Diana whispered back, slipping out of her coat herself and hanging it at the edge of Akko’s bedpost. “I’d rather you just lean back and not exert yourself.”

She had changed into something more casual before leaving, and was glad she wouldn’t have to spend all night in their stuffy uniform. Akko was fiddling with her thumbs and biting her lip.

“Is something wrong?”

“No—no!” Akko reassured. “Well… I’m still sorry for how I’ve been today. I guess I should have told you, but I get really bad cramps on my period and it makes me want to like… break things.”

Diana softly reached over to hold Akko’s hand. “Barbara tells me you didn’t tell me about this?”

“Yeah.” Akko scratched at her cheek, looking away.

Diana scooted over to lean against the headboard of Akko’s bed, quietly inviting the brunette to rest against her. If instinct told her right, Akko would appreciate being held. Sure enough, the smaller witch followed the invitation, situating herself to lean against Diana’s chest. While she wrapped her arms around Akko’s torso, the only thing the blonde could think about was how much she missed holding her today.

She held onto Akko a little tighter, pulling her just a bit nearer. But then Akko began to tense, curling up into herself with a sharp breath.

“Cramps?” Diana spoke gently, laced with worry.

“Yeah. Jennifer’ tits this sucks.”

“What do they give for you at the infirmary?”

“The potion they give me knocks me out cold and I hate how I feel when I wake up in the morning.” She sulked. “Today wasn’t so bad though, so I just wanted to sleep.”

Diana frowned. The way she was gripping on her forearm told her the cramps probably haven’t gone away, so on a whim she wondered if…

“May I try something?”

Akko blinked up at her, a strained expression on her face. “It’s good, this is the worst of it. I really will be fine tomorrow.”

“But may I?” She insisted.

“O—Okay.”

Slowly, she breathed in, setting her hand above Akko’s stomach while she remembered the feeling of magic and… love.

“It’s warm.” Akko whispered, noticeably relaxing.

“It’s a spell from my family. Is this better?”

“So much better.” Akko laced her hands with Diana’s, gratitude evident in the breathlessness of her voice. “Thank you, Dia.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“It would have been troublesome for you, so I just wait it out.” Akko admitted sheepishly.

Troublesome. Diana smiled, watching Akko relax once the pain had been soothed away. She chuckled when Akko opened the first bar of chocolate her hand had found from the nearby pile. Her surprised gasp was a wonderful thing to hear. “This is—from—”

“Home?”

“Yeah!”

“I went to the convenience store in Glastonbury.” Diana admitted.

“I really don’t deserve you!” Akko pouted, head falling back into Diana’s shoulder. “You get me chocolates, have magic healing hands, and now you’re out of your dorm past curfew and—Ugh! I told you—troublesome.”

Diana pressed her nose against Akko’s shoulder, tightening the arms around her waist. The darkness of the room was relaxing, accentuated by a moonlit glow. She breathed in deeply, enjoying their closeness and how nice Akko smelled.

“I think you’re underestimating how much trouble I’m willing to go through for you.”

That earned her a kiss on the cheek. “When did you get so cheesy?”

“Are you complaining?”

“Definitely not.”

“And this is nothing.” Diana teased. “I believe I remember a certain witch chasing me all the way into Wedinburgh just to get me back to school. She didn’t even fly.”

“Mou!” Akko huffed, snuggling into Diana’s warmth even further. “You loved it.”

Diana paused in contentment.

"I love you.”

Akko turned to face her. Her eyes were moving carefully over Diana’s features, as if to memorize how she looked. She grinned. “I can’t believe you’re real and that you feel the same way.”

Diana felt her ears flush. This time, Akko kissed her softly on the lips.

“I love you.” She kissed her again. “Thank you for these, Diana. It—It means so much.”

“So,” Diana started with a teasing lilt in her voice. “What was that about—kissing me right at your doorway earlier?”

“Mood swings are caused by hormones, you know.” Akko pouted, flushing red in the cheeks.

“So picky with food, too.” She continued to tease, earning another quiet laugh from her girlfriend. Akko looked like herself again.

They fell into a familiar banter, curled up together in bed, and she realized that she’d do it again.

From raiding the kitchen, to running around the castle, to flying out in the middle of the night.

She’d do it again, and again, and again if she had to because Akko was smiling once more and everything—everything—was worth it.

-

fin

-

A/N: Hey guys! Here's another one-shot that absolutely no one asked for but I may burst into tears because of how much I loved the idea. I was beginning to get self-conscious about how many one-shots I've made for Diakko but like IDK I LOVE THEM OKAY IDC ANYMORE I hope you enjoy, and stay safe! I also appreciate all the comments people have left in the other works, and am sorry if I don't always get to respond but will try to find the opportunity to! <3

Additionally: Haahaaha yeah I know it's not an Appt update I'm soRRY

[blackbloodunderthemoonlight]

14 MOVIES WORTH CHECKING OUT - NORTH AMERICA RELEASES APRIL 2021

Say Your Prayers (2020) dir. Harry Michell - Two orphaned brothers turned radical Christian hitmen venture to rural Ilkley under the instruction of Father Enoch). Their mission: assassinate Professor John Huxley, famed atheist writer. - Release Date (Theaters): Apr 2, 2021 - RT & IMDb

Shiva Baby (2020) dir. Emma Seligman - While at a Jewish funeral service with her parents, a college student has an awkward encounter with her sugar daddy and her ex-girlfriend - Release Date (Theaters): Apr 2, 2021 - RT & IMDb

This is Not a Burial, It’s a Resurrection (2019) dir. Lemohang Jeremiah Mosese - When her village is threatened with forced resettlement due to reservoir construction, an 80-year-old widow finds a new will to live and ignites the spirit of resilience within her community. - Release Date: 2 April 2021 (USA) - RT & IMDb

Moffie (2019) dir. Oliver Hermanus - A young man in 1981 South Africa must complete his brutal and racist two years of compulsory military service while desperately maintaining the secrecy of his homosexuality. - Release Date (Theaters): Apr 9, 2021 - RT & IMDb

Looking for a Lady with Fangs and a Moustache (2019) dir. Khyentse Norbu - When a series of visions send a skeptical entrepreneur to seek spiritual advice, an eccentric Buddhist monk predicts his imminent death, unless he can locate an elusive lady with fangs. - Release Date (Theaters): Apr 8, 2021 - RT & IMDb

Slalom (2020) dir. Charlène Favier - Under the guidance of a strict ex champion, a promising 15 year old girl trains as a professional skiing star. Will she be able to endure the physical and emotional pressures? - Release Date (Theaters): Apr 9, 2021 - RT & IMDb

In the Earth (2021) dir. Ben Wheatley - As the world searches for a cure to a disastrous virus, a scientist and park scout venture deep in the forest for a routine equipment run. Through the night, their journey becomes a terrifying voyage through the heart of darkness, the forest coming to life around them. - Release Date (Theaters): Apr 16, 2021 - RT & IMDb

Jakob's Wife (2021) dir. Travis Stevens - Anne, married to a small-town Minister, feels her life has been shrinking over the past 30 years. Encountering "The Master" brings her a new sense of power and an appetite to live bolder. However, the change comes with a heavy body count. - Release Date (Theaters): Apr 16, 2021 - RT & IMDb

Together Together (2021) dir. Nikole Beckwith - When a young loner becomes the gestational surrogate for a single man in his 40s, the two strangers come to realize this unexpected relationship will challenge their perceptions of connection, boundaries and the particulars of love. - Release Date (Theaters): Apr 23, 2021 - RT & IMDb

Bloodthirsty (2020) dir. Amelia Moses - Grey is an indie singer who is having visions that she is a wolf. When she gets an invitation to work with notorious music producer Vaughn Daniels at his remote studio in the woods she begins to find out who she really is. - Release Date (Theaters): Apr 23, 2021 - RT & IMDb

Sisters with Transistors (2020) dir. Lisa Rovner - Follows the story of electronic music's female pioneers, composers who embraced machines and their liberating technologies to utterly transform how we produce and listen to music today. - Release Date (Streaming): Apr 23, 2021 - RT & IMDb

About Endlessness (2019) dir. Roy Andersson - With ABOUT ENDLESSNESS, Roy Andersson adds to his cinematic oeuvre with a reflection on human life in all its beauty and cruelty, its splendour and banality. - Release Date (Theaters): Apr 30, 2021 - RT & IMDb

Golden Arm (2020) dir. Maureen Bharoocha - When her best friend Danny ropes her into taking her spot at the Women's Arm Wrestling Championship, nice girl baker Melanie must trade whisks for barbells as she trains to face off with the reigning champ for a chance at newfound badassery and the grand prize. - Release Date (Theaters): Apr 30, 2021 - RT & IMDb

Limbo (2020) dir. Ben Sharrock - Omar is a promising young musician. Separated from his Syrian family, he is stuck on a remote Scottish island awaiting the fate of his asylum request. - Release Date (Theaters): Apr 30, 2021 - RT & IMDb

[tetrakys]

Behind the Mask

This is the story I wrote for BV zine. It’s set in Eldarya around episodes 16/17.

---

The moment I stepped outside HQ, I felt like I’d been teleported to a new, magical world. Again. This time no mushrooms had been involved.

What was usually the busy, messy and kinda dirty market square, was now a ballroom out of a fairy tale. Long, scarlet drapes surrounded the area, giving it an air of sumptuous elegance. Small flames floated in the air, looking like sparkling chandeliers. Musicians played strange instruments that reminded me of violins and flutes of my world.

But nothing surprised me as much as the people. Everyone was impeccably dressed in amazing gowns and suits, their faces covered in colourful masks. Alajea and Karenn had told me that faeries took very seriously the festivity of Samhain, the Gaelic precursor of our Halloweeen, but I had no idea how seriously.

They’d explained that, when their people still lived on Earth, it was the one night where they could walk freely among humans without fear of being recognised. Human believed that during this night the walls between different worlds thinned and could easily be crossed. They all wore masks and costumes to blend between the faeries and demons they assumed travelled the Earth during that night. Once Eldarya had been created the faeries kept the celebration as a reminder of the life of hiding and fear they’d left behind.

I looked down at my elegant but simple white gown. At first, I thought I might be overdressed with the soft tulle skirt and the tight corset that Purriri had persuaded me to buy. She’d even offered the mask that currently covered half of my face at a discount. Now I was happy I’d spent a big chunk of my savings on this dress, at least I didn’t stand out like a sore thumb.

I walked slowly around the edges of the dancefloor trying to spot people I might know. At some point I thought I recognised Karuto, those horns kinda gave him away, but he looked too busy handling the food to care about chatting with me.

A dancing couple caught my eye. It couldn’t be… yes! Karenn and Chrome! Despite the mask I could tell he’d turned five different shades of red and was stuttering something I couldn’t hear. She looked cute in a blue dress and was smiling at him cheekily. Also, she was leading. I didn’t know what she had in mind, but poor Chrome.

“Mmm…” a soft, smooth voice whispered at my back, “you look lovely tonight my lady. May I offer you a drink? Or maybe you could offer me one?”

I turned around to find myself face to face with a tall, black haired masked man, dressed in a Victorian style.

“N-Nevra?”

“I’m not Nevra, my lady. Tonight I’m the blood-thirsty Count Dracula,” he replied with a fanged smile.

A moment of silence went by while I tried to grasp the situation.

“Let me get this straight. You, a vampire, dressed up as a… vampire??” I asked incredulous.

“Brilliant, isn’t it? This year I’m definitely going to win best costume.”

“B-but… how? Why?”

“There are so many definitions of vampire in your world. At first, I wanted to go with the sparkling one, but then I decided that you can never do wrong with a classic,” he explained. “You humans are so funny. Why would vampires live in isolated mansions, we like to PAR-TY!”

I genuinely didn’t know how to reply.

“Ah you found the kid!” said a falsely rough, deep voice, which belonged to a man with long blue hair, beard and moustaches. “Here is my dinner! Oh-oh-oh!”

“Ezarel? W-what are you dressed as?”

“Mph… you’re so stupid. Can’t you see the bag full of presents? I’m clearly Bluebeard!”

“I understand the facial hair, but… the presents?”

“How could you not know the fairy tales from your own world,” he replied irritated. “Don’t you know that Bluebeard brings gifts to kids and, once they sleep, eats them?”

“I think you’ve mixed up three of four different characters here. Have you even read the fable?”

“Nah,” he replied with his usual big, devilish smile. “Who has time for these things.”

“Wait…” I said, finally grasping the situation. “You just wanted an excuse to wear your fake beard again, didn’t you?”

“BINGO!” he laughed. Since I’d thought him a few Earthling slangs he kept using them whenever he had a chance just to annoy me.

“It wasn’t funny the first time,” I said remembering how he’d tried to trick me into believing that I’d been in a coma for hundreds of years, “and it’s not funny now. Bluebeard is a horrible character, basically a serial killer, he murdered his own wives!”

“Uhm…” he looked surprised. “I didn’t know that.”

“Isn’t the point to look scary?” Nevra said patting Ezarel on the back, ”even though you look more hilarious than scary. Now, Valkyon got it right.”

“Where is he?” I asked scanning the crowd without recognising him. I wished I could chat with Valkyon for a bit, I loved spending time with him, he always made me feel at ease. “What is he dressed as?”

“I’m only going to give you a hint: It’s furry.” He laughed.

“Uh…?”

“You’ll see.”

I was scanning the area looking for Valkyon, when my eyes stopped on someone else. A man, dressed in a dark suit and black cape. He was wearing a white mask covering half of his face and I recognised him as the Phantom of the Opera. I didn't know the story was also famous in Eldarya, but apparently many of Earth's legends and fables had some sort of connection to faeries folklore.

The man was looking at me from the other side of the improvised ballroom, and even from afar I could see his eyes, which were of an impossible light shade of blue. I could tell his skin was dark from his chin and the strong line of his lips, the only parts of his body not covered by his outfit.

He was imposing, mysterious and his gaze completely unnerving.

"We have to go now." I almost jumped on the spot, suddenly remembering I was talking with the guys.

"Why, is something going on?"

"Well, we shouldn't really tell you this but… do you remember the knowledge-eating monster?" Nevra asked.

"The one who ate all the library's books and whose escape I was unjustly accused of?" I replied drily, "I have a vague recollection, yes."

"Well,” he continued, ignoring my sarcasm. “What you don't know is that those monsters come in couples. There was a second book, and we have found out today that it’s disappeared."

"WHAT?" I cried out alarmed.

"Shhh" Ezarel gestured for me to shut up. "You shouldn’t have said anything, Nevra."

"Don't worry Erika, Miiko asked us to keep our eyes open but the book has probably just been misplaced. Everything is going to be fine." 

I wanted to believe him, but it wasn’t the first time I doubted the Guard’s judgment on important decision. Who would ever hide a monster who ate knowledge… in a book… in a library?

“The library is still mostly empty. If this monster really escaped, he would try to eat people’s memories like the previous one tried to do with me,” I pointed out nervously.

“Nah, this one is different, they are complementary. While one erases the stories it feeds on, the other makes them real. Anyway, we must run, see you later.” Ezarel said while they walked away.

I was left dumbfounded, what did it mean that the monster made the stories real? I kept ruminating on that thought for a while until someone broke me away from my thoughts.

“May I have this dance?”

I smiled at Leiftan, offering him my hand as he led me to the dancefloor. A slow, soft music was playing, and I tentatively put my arms on his shoulders, while he held my waist. It was probably the most intimate we’d ever been with each other, but it didn’t feel awkward. It felt right.

“I like the wings,” I said after a moment looking at the white attachments behind his back, “they’re so beautiful, they almost seem real.”

“You look really pretty in your costume.” He said changing the subject, slightly tightening his hold on my waist. “What is it?”

“T-thanks…” I said feeling some heat rise to my cheeks. “Have you ever heard of the white swan? The story is called Swan Lake.”

“No, will you tell me about it?” he asked looking genuinely interested.

“It’s about this princess, Odette, who is cursed by an evil sorcerer to live her life as a woman during the night and a swan during the day, unless she finds someone who swears to truly love her forever.” I explained. “I’ve always loved this story, since the moment my parents took me to the ballet when I was a child. But I… am a little embarrassed to admit that I also cried in the theatre.”

“Oh… is it a sad story? She doesn’t find love?”

“She does. As in many fables, a beautiful prince falls madly in love with her. But there are different versions of the ending. Sometimes love is not enough to save them.”

The music was about to end, but he hugged me closer, almost unwilling to let me go. I felt a little embarrassed and tried to keep the conversation going.

“I’ve always felt bad for Odette. Having to live a half-life, hiding, not being able to be herself completely. It would be so difficult to find true love, someone who could love her real self. What a terrible fate.”

He didn’t reply, as if lost in thought.

“I-I’m sorry, Erika. I… have to go check…” he stuttered after a minute, when the piece we were dancing to ended.

“The library monster,” I helped him, he was probably struggling to find an excuse to keep the secret. “I know. Nevra already spilled the beans. Do you need help…?”

“You’re kind.” He smiled his usual, sweet smile. “There’s no need. Please enjoy the party.”

Bowing down, he took my hand, leaving a small kiss on its back, and walked away.

"That wasn't very aengelic of him," replied a mysterious and somewhat ironic voice at my back. I turned around to find that man, the Phantom. "Running, leaving his dance partner all alone on the dancefloor. But a man’s loss is another man’s gain, may I?"

Without waiting for my reply, he took me in his arms and led us through the next dance. The music was slightly more upbeat, and there was something wild in the rhythm, almost primordial. I was strangely intrigued by this unknown man, there was something familiar in him, but I wasn’t going to drop my guard. His eyes meant danger, and his hold on me felt vaguely predatorial.

"The Light Guard is always busy, even during festivals.” I replied. “Do I know you?"

“Ah yes, the Guard and its mysterious business. I bet they have a lot of important, questionable tasks to attend to.” He commented, ignoring my question.

His answer surprised me. I knew not everyone at the village, and even in the Guard, was a big fan of the way things were handled around here. I knew I hadn’t been most of the time. No one was always vocal about it though.

“Mysterious business? What are you talking about?” I asked.

“We all know the Light Guard is not very forthcoming with the rest of the people here.”

“Yes, but…” I tried to play devil’s advocate. “They have their reasons most of the time… Safety and…”

I noticed then that he had led us to the refreshments area. Breaking his hold on me, he turned towards the pitchers of strange liquids.

“So, do you think the Guard cares about everyone’s safety?” He continued, while mixing odd coloured drinks.

“Of course,” I replied carefully, accepting the amber coloured drink he was handing me. It tasted sweet, almost like honey.

“So, let’s say there was a threat in the City of El, they would share the news with everyone?”

“It has happened in the past.” I pointed out.

“Only when the problem was too evident to hide. But what if that wasn’t the case. Let’s say there’s a monster running around right here, right now. Would they stop the festivities to keep people safe or would they keep up appearances until it was too late?”

I felt my blood getting cold in my veins. An awful suspicion started forming in my brain.

“Who the hell are you? What have you done?”

“A friend.” He simply replied, his lips twisting in a cruel smile. “I’ve done nothing really, except borrowing an old book from the library. Just an innocent prank. A little naughtiness should be expected during this night.”

“But…” I started to protest, looking around panicked. That’s when I noticed something strange was going on. A nearby boy dressed as a ghost, went to grab a glass and his hand passed through it without being able to touch it. He’d become incorporeal. A girl I had noticed before who was wearing beautiful, colourful make up that made her look like an Alfeli, turned into the companion right before my eyes.

“People think that when the mask drops you can see the real nature of who’s behind it, but it’s not true. It’s when you wear a mask and you’re not forced to fit in that you are really unmasked. You can be yourself and follow your instincts, go after what you really want.” I felt frozen on the spot, his words made no sense to me. “And you… what is it that you really want?” He whispered almost seductively in my ear. “You’re welcome for the drink, by the way.”

When I finally managed to turn around, he had disappeared. I didn’t have time to look for him though, because that’s when all hell broke loose. Everyone started turning into the very thing they were masked as. Most people had chosen to dress up as companions or characters of famous fables, but other had picked bolder and scarier options. I could see zombies, witches, monsters of different kinds.

OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod….

I had to do something, but I had no idea of what. Was I about to turn too? It didn’t look like it, I was feeling fine. You’re welcome for the drink he had said, had he given me a protective potion? Why?

It wasn’t time to ask myself questions I didn’t know the answer to. It was time to run.

I took off without really knowing where to go, but soon stopped in my tracks.

I should’ve probably gone looking for the guys, but where could I find them? I knew they had been on patrol and I knew the spot each of them was usually assigned to.

The beach, the edge of the forest, the gardens or the cave.

All these places… I didn’t know what to expect. I knew there were things planned for this evening. I’d heard rumours of a haunted house, a maze and other unknown spooky surprises.

And what if the guys had also been turned? Was it safer if I went back inside HQ and tried to solve this problem by myself? But I had no idea how.

That moment an image popped into my mind. His face. No matter what, I had to find him. It was what my heart was telling me to do.

Now I knew exactly where to go. Without wasting another moment, I started running.

---

This story has 5 different epilogues, each corresponding one of the LIs. 

[batbobsession]

“Grateful?”

"Yes," Mrs. Potts urges.  The seven of them gaze out at the frozen garden.  The kitchen's windowsill is now big enough to accommodate the entire heads of staff.  We can all stare at the snow together, she thinks, but she keeps it to herself.   "All we've been doing is moping around, halfheartedly trying to keep the mothballs out of the carpets.  It's only been a few months, and a suitable young woman will be around before you know it."

"Oh, of course." One of Cogsworth's gears grates against another.  Beside him, Chip winces.  "One of the countless ladies we've sent letters of courtship to will forget the..." His voice lowers considerably.  "The monster that they've witnessed inside this castle.  They'll forget and come back, struck by Cupid's arrow.  The horns won't matter, and neither will the fangs." 

"Now, now, old friend, don't speak like that."  Lumière lifts an arm to pat the majordomo on the shoulder, then lowers it, thinking better of the consequences.  "We have time."

"Do we?" 

Mrs. Potts had never seen a clock so uptight.  Then again, she had never seen a clock move, or speak, or keep its hands in the shape of a moustache. 

"That charlatan didn't bother to give us a time limit, only that when the last petal falls the spell will never be broken."

"The petals haven't fallen yet." Mrs. Potts cuts in, effectively bringing the conversation back to her.  She gazes at all of them, and Lord, she has never seen them looking so forlorn.  Some of them avert their eyes, and the ones that do look to her have a glazed emptiness in them; something is dead, or already dying, yet they have so much time left.  How can only a few months make Lumière's voice so soft, Plumette's face so withered?  Her darling Chip looks at her, and she can tell that he wants her to hold him, but she can't even do that.

No.  This could be exactly what that witch wants.  If her spirits weren't up, then neither would Chip's, and neither would any of the others'.  Her job in life has always been to keep up morale.  She won't let them fall into despair.  She won't.

"That's enough," she continues.  "Now, I want you to each name one thing you're grateful for." 

Silence.

"Go on, now, I'm not going to wait."  Firm, but kind.  This is a kindness.

"Well...the bridge looks pretty."

Mrs. Potts smiles at her son, who's avoiding her gaze now with a slight movement that could have been a shrug, sliding his hands into his pockets. 

"Yes, well done," she praises, and they all look out at the bridge across the lake.  The snow sparkles in the fresh sunlight; though the icicles don't melt, they twinkle and reflect the frozen water below.

"I'm still able to cook to my heart's content," boomed a voice from the far wall.  "Can't taste any of it, but the master finishes every crumb and that's enough."

"And isn't that the best?" she responds.  "Getting to do what you love despite the obstacles?"  I'm sure that, were the musicians here, they would feel the same.  

Another sentiment with sad thoughts attached, so she does not say it.

"I think I would already be dead without you by my side, cherie," Lumière says and wraps an arm around Plumette.  She rests a wing where his elbow would be, and Mrs. Potts glimpses a hint of a smile.

"I feel the same," Plumette whispers. "I would be lost without you, mon coeur." 

"Ah, young love." Cuisinier sighs, and Lumière's answering smile, though tired, could have lit up the room.  

Yes, she thinks, progress.

A few chords are plucked somewhere above her, and she looks up to see Chapeau hovering close by.

"I haven't forgotten about you, love," Mrs. Potts exclaims.  "Go on, what are you grateful for?"

The design at the top smiled and gestured with one of his hands, sweeping across the stove, the windowsill, and everyone on it.

"Me too."  She grins.  "I'm grateful we're together."

Chapeau always did have a way with words--now they were all naming things left and right.

"I can reach the higher parts of the ceiling without a ladder."

"We'll have the kitchen all to ourselves..."

"And the library--master never goes in there anymore..."

"We can play outside--"

"--climb the tallest tower--"

"--arrange our own midseason balls--"

"I can visit all the secret passageways!"

"Chip!"

The only one who hasn't said anything is Cogsworth, who twitches every time a new suggestion was thrown out.  However, the maitre d' has always been quick to notice trouble in any situation.

"Mon ami, don't ruin the excitement," Lumière encourages.  "There has to be something."

"Yeah, don't be boring," Chip adds.  Plumette stifles a giggle.

"Oh, all right, then!" Cogsworth's so irritated, and Mrs. Potts can't help but smile.  "I'm grateful that we can still maintain a sense of order despite being crippled like this, and that you--"  He jabs a hand at Lumière. "--aren't as loud as you used to be!"

At this, Lumière's candlelight triples in size.  There is an uproar of laughter from him; the sound echoes off the topmost parts of the ceiling.

Then they're all laughing.  Plumette dances in the air, Cuisinier bangs his pots and pans together, Chapeau hides his face, and Mrs. Potts thinks tears might spill from her eyes.  Cogsworth stamps his foot, and the gears grate again.

"Oh, very funny!  You lot are all so...so...!"

But whatever he is about to say dies before it can be said; despite his demeanor, he is grateful--above all--to see them in such high spirits again.

----

Far up, high in the West Wing, Adam rests on his bed, curled up under the covers.  In his dreams, he's a little boy again, having dinner with his mother.  She laughs her golden laugh, and he remembers how good the food was.

He's grateful, he thinks.  He's grateful that he remembers her so clearly.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

[residentofthedisc]

Tocktick - Our Two Villains Meet by ResidentoftheDisc/H.M

Norris sat seething in the corner of the Branded Crow, his third pint untouched and a stolen newspaper spread across the table.

The headline was, of course, sensationalist and mildly confusing – DEVITT DOMINATES with a byline admitting, NEW ENGINE CATAPULTS CREW TO NEXT ROUND – while the article penned underneath was a more restrained summary of that day’s leg of the Throgmorton race and the author’s tentative predictions on this new piece of technology. He glared at the third lumograph down, ignoring the image of a triumphant Devitt lifting the flag and the one showing the Elmstone siblings fixing their sails, seeing a shot of Talas, Maia, and Emmett standing by the engine. Emmett looked uncomfortable, his face-half turned away and blurred.

No need for that, Norris thought scornfully. I don’t have any proof. 

He knocked back his pint, slamming it on the table with enough force that a few of the drunks slumped against the bar looked around. Dark hells, twenty years wasn’t enough to forget the face which had gotten him fired – Emmett Askren was Juan St Ciel, he was sure of it.

It was odd. He hadn’t thought of the youth beyond occasional night-time self-pitying sessions for nigh on a decade and a half now. But one look at his face and it had all come rushing back. The glow of triumph at getting to kill two birds with one stone was enough to excite him into action – stop Katsaros from putting a dent in Gorge’s considerable profits and bring down an elusive past ghost.

Then he remembered that he had no papers, no people who still recalled the man in question. His old bosses were long-dead, the institution in question abandoned and across two oceans. No one cared.

Except him, of course.

His hands were itching. He wanted to hit something, someone for just looking at him funny. He scowled at the other patrons, wondering who would last longest in a fight. None of them looked promising; slug-like middle-aged dockworkers, a few chirpy and withered grandmothers, youths with brittle limbs and prematurely lined faces.

By the Sunlight God’s arse, he hated this place. All the fight had been beaten out of it years ago. A kind of grey inevitability reigned over the inhabitants. The crime consisted of drug-addicts and smugglers rather than any firebrand riots. Barfights here and there, attacks on native and Empire-imported inhabitants by the opposing sides, but there was no real spark to it. It was like the islands permanently had developed low-grade tension headaches. It wasn’t fun.

The tavern door swung open. The entire room’s – including Norris’ – attention flickered towards it. They all stayed there. Norris frowned slightly.

The man who strode inside was tall, about sixty-five or so years of age, with a neatly trimmed white moustache, beard and swept-back hair. He carried a black cane, but he moved like a dancer, perfectly aware of where he was in the space. The smoke and dirt had settled deeply into his jacket – it had probably been an ivory sort of colour once, but it was now an unpleasant shade of brown. His boots were high-quality and foreign; Eastern by Norris’ guess.

He was also maddeningly familiar.

Either ignoring or oblivious to the stares, the man strode straight up to the bar and flashed a smile at the barkeep. Dipping a hand into his pocket, he spoke in a voice too low for Norris to hear and then produced a rectangular lumograph card. He slid it across the bar – paying no attention to the man next to him peering over his shoulder.

The barkeep made a show of looking it over, but Norris knew that he would disavow all knowledge of the image’s subject. There was a reason that the Helionites’ luminary of protection was also the guardian of those behind the bar.

Not that it was religiously motivated here, he thought scornfully, self-preservation was the saying of the day.

The barkeep shook his head and silently gestured to the taps. The hand held up in response was white and too fine-boned for his frame; if this man had ever done manual labour it had been a lifetime ago.

Then he lifted his cane and rapped it carefully but firmly on the wood of the bar.

It was completely unnecessary. He was the most fascinating thing in the building. The gazes only became open.

Norris sat back in his chair, fingers flat on the table, waiting.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the voice was velvet and ridiculously affable, “I request merely a few minutes of your time to assist me with a most important matter.”

A speech like that should have gotten a bottle smashed over his head immediately, but the situation was so unusual, so odd that the tavern was held back in their chairs and captivated. It probably helped that his accent was Eddorian – another small country swallowed by the Empire years before – and therefore not the voice of their brutish overlords, but the sound of another subjugated ally seeking assistance. In the hierarchy of the oppressed, Eddor was not high on the list having surrendered quickly and been permitted to keep much of their culture due to it being so similar to the Empire. But it was still a colony and that meant a form of trust among the Islanders.

Norris was rather proud of himself for the observation, but not so much that he didn’t listen intently to the man’s next words.

“I am buying the next round,” the proclamation was met with owlish silence, “And as you collect your drinks, I will show you a lumograph. I request that you look it over most carefully. And if you know anything about the man – anything at all from having glimpsed him in the street to him being your missus’ lodger – I bid that you tell me. I will pay a sixpence for each truthful piece of information you give.”

The edge to truthful was the flash of a hound’s fang before it growled.

No one moved. A sixpence to Norris was a measly sum – to an Islander it was a good week’s labour, but their pride would not allow them to take payment for informing on someone who (for all they knew) was an enemy of the Empire.

The man regarded the crowd carefully, hand curling tightly about the cane. For a heartbeat, his expression was of frustrated bemusement before the warm smile crept back.

He laid his free hand on his heart and said, “I have come upon my own accord and no one else’s. This a matter of personal import. I am not – and never have been – affiliated with this nation’s government.”

There was some half-hearted shuffling of the patrons once they had figured out the word affiliated. They formed a dense queue, each person staring down at the lumograph before indicating an answer to the man’s question. Once the brief conversations were done, a mug was pressed into their hands, generously filled with beer.  

Norris didn’t move from his seat, attention locked on the stranger’s face. He kept his friendly mask fixed firmly in place, but his stance became tenser as the line grew shorter.

He was evidently not getting the answers he was seeking.

As the last patron turned away to enjoy their reward, the man’s gaze fell on Norris. He pushed off the bar and strode over, made invisible by his gift of alcohol.

Norris made a show of studying the newspaper as the man sat down at his table. He heard the whisper of card as it was pushed across the wood.

“Take a look, please.”

Norris did not look up. “Are you going to increase the price?” he asked, “How much is this man worth to you?”

“A lot.” The voice was low, and he heard a discordant note in it. It wasn’t anger, but he had the man’s attention; whether he was willing to play Norris’ surly game was a different matter altogether.

“Hm.” He stared unseeingly down at the paper, waiting to see what the man would do.

“But I wouldn’t insult you by offering more money,” the man continued quietly, “However, I would ask that you look.”

Sighing heavily, Norris did. The image showed a male – maybe in his late fifties, early sixties – sat easily in a chair half-smirking at the lumeretta. He had a compact build, not-quite round face with wide-set eyes, and a mane of hair too long for a fashion-conscious Empire man. The lumograph had the usual muddy shade to it, so he couldn’t make out what kind or colour the shirt was save that it was not dark.

He was ready to turn away and disavow all knowledge when he realised that he did recognise the man in question. There was something about the mouth, the insolent smile struck a shard into his memory.

But he couldn’t grasp it from the mire. Norris sucked his teeth and then stopped, realising that the stranger was reading him like a book.

“You know him.” It wasn’t a question. The fangs were extending again.

Norris drummed his fingers on the table and decided to be truthful. “There’s something I recognise,” he began, “But I cannot recall what it is. But I have seen him. And recently.”

The swirl of emotions in the man’s eyes was gone too quickly for him to read. Norris leant back in his chair, interlocking his hands. He gazed coolly upwards.

“Do I get a sixpence?” he asked.

The man smiled. He fished inside his jacket and brought out a small embossed card. “Better,” he replied, “Here. If you do recall anything of note, please either come or write to this address. You’ll receive more than just a sixpence.”

“A whole crown, perhaps?” He did not keep the sarcasm from his tone.

The man inclined his head, acknowledging him. “Perhaps.”

He made to stand, tucking the lumograph into his jacket pocket. 

@queer-crusader @rebelqueenofthediscovery @cogesque

[johnnymundano]

Human Lanterns (1982)

Directed by Chung Sun Screenplay by Kuang Ni and Chung Sun Music by Chin-Yung Shing and Chen-Hou Su Country: Hong Kong Language: Mandarin (English subtitles) Running time: 94 minutes

CAST

Tony Liu as Lung Shu-Ai Kuan Tai Chen as Tan Fu Lieh Lo  as Chao Chun-Fang Ni Tien as Lung's Wife Linda Chu as Yen Chu Hsiu-Chun Lin as Tan Mei-mei Meng Lo as Kuei Szu-Yi Chien Sun as Sergeant Pan

Human Lanterns is a ridiculous and ridiculously entertaining Hong Kong martial-arts-horror movie from The Shaw Brothers. Shaw Brothers movies inhabit a bubble of moviedom entirely their own; much like an Elvis Movie or a Nikkatsu Action movie or even, yes, a David Lynch movie. If you’ve seen one Shaw Brothers movie you may not have seen them all but you will have seen what they are all like. This is by no means a criticism. But it does mean if you have ever seen a Shaw Brothers movie and disliked it then you’re unlikely to like Human Lanterns. If you have and you did then you will. If you see what I mean.

Two rich men in a fairy-tale Hong Kong past of fancy hats, submissive women and ornate roofing spend their abundant free time scheming to outdo and embarrass each other in public. This pointless cock measuring culminates every year in a contest to see who can place the best lantern in the town’s prestigious lantern festival. Tan Fu (Kuan Tai Chen with a moustache) peaks early by unveiling a magnificent lantern unlikely to be rivalled by mere mortal artisanship. It looks like pompous toff Lung Shu-Ai (Tony Liu with inhumanly thick sideburns) is out of luck this year lantern-wise. But, while berating his tame drunk of a lantern maker it transpires the aged souse has been cheekily subcontracting his lantern construction to a mysterious and preternaturally skilled figure who skulks beyond town. Not entirely coincidentally this turns out to be Chao Chun-Fang (Lieh Lo – who, let us not forget,  by 1969 became the first ever Kung-Fu superstar, preceding even Bruce Lee) from whom Lung Shu-Ai stole his love while also scarring Chun-Fang in the process. Blinded by arrogance to the possibility this might horribly backfire on him Lung Shu-Ai employs Chao Chun-Fang to construct the most unique lantern ever.  Shortly thereafter the ladies loved by both Lung Shu-Ai and Tan Fu begin to disappear, abducted by a mysterious figure in a spooky skull mask who is fond of leaping about in slow motion. The finger of guilt points at both of the squabbling dandies in turn, but is the culprit someone else, possibly someone with a grudge, and can the two egotists shelve their inconsequential duel of wits and join forces before the title of the movie is given horrible reality? (I’m not expecting an answer there.)

Essentially then, Human Lanterns is indeed a very Shaw Brothers movie indeed. For the thoroughly uninitiated it should be noted that a Shaw Brothers movie typically has an uncomplicated plot with uncomplicated characters; physically impossible martial arts stunt work transformed via wires and adroit editing into delightful eye-boggling reality; costumes matched in their vivid flamboyance only by that of the wider-than-wide-screen acting; a setting sometime in a bogus past where people lived on sound-stages and apparently lived their entire lives within three of four imaginatively lit sets; a comedy drunk, usually old; a lot of faker than fake blood; a visual style at once utterly artificial and magically enchanting; and maybe a little bit of tit, depending on the mores of the decade in which the movie was made. For those already initiated into the unique splendour of the cinematic phenomenon known only as A Shaw Brothers Movie it should be noted that Human Lanterns is as ostentatiously bizarre and preposterously charming as any of its brethren.

[lalunaunita]

The Purrfect Crime: Chapter 1

I’m very pleased to share that this old WIP is finally done!! I started writing it back in 2018 (I think) and when the WIP Big Bang @wipbigbang revved up for 2019, I knew it was a perfect piece for me to finish. Per the Bang rules, I’ll publish the last chapter on my posting date of August 17th. I’ll be updating every week until then.

This story is based on a 1991 children’s book of the same name by Andrew Helfer. When I heard about it, I thought it was such a great (and cute) plot that I wanted to try writing my own version! Major plot points and storyline are all credited to Andrew Helfer. New story text and new subplots are by me. Copies of the original book are available and the ISBN to find the book is 0307126218. Many thanks to @haveievermentioned for remembering this book and bringing it to my attention.

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7    Music Fanmix by @pennywaltzy

Rating: Teen

Summary: All kinds of cats in Gotham are disappearing! When several expensive animals are stolen, Batman's top suspect is Catwoman. But is there more to these thefts than meets the eye?

The Purrfect Crime: Chapter 1

Forty squirming, squealing kids threw popcorn and chattered at each other in the rows below Bruce Wayne at Gotham City’s Circus Charity Night. Charity Night at the Circus had become a tradition in the Wayne household over the last few years. Shortly after adopting Dick Grayson, the young man had requested these circus outings for the children at his old orphanage. Bruce had readily agreed.

He always turned it into an event—playing at an exclusive park, followed by dinner, then the show under the Big Top. Curiously, Dick never attended. Bruce didn’t press him. He knew all too well the pain childhood memories could bring.

Bruce and his date sat wisely out of range of the concessions-turned-missiles. She turned to him, the elegance of her black velvet dress belying her giddy excitement.

“What’s your favorite part of the circus?” Tatiana asked him, tossing her lustrous dark hair over one shoulder.

“The big cats,” Bruce replied. “They’re so gorgeous and powerful.”

“Oooh, must be something of a kinship, I suppose,” she teased, batting her eyes flirtatiously.

Bruce tried not to roll his as he focused his attention back on the three rings below. Tatiana was an extraordinary beauty, just the kind of woman Bruce Wayne should be seen with around Gotham. Unfortunately, she was also an utter bore.

Music swelled and the children quieted as a spotlight focused on the Ringmaster in the center of the tent.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is our privilege to bring some of the finest creatures in nature to you. Watch carefully, and don’t be fooled! Our trainer would have you believe these lions and tigers are tame as house cats, but they are not to be trusted! Remark the ferocious gleam of their fangs and the sharpness of their claws. Please do not tempt their murderous appetites with a stray finger or hand! And now… on with the show!”

The crowd jumped to their feet to get a closer look at the cats, applauding the Ringmaster’s speech. All eyes were on the thick red curtains that led backstage, but minutes went by and no cats of any kind paraded forth. The pregnant silence was interrupted by shouts behind the curtains.

Bruce casually pressed a button on the side of his cell phone and it rapped forth an irritating, high-powered ringtone. He gave an exaggerated sigh for Tatiana’s benefit.

“Hang on, it’s the Board. I’ll be back in a minute. Hello…?” he said, affecting frustration as he pressed the phone to his ear.

Bruce stepped into the aisle, pretending to converse as he quickly made his way out of the stands. He stuck to the shadows, slipping around to the back of the big top. Outside the main tent, dancers, acrobats, and clowns walked to and fro, prepping for their acts or chatting with each other.

The argument had crescendoed; Bruce could hear the Ringmaster desperately shushing whomever was shouting. Bruce hid himself in the darkness between two tall wooden crates. He discovered he was fortuitously close to a seam in the main tent’s canvas. He put his eye to the opening and caught a glimpse of Commissioner Gordon’s familiar face. Commissioner Gordon stood straight as an arrow and looked down his nose at a rather unkempt man in suspenders and a stained undershirt.

“We’ll find your cats,” the Commissioner assured him. “There aren’t that many places in Gotham to hide lions and tigers. Or that many places to sell them. My men are on it already.”

“They better be! Those animals are expensive. If my cats aren’t back by tomorrow, I could lose my job!” the unpleasant man screeched.

The Ringmaster put a placating hand on the man’s arm, but he shrugged it off. Bruce watched as the Commissioner cast an observant eye over his surroundings.

“Now, just to be sure I have everything down correctly, these are the cages for the big cats?”

He indicated four or five surprisingly small wheeled trailers arranged in a semicircle. They looked like old fashioned animal cracker boxes, although they did have the addition of thick rolled draperies that could be let down over the iron bars to fully enclose their tiny spaces. Bruce could see, and even smell, that they hadn’t been cleaned in a while.

“Yes, yes,” the trainer replied impatiently.

“And you did not take them out prior to their performance?” The Commissioner frowned under his moustache as he looked at his notepad.

“No! I already told you that!”

“And you do not have any kind of yard or pen for them to stay in—other than the cages?”

The man didn’t notice the steely glint in Commissioner Gordon’s eye as he shook his head. “They stay in the cages if we aren’t training or performing. Seriously, are you even taking notes?”

“I have to ask to be sure, Sir. Police procedure.”

Bruce grinned as the Commissioner turned away from the man and focused on the Ringmaster, completely dismissing the trainer from the rest of the conversation. The man’s mouth opened and closed a few times and his eyes bulged. But the Commissioner resolutely refused to meet his eye. With an exasperated sigh and a few muttered curses, the trainer walked away to go scold his assistants at the cages.

“As I said,” Commissioner Gordon continued, still standing tall in his most imposing posture, “I already have people looking into all possible locations that can hold big cats. We’re checking all cargo transports out of the city and taking every precaution to find your animals. In the meantime, detectives will be interviewing your employees—to see if anyone saw anything.”

Bruce heard the unspoken notion that the detectives would also be interviewing the employees as potential suspects. The Ringmaster picked up on it too, but nodded frantically.

“Whatever it takes to get George his cats back. He’s difficult at the best of times, but he knows how to train the big cats. We simply don’t have a show without them!”

As the Commissioner made his exit, Bruce leaned back from the circus tent canvas. George might be good at training, but it seemed that he and his staff were terrible at caring for their precious animals. Dirty cages and no room to run or play? He’d had no idea the Gotham City Circus kept their animals in such squalid conditions. Maybe there was a way to put in an anonymous tip… but there was no guarantee an honest city worker would look into the case. Issuing citations wasn’t likely to fix the problem. There had to be a solution, though. He’d think on it.

Later that evening, Bruce cruised the streets of Gotham after dropping off Tatiana at her penthouse. The woman is part octopus, he thought sourly as he recalled his struggle to extricate himself from her amorous embrace at her door. He’d pleaded an emergency board meeting and made tracks, leaving her beautiful pouting lips and sultry eyes behind.

Bruce stopped at a familiar intersection to wait out the red light. He looked up at the building on his left and noticed Commissioner Gordon’s light still on in his office.

Five minutes later, the Batman tapped softly at the Commissioner’s window. The silver-haired man looked up, startled, then smiled. He slid open the window and moved aside to allow Batman to descend on silent feet. The line of his grappling hook whizzed quietly as it retracted into his utility belt.

“You’re up late, Commissioner. Everything okay?” Batman asked as the two shook hands.

Gordon ran a hand through his wavy hair, sighing. “Just working on a weird one, Batman. Cats. Missing cats. With all the missing people in this town, you’d think that would take priority, but here I am, trying to track down animals like a dog catcher. Or a cat catcher, as the case may be.”

“I heard about the no-shows at the Circus. Are you saying there are more missing?”

Commissioner Gordon laughed without humor. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. A lot more, in fact. We’ve gone past ‘hundreds’ and are closing in on a thousand or more. I don’t know if we’re looking at some kind of predator or—”

“Are there signs of predation? Claw marks or other clues of struggle? Any blood, bones?”

The Commissioner shook his head. “No, thank heavens. God knows I’ve got my cat Ruffy secured at home, though. I was letting him out to roam every once in a while, but now I keep him indoors. I’m a little spooked about him getting grabbed.”

Batman nodded, thinking. “That’s a good idea, Jim. If you aren’t seeing any signs of violence, it seems more likely this is theft.”

“That’s where I was leaning too, Batman. I just got a call from the Southminster Cat show; one of the show cats has been taken. The night watchman didn’t see a thing. I’m going to follow up in the morning and talk to the owner. You want to join me?”

“I’ll bring the coffee, Jim. See you there.” With that, Batman stepped onto the ledge of the open window and disappeared into the night.

Commissioner Gordon couldn’t help it; he leaned out to see which way Batman had gone. But just like every other time, he never caught a glimpse of the Batman after his dramatic exit. He sighed. There was nothing more he could do for the case tonight. He closed the window, packed up his briefcase, and headed home, where he hoped Ruffy would still be waiting.

Dick was laid out on a comfortable Italian leather couch, flipping idly through a magazine when Bruce came through the den.

“And how was the lovely Ms. Aurbach?” he asked, lifting his eyes only marginally from the page.

“Grabby,” Bruce replied.

He loosened his tie and removed his cufflinks, dropping them into the pocket of his slacks. Alfred never failed to check his pockets before washing.

Dick closed the magazine and leapt to vertical, an effortless motion his acrobatic background afforded him. “Oh, really? That doesn’t usually vex you.”

“Who says I’m vexed?” Bruce retorted, just as Alfred entered with a tray.

The nascent argument was forestalled by a late night snack the butler had prepared. The trio settled in around a deeply stained and well-polished coffee table. Alfred poured tea from a silver service and passed the cups around.

“I trust Ms. Tatiana is well,” the butler began, “and that the Circus was a delight.”

“Actually, Alfred, someone stole the lions and tigers. But yes, the rest of the night was fine.”

Dick nearly spat out his tea and eyed Bruce incredulously. “The lions and tigers? Seriously? That’s kind of... specific. And heavy. It would be heavy.”

Bruce sipped his tea with perfect form, ignoring Alfred’s approving glance at his lack of slurp. “That’s not all. Tomorrow I’m meeting Jim Gordon to interview the owner of a missing show cat at the Southminster Cat Show.”

“Stolen as well?” Dick raised an eyebrow.

“I hate to make assumptions…”

“I know you do. I’ll wait for your conclusions upon examination of the evidence,” Dick replied, rolling his eyes. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Just be on call. You have anything else going on this week?”

Dick shrugged. “It’s summer break, Bruce. Other than a couple hot dates, I’m free.”

“Not too hot, I hope.”

“Alfred’s run background checks on them already. Well-bred young ladies from Gotham Academy, not a rebel among them. I’m just trying to be a normal teenager, Bruce. Promise.”

Bruce popped a water cracker topped with gruyere cheese into his mouth and leaned back, chewing. He swallowed. “I know, Dick. I’m glad. It’s not always easy with me, I’m aware.”

Dick grinned. “Easy is boring, anyway. I’m here if you need me.”

“Thanks,” Bruce replied.

He stifled the urge to ruffle his ward’s hair. Dick wasn’t a child anymore; he was a young man of sixteen. He was often impulsive, but he had matured greatly over the six years he’d been Bruce’s ward, both as Dick Grayson and as Robin. Bruce was grateful for their friendship and partnership, though he couldn’t deny Dick kept him on his toes. Thank goodness for Alfred’s impeccable timing and mitigating influence.

“Well,” said the butler, breaking the silence as he gathered the tea service and stood, “I’m off to bed. And you should consider the same, Master Bruce. You have an early morning in the office—”

“And an even earlier meeting with Jim Gordon,” Bruce finished, standing and dusting off his knees. “Thanks, Alfred. Good night.”

“Good night, you two.” Dick settled back onto the couch with his magazine as the older men left the room.

[crusherthedoctor]

Christmas Time, Christmas Island

"Still awake, eh?"

"Well, that's insomnia for you, isn't it?"

Sonic the Hedgehog had been enjoying his time in the island of Viridonia, despite uncovering yet another plot by the deranged madman known as Dr. Eggman. Tonight however, he was having a little rest. The winter season was approaching, and him and his friends had went to a particular foresty area by the Gleaming Meadows, where it was said to be the first place in the meadow that you could see the drop of snow.

Alas, there had not yet been a single drop. They had waited for a fair while, but still nothing. By this point, Tails, Amy and Cream had fallen asleep comfortably after having waited for so long, but Sonic was still keeping a watchful eye, grateful that his surroundings were at least pleasant to look at under the night sky. Luckily for him, he wasn't alone on that, for the newest friend he had made, Lutrudis, was doing the same thing.

"Not tired yourself either?" the horse inquired.

"Nah," the hedgehog replied, as he remained comfortable resting by the biggest tree in the meadow. Having finished carefully pulling a blanket over their other three friends (evidently, she predicted not all of them would be staying awake through this event), Lutrudis sat down beside Sonic and followed suit, though she did so very carefully so as not to flare up her fragile body.

"How often do you get snow in winter?" Sonic asked.

"Goes either way, really," Lutrudis shrugged, as she very mildly crossed her legs. She chuckled. "Either there's too much, or there's barely much. And half the time it comes a month later. I could quite possibly count all the White Christmases I've experienced with my two hands... Everyone tends to just hang out in Sapphire Tundra for the festivities, since there's always plenty of snow there regardless."

Sonic smirked at her. "And how do you feel about snow personally?"

"It can be a bit inconvenient at times, but it's pleasant to look at." She brushed a gloved hand through her silky smooth ponytail, which was interrupted by a light cough. "Makes the asthma a right pain, though."

"Aww, if I had known about that, we could have stayed in your castle."

"It's fine," Lutrudis smiled as she continued looking up at the starry clouds. "You guys wanted to see this, so that's the top priority. Just hope it actually happens at some point..."

"Heh."

They both took in the environment for a moment. The swift breeze was the only prominent sound throughout the meadow, outside of their friends' light snoring. Amazingly, Cheese the Chao snored the heaviest. Eventually, Lutrudis broke the silence.

"Sonic?"

"Yeah?"

"Talking of Christmas... you used to live on Christmas Island, right?"

"Yeah."

"If it's not too nosy of me to ask... what was it like there?"

Sonic blinked. It had been so long since the last time the memory of Christmas Island had even occurred to him. He honestly couldn't recall the last time he had discussed the subject. But he saw no reason to be secretive. Tails knew about his past history, as did Amy. What harm would revealing it to Lutrudis do?

"Well, it was pretty boring to be honest," he laughed. "I mean, it was nice and all, and the coconuts there were delicious. But I was thirsty for journey even when I was a little guy, and it was never going to appease me. You can only run around the same place so many times before you lose interest, know what I mean?"

"I suppose..." In reality, Lutrudis didn't necessarily agree, since she had always loved her frequent walks through the same forest surrounding her castle. But she understood her friend's needs and desires, and she wasn't going to shoot them down.

"I remember my mom and dad were always lecturing me," Sonic reminisced wistfully. "Always telling me to stay nearby, look both ways, do this, don't do that, be home at six, don't break the sound barrier again..." He chuckled once more. "They were good parents though. I respected them. Just kinda overprotective of me, that's all."

Lutrudis fiddled with her ponytail again. "I guess they got an awful fright when you started risking your life on a routine basis, huh?"

"Heh, you could say that," Sonic grinned sheepishly. "Especially with how young I was."

"You were fighting nasty fiends that early on?"

"Sure was! It wasn't just my need for adventure that kicked in early." He broke out a confident smile. "So did my need to stick it to 'em. Ain't letting jerks messing with my friends, or my planet."

Lutrudis' own smile grew more intimate, as she glanced to her side at the heroic hedgehog, with one hand on her chest, and the other resting her head. His altruistic heart was one of his greatest qualities in her eyes, and it contributed heavily to her admiration for him, even before she had met him in person.

"So then, what manner of dastardly rapscallions did you kick up the rear back in the day?" she asked in a playful tone.

"Oh, nothing extraordinary for the most part, just a bunch of petty crooks. They never prepared themselves for the good ol' Sonic Spin." He mimiced his signature attack by spinning his index finger. "Although there was one exception... There was this one time where I was menaced by a goblin."

A brief silence ensued before Lutrudis fully realised what Sonic had just said. She looked at him in mild bafflement.

"A goblin?"

"Yep. A goblin." Even years later, Sonic himself couldn't quite believe it either. "He was a big lug too, about the size of a building. Clawed hands, bald head, fangs, pointy nose..." He shivered for a bit. "He was kinda freaky. His name was Baron Giga."

"Baron Giga..." The lady horse had to stifle her laughter upon hearing such a ridiculous name. "Talk about naming yourself after your most obvious attribute."

The hero laughed nervously, clearly aware about the irony of her joking with a quick-footed hedgehog named Sonic. He quickly changed course.

"Well anyway, this guy was all big and mighty, and he was all..." He puffed his chest in preparation for his subsequent impression. "Foolish mortals! I'm the great goblin king! And your precious island is now mine! Muhahahahaha!"

He turned his head in Lutrudis' direction. "He had a really stupid voice by the way. Like it wasn't actually his voice, if you know what I mean."

"I see," Lutrudis commented, still lightly amused by his impression. Her hand was brushing gently against the petals of a daisy. "Did he have any ghastly minions?"

"You bet he did! He had walking cannons, and walking hands!"

"Ooooooh...!"

"And there were freakish hands with wings, and big googly eyes!"

"Spooky..."

"And there was this one that looked..." Sonic paused, as he attempted to find a suitable comparison for a creature with a long blunt object on its head. He was visibly embarrassed by what came to mind. "...Well, I don't know how to describe it. It was a weird looking one."

"So what happened?"

"Hm?"

"How did you stop him? Did you do it on your own?"

Sonic was ready to answer, but as a certain realisation kicked in, a gradual look of reluctance began to shape itself onto the hedgehog's face. Whatever the next part of the tale was, he clearly did not want to remember it. He hesitated briefly, before finally continuing.

"Well, not exactly..."

------

"Are you the local hero, Sonic the Hedgehog?"

"Yeah! That's me!"

"Thank goodness! Pleased to meet you. I'm afraid I'm in need of a bit of help..."

"Where are we going?"

"Oh, you'll see in just a second."

The young Sonic was taken aside by an older man. He couldn't guess how old the man was, but he appeared to be somewhere in his later years at the very least. The man did not seem at all bothered by the heat the scorching sun was passing down onto his hairless cranium. Not that Sonic focused too hard on that part, for he was more hypnotised by the man's extremely bushy moustache, as well as his deep pink nose. What on earth could cause a nose to turn so pink...?

"So like, are you a scientist or somethin'?" The little hog took notice of the humble little laboratory he was escorted into. Machine parts were scattered all across a bunch of tables and desks, some of them vaguely resembling insect appendages for some strange reason. There was also the occasional beaker on the desks, each of them filled with brightly colored liquids. Who knows what they could be for...?

"That's right, kid," the man stroked his brown 'stache as he examined his own private domain. "They don't call me Doctor Ivo Robotnik for nothing. I earned my PhDs, I'll have you know!"

"P h what...?"

"Well, anyway," Robotnik started, seemingly trying not to notice his acquaintance's lack of awareness regarding his profession. "I don't come from here, but I'm aware of this island's plight with Baron Giga, and I wanted to do what I could to help. Just as well then that I've been researching entities like the baron for the last few years now, as I find them deeply fascinating... Which means I know how to confront this menace efficiently."

The scientist went up to a suspicious curtain in the corner of his lab, and removed it as dramatically as he could. To the kid's amazement, behind the curtain was a huge machine of some sort. It looked very much incomplete, and it didn't even boast a single coat of paint, but the basic foundation was very much present. Its appearance was highly reminiscent of a humanoid, and upon squinting, Sonic could make out a similar moustached shape near the head.

"That looks cool!" Sonic exclaimed in literal childlike ecstasy. His spines had spiked out as an impulsive extension of his excitement. "You gonna use this junk to beat up the goblin guy?"

"That is the purpose of this machine, yes," Robotnik confirmed matter of factly. He followed it up with a depressed sigh. "Or at least, if I had more rings..."

"Rings...?"

Robotnik promptly took out a map of blueprints and shared it with Sonic. The hedgehog could make out from the highly detailed schematics that the machine was making use of the rings he had seen throughout the island, or to be more specific, the mysterious energy that they often came with.

"My mech requires a particularly powerful source of fuel in order to function to its best ability," Robotnik explained, all the while trying to make sure the little hedgehog's focus actually remained on the blueprints and not elsewhere. "Therefore, I've been collecting rings for that purpose. But the amount I have as of now is hardly enough..."

He sprinted to the giant computer in his lab, surprisingly so for someone his age, and using his impressively fast typing prowess, he got the computer to confirm exactly how charged up his mech was. As of current, it reached up to a pitiable 20%. The doctor's moustache drooped as he sighed once again, as if on purpose.

"That baron has been stealing all the rings for himself," he muttered while gesticulating with one hand. "Probably for some silly witchcraft nonsense, you know these types." He chuckled sadly, like a warm-hearted grandfather. "But that's why I need your help."

"Me?" Sonic didn't even know this person. How was this scientist so sure about him?

"Only you can collect enough rings before it's too late." Robotnik then proceeded to cough and splutter as though he were ill, though if it hadn't been for Sonic's idealistic youthfulness, he may have sensed it wasn't a genuine cough. "I'm just an old man, after all. My best days are long behind me, and I only want to help make the world a better place while I still can..."

"Well, don't worry!" the kid grinned and waved a finger out of cockiness. "I'll help you get those rings, Eggman!"

"...Eggman...?"

"Yeah, that's my name for ya." Sonic gave the doctor a wink. "Cause you're kinda shaped like an egg and all... so I'm gonna call you Eggman!"

"...I see." Robotnik didn't show much reaction to the new nickname he was suddenly given, though his body language subtly emphasized that he wasn't too keen on it. "Right, well then, I guess you better get started on your little adventure."

"Alright! But uh, where should I go?"

"Anywhere, really. No doubt the baron's demons will be scattered all around the island. If you find THEM, you'll find their rings." The doctor walked back to his mech, having brought out a wrench and several additional tools to continue working on his homemade creation. "You collect the rings, I complete the mech. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. A team effort, if you will!"

Sonic began revving up already. "No worries, I'll have them all in a flash!" He flashed another grin to Robotnik, along with a good-natured thumbs up. "Catch ya later, Eggman!"

And with that, he was gone in an flash. Unfortunately, the scale of his speed had caused all sorts of blueprints to be knocked over all around the lab, much to the doctor's grumbling exasperation.

------

"So you were working with Eggman?" Lutrudis asked, with a hint of surprise.

"Essentially, yeah." Sonic scratched his ear before continuing. "We teamed up to beat Giga and his... 'demons'. He seemed pretty cool at the time. A bit eccentric, cause it was still Eggman, but y'know."

"Well, that's certainly fascinating," the horse noted, as she gently stroked one of her legs with her other. "To think he was a decent man at first, that he once had noble intentions, and wasn't always so selfish and cruel... Goodness, I can't even imagine living in a reality where he wasn't a ripe stinker. Must have been something alright."

As soon as she said that however, she was quick to notice the growing look of hurt on Sonic's face. As she examined his uncharacteristically quiet discomfort, she gradually figured out that she had spoke too soon. Her own ears mildly drooped in disappontment at what her friend's body language spelled out to her.

"Oh... he was... he was a stinker the whole time, wasn't he..."

Sonic simply looked aside dejectedly, as he recalled that one moment...

------

"I got the last rings, Eggman! The hand monster gave me a hard time, but I snatched them off from hi-"

Sonic cut himself off in shock at what he witnessed upon arriving back at the lab. Robotnik was there as expected, as was his big mech... but so were rows upon rows of smaller droids, each of them based on a variety of members of the animal kingdom. He had also just interrupted the process of Robotnik working on something... something that looked an awful lot like Baron Giga. The doctor was visibly flushed upon Sonic's arrival.

"Ah... Sonic... you finished up earlier than expected..."

"What's... what's all this, doc?"

Robotnik stumbled for a little bit. "I was just, uh... just finishing a side project of mine! Wanted to do even more to fight the good fight, you know?"

"Doc... what is this?" Sonic asked again, this time more firmly. "Why is Giga here? Why are you doing stuff on him? And is this... an army...? You never mentioned anything about making an army..."

Robotnik stroked his moustache to bide some brief time as he thought out his response. "It's all to fight Baron Giga with, see? There's a strength in numbers, you understand. As for this... erm..." He motioned towards what appeared to be the very Giga himself. "...A lifelike replication. For locating weaknesses and whatnot. Yes, that's right..." 

He quickly rubbed his hands. "Now then, the final rings, please..."

He extended a hand, but was instead greeted with Sonic hesitating, even hiding them away from the doctor's view. The young hedgehog looked troubled, and alert. He didn't like the feel of any of this.

"What's going on, Eggman...?" He looked up at the other, desperately wanting an answer.

Robotnik looked down at Sonic for a few seconds, unable to say anything at first. But then, he slowly kneeled down to match Sonic's point of view, and just as methodically, he took off his glasses for the hedgehog's sake. Sonic was greeted with a pair of regular blue eyes, as the scientist pleaded for forgiveness.

"Sonic... I'm sorry," he started, as he put a hand on the other's shoulder. "Baron Giga doesn't exist. I created him. I should have been more honest with you, but I didn't want you to have even more on your plate than what was necessary."

"But... I don't understand..."

"It was a test, you see. A test to show that you truly were the hero people said you were, and to make us more prepared for when something like Giga happens for real. The world is a dangerous place, and there's a lot of threats out there. We have to do what we can to protect our world from them."

Sonic remained silent. It didn't make sense to him, and he still felt hurt about being lied to.

"I understand why you may not trust me," Robotnik muttered quietly. He briefly looked aside at the floor, as if to accentuate his apparent remorse. "But do you not recognise our potential? This situation may have been staged, but our efforts were not. We can do great things together, Sonic... extraordinary things. We can be heroes together... But I need those rings if that is ever to happen."

Sonic hesitated still. He kept glancing slowly between the old man's face, and the rings he currently held in his own hand. Robotnik ushered him once.

"Do the right thing, Sonic... I know you can..."

Unable to dither for any longer, Sonic closed his eyes tightly as he gave Robotnik his last bundle of rings. Robotnik gently patted him on the head for his assistance.

"Thank you," Robotnik whispered. He quickly put his glasses back on, obscuring his eyes once more. "You've helped me change the world for the better."

After taking some time to accept his decision, Sonic slowly started to relax as the doctor applied the energy of the rings to his towering mech, before climbing inside it himself.

After a few seconds of inactivity, Robotnik's masterpiece slowly came to life, like a robotic Frankenstein's monster. By the doctor's piloted command, it broke free from the tubes that had formerly kept it wired up, and a small number of lumbering steps each caused a slight tremor throughout the lab. Sonic looked up at the doctor's cockpit, gradually regaining his previous excitement and enthusiasm about the project. As the mech walked all the way across the room, just outside the laboratory's exit, it turned towards Sonic's direction, and its mechanical hand gave a proud thumbs up to the kid. Sonic grinned, and gave a thumbs up himself.

"So doc, what's the first threat that needs taken care of?" he asked jovially.

He could only barely see the doctor's face in the cockpit, but he could hear a bit of laughter from him... It didn't sound at all like an ordinary laugh... And the thumb of the mech was rotating slowly, yet surely, until it was upside down, pointed firmly at the floor...

"Ho ho ho... you."

"What...?"

As if by instinct, every last one of the smaller robots had immediately come to life. Some of them revved up their wheels, while others flapped their wings, but all of them focused solely on the blue hedgehog, and before he could realise what was happening, before he could respond with anything other than confusion, before he could seek for an explanation...

"Thanks for everything, kid."

And right on cue, the robots began to attack and overwhelm the poor boy, while Robotnik - Eggman, as christened by the one he was now leaving for dead - left the scene in his mech.

------

"That fiend..." Lutrudis muttered in disbelief with clenched fists. "That dirty, rotten, filthy, stinking fiend... And while you were a child, no less... I'm so sorry..."

"Don't sweat it," Sonic shrugged casually. "It worked out in the end. I wrecked up those robots, and I caught up to him and beat him. It wasn't easy though..."

"If Eggman wanted the rings," Lutrudis mused as she scratched the back of her ear. "Why did he even bother with the whole Giga smoke and mirrors? He was going to get the rings with or without your help, surely?"

"It wasn't about the rings," Sonic explained stoically. His arms were now crossed. "It was about keeping me distracted. He knew I could have been a threat to his operations, so he did all that to get me out of the way without me even suspecting he was up to something. By painting another target."

"Well... you got him in the end," Lutrudis put her hand on Sonic's shoulder, and rubbed it tenderly. "You set things right. Like every time after."

As Sonic recalled his first proper fight with the mad scientist, he was bothered not so much by the fight itself - though being forced to fight who he thought was a friend was certainly hard to swallow - but rather, all the things the doctor called out to him as they traded blows:

"Is it Eggman that you want? Then it's Eggman that you'll get!"

"Who am I to dismiss a name for your king?"

"You could have avoided all this if you were more like me, and just thought!"

"They only care about the hero! The legend! They don't care about YOU!"

"They'll turn against you one day! They always do! Take it from me, kid! No one likes what isn't normal! I was shunned for my genius, and so will you for your speed!"

"Where are your friends now, Sonic? Oh, that's right, they don't exist!"

Sonic looked up at the night sky as he remembered those biting words... before glancing at Tails, Amy and Cream, who still remained asleep even now. He then glanced at Lutrudis, who in turn caught his vision. His smile slowly began to return.

"So.. what did you do after that?" the horse queried.

"Well, I cleaned the place up, made sure everyone was okay, got yelled at by my parents for trusting a stranger... then I left."

"You just... left?"

"Yep. The ol' adventure thirst was calling, and after what happened with Eggman... I felt uncomfortable there. Couldn't shake it off me."

"How did you leave?"

"I..." Sonic hesitated, knowing what he was about to say was going to sound rather inexcusable no matter how he put it. "I erm... I stole my dad's plane."

Lutrudis blinked. She took a few seconds to contemplate, then blinked again.

"Right."

"Yeah, I know..." Sonic scratched his left quill, ashamed at what he just admitted to.

Another brief period of quietness followed. The night remained as beautiful as when they had arrived, and the stars continued to glow radiantly. Upon breaking the silence this time around however, Lutrudis' tone grew more lighthearted.

"You ever gonna give it back to him then?" She let out a joking smirk.

"Ah, heh heh, I think too much time has passed for that..." Sonic's face grew even redder as they continued discussing his rather delinquent theft. "Tails has modified it to infinity by this point anyway... I really should talk to them again though."

Lutrudis looked once more in the direction of the sleeping Tails. Though you couldn't tell at first glance due to the sheet, the bumps in the sheet made it obvious that his titular twin tails were keeping the similarly dozing Amy and Cream warm. Lutrudis' heart couldn't help but melt ever so slightly.

"You've got good friends," she commented, as she looked in Sonic's direction. "Who cares about Eggman, when you have them."

"Sounds about right," Sonic agreed with a satisfied nod. He wagged his finger with a wink and a smirk. "But don't leave yourself out, Trudy. You're pretty cool as well."

Lutrudis tried to fight back the bashfulness she felt in response, to blatantly little success. She rubbed her arm and glanced down at the flowers around them, before looking back up at Sonic's famous emerald eyes.

"You too, Sonic," she assured him quietly. She didn't seem to be aware that her tail was swishing to and fro, just a little bit.

"Oh, wait...! Is that... ... ...yeah, it is! The snow's came!"

"It has?"

Sonic and Lutrudis both stood up, and sure enough, the first few drops of snow were gently falling. Sonic quickly, yet carefully, attempted to wake his other friends. Controlling his own glee, he waited for them to reach a reasonable level of semi-consciousness before continuing.

"Guys, wake up! The snow came!"

"Whuzzat...?"

"Oh, yes! At last!"

"Snow? Yay!!!"

"Chao!!!"

Wasting no time, Cream and Cheese used their ears and wings respectively to fly closer to the new snowfall, followed shortly by Tails. The snowflakes glistened marvellously, and the celestial skies complimented their pristine elegance. Amy looked at her flying comrades with a hearty laugh, as she waited for Tails to hover down and pick her up so that she could get a closer look as well.

Sonic simply stood there, with his hands firmly on his hips. He smiled at the sight of his friends enjoying themselves. He turned to Lutrudis, who stood beside him.

"Well, I guess we could be in for a ~White Christmas~ after all."

"Quite so... Wait a minute, don't tell me you're about to-"

"~Iiiii'm... dreeeeamiiiing~" Sonic started, as he shamelessly showed off his impressive vocals. He followed this up with a slow, yet goofy dance. His grin was wide, knowing full well that he was indulging in silliness. "~Of a Whiiiite... Christmaaasss~"

"Oh, jeez," Lutrudis laughed out loud, as she shyly covered her face with one hand. One thing would always remain certain: this was Sonic the Hedgehog alright.

[genkinahito]

Osaka Asian Film Festival 2020 Recommendations

Osaka Asian Film Festival 2020 Recommendations @oaffpress

It’s almost March and that means the Osaka Asian Film Festival (OAFF) is about to launch for its 2020 edition.

The festival plays from March 6-15and comes at a time when the international community is convulsed with the spread of the Coronavirus. However, despite the cancellation of part of the programme (a decision taken by one of the festival’s co-hosts), the rest of the event is scheduled to…

[littlefreya]

Stalker Walker - Part 5

Summary: A voyage to Paris in order to escape your mundane life leaves you with more than you bargained for.

[Previously on Stalker Walker]  

Pairing: August Walker x Reader

Words:  1k

Warning: He’s cute and all but a stalker, mentions of sexual thoughts, mention of age gap. 

A/N: No Beta!!! He is back, and on this episode of Stalker Walker™, our dear reader has finally met with August... now I wonder, what will happen next. 

Title: Last night in Paris

It was as if the street fell utterly silent all of a sudden, save for the soft drumming of raindrops upon the thick fabric and your trembling breath no sound met your ears. The little shelter beneath his large umbrella felt like a secluded little realm and there you were, drowning on solid land, sunken into the abyss of the most stunning eyes you’ve ever seen. 

Like the heart of a cold ocean kissed by the storm, passion and hunger swam within the tall man’s gaze, deeming him even more attractive. 

Absentmindedly, you gaped, unable to determine if this was a movie, an extremely lucid dream or real life. 

He was your stranger from earlier, the elegant, well-suited man who sat alone at the cafe’, how odd it was that by chance you’d meet again? Now further hulking, he stood so close that you could taste the same brew of Columbian coffee off his breath and the mist of his stark, musky cologne engulfed from each direction like some intoxicating enchantment.

It took a while before you could find words and the hint of a smile that began to spread on his surprisingly succulent lips didn’t help your lack of coherence.

“I’ve seen you,” you finally managed and immediately wanted to throw yourself into the canal. 

Certainly, he would now think that you were some sort of a creepy stalker.

The stranger-now-turned saviour, tilted his head at you in a query while a small spark ignited his aquatic glance.  

“At the Cafe’, earlier this morning…” you explained, trying to maintain a stable tone as your voice was about to give in to the same tremor in your knees. 

The man observed your face silently, his tongue flicking over his bottom lip as he drank the sight of you in. He had to admit that you were far more fascinating in the flesh; your beauty a thing of ballads sung by knights and love poems, your scent - delicate and feral at the same time like a wild rose that grew timidly in a dark cave. 

He couldn’t wait to pluck your soft petal and drink your sweet nectar. 

“Shame,” he spoke, his baritone a smooth, low chant, “I would have offered you to join me for breakfast,” he paused and then clicked his tongue, his smile further widening, exposing two large dimples and two sharp fangs, “had you agreed to it, of course.”

In your cheeks, you felt the lick of flames. Eyes dropping to the damp cobblestone, you chuckled softly and then tucked an errant curl behind your ear. You’ve just met him 5 minutes ago and didn’t even know his name, but you were willing to leave with your bewhiskered stranger to wherever he fancied if only he’d suggest.

But this wasn’t you, you weren’t the coy, giggly girl falling for every tall handsome man with a void of a dark angel. You were the same independent woman who travelled on her own for the first time, visiting a completely new land. Yet his glare somehow held you captive in a chamber of glass which you couldn’t escape from, nor did you ever wanted. 

Unable to find the correct answer to his theoretical question, you simply shrugged and crooked an eyebrow, trying to suggest you wouldn’t have minded having breakfast, lunch, dinner and then another breakfast in bed with him the morning after. 

Moving his arm in the most elegant manner, he reached for your palm and took it in his grasp. The drum of your heart never beat louder as he leaned in to kiss the back of your hand, pressing his soft lips against your supple skin. The rough edges of his moustache scratched your hand and you had to swallow that giggle that threatened to escape your throat. 

“August,” he introduced, remaining a tad bent and only keeping his glare fixed upon yours. Smitten by his direct charm and suave charisma, you wondered about his age. He couldn’t have been older than mid-30, much older than you, no doubt, yet his manners and gestures were that of a man who was slightly old fashioned, one that treats a woman like a lady.

You scratched the back of your head awkwardly which he took as a signal to let go of your hand and stretched back to his full height.  

“August,” you repeated his name, enjoying the way it rolled on your tongue, “I am so lucky to have run into you, and have you save me from the rain. I brought an umbrella with me today but misplaced it somewhere...”

Possibly at the cafe, when you were too lost in your own gawking and fancies, though you’d be lying if you didn’t admit to yourself that you were thrilled to have lost your umbrella. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have the chance to run into August on a rainy autumn day. Perhaps it was your destiny that on the last night in Paris, you were to meet a man that made you want to do something completely outrageous. 

It was time after all…

The anticipation grew in your eyes as you stood waiting, unaware of how your body swung from side to side. If only you knew what an open book you were to a man like him, there was no need to swipe your credit card and trace your information, he picked up every twitch and flutter of your lashes, noticing how you fell into your own musings, as you did when you were alone. He wanted to browse through your pages and read each passage and syllables of your naked body, as he will have you in your own hotel bed tonight. 

Inhaling calmly, he reached for your hand again, and placed the hook of the umbrella in your grip, “you are welcome to have mine till the end of your trip, sweetheart. I’m not afraid of getting wet.”

At the arch of his brow and the drawl in his voice, you flushed, but then your heart sunk like a broken ship. The end of your trip was closer than he knew and home was nothing but a mundane little fortress of solitude, this was by far the most exciting thing that ever happened to you since forever and the fact that you’ve met him at the last night of the trip felt as if you’ve wandered from a pleasant little garden of roses into a bush full of thorns. 

Giving him a disappointed glance, you pushed the umbrella back toward him, “there is no need, that’s gonna be tomorrow morning.”

August’s brow lifted with surprise and the same disappointing tainted his eyes that now looked as soft as the eyes of a puppy. “Pity,” he pouted but then offered you another one of his endearing smiles, “perhaps then, you can hold it for me till the end of the night.” 

His hand pushed yours away gently, and he pulled back, stepping into the rain and letting the drizzle dampen his trench coat and slick hair. 

“Have a drink with me tonight.” It didn’t sound like a question nor like a suggestion but more of a fact as he took another step away from you, his hair gradually becoming tussled by the soft wind and droplets of rain. “You are staying close to the cafe’ where we met, I presume.”

“Yes,” you retorted, squeezing your fingers around the rigid metal handle, “at the Pantheon.”

Tucking his hands down the pockets of his jacket, he continued to pace away, walking backwards as if he didn’t want to say goodbye.

“I’ll see you downstairs at 8, my little rose, don’t forget my umbrella, because then I’ll have to hunt you down” he announced with a playful smirk and then turned on his feet and walked away. 

Watching him leave, you finally allowed your self to exhale loudly. A broad smile stretched your cheeks to the point of pain, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at the turn of events. Even if you were to never see him again after tonight, it would still be the sweetest memory, and maybe a part of you was somewhat afraid of the commitment that could follow anyway.

You began pacing away, staring into nothing with music playing in your mind when you suddenly found it odd that he never bothered asking for your name.

*Disclaimer: I don’t own August Walker or any of the Mission Impossible franchise characters*

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, my ideas or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

[cowboylordbyron]

10 THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW BEFORE MEETING VAMPIRE COWGIRLS FOR THE FIRST TIME

I first saw Angelique ‘The Silent’ Fortune outside of town in an inn the size of a pin. The walls dripped with cobwebs. Torches flickered on the walls. When I walked in, the floorboards creaked beneath my heels, turning every man—and woman’s—head toward me.

A wind whistled through the door. Somewhere, an eagle cried.

Head held high, I glided to the bar. The man polishing the table looked weary, his moustache lank, pointed ears drooping.

“What’ll it be?” he snapped.

I leaned an elbow on the stained wood and pulled my lips into a smile. “A pint of your finest red.”

Grumbling, the man ran his fingers over the labels on the shelved bottles, pulled one down from a shelf and poured me a glass.

I lifted it to the light. “Ooh. Lovely viscocity. Delightful shade.”

The man looked briefly chuffed. He straightened his ascot. “Straight from the sherrif’s son. Went out for a ride the other day, rode into the wrong side of town.”

“Impressive.” I raised the glass in a salute. “Well, as the Lord himself said—“Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.””

The innkeep watched as I downed the glass of blood in a single gulp and wiped it from my lips. I held it out to him for a refill.

“Another, fine sir?” I asked.

Three glasses later, I was reclining, comfortably full, in one of the leather booths. The interior of the inn reminded me somewhat of my old crypt—the smell of blood and mildew, the weathered stones, the tapestries of our noble ancestors adorning the walls. I breathed in the familiar scents with satisfaction.

Someone bumped my elbow. I looked up, teeth already bared, only to see a fine-boned face looking down at me.

The woman raised her pale fingers to her lips. “My sincerest apologies, my lady.”

I waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing to it.”

She lingered for a moment, eyes drifting to the bloodstains on the lapels of my coat. “Celebrating something, Mistress?”

“I suppose you could say that.” I raised my empty glass. “Three-hundredth birthday today.”

She gasped prettily. “Truly? My dear, you look barely over two-fifty.”

“And may I enquire as to your business tonight?” I gestured, as politely as I could, to her blouse. She blinked down in surprise at the metal pole protruding from her abdomen.

“Oh, this?” She giggled. “I had completely forgotten.”

“Who would do such a thing to such a lovely lady?”

“A foolish stablehand. Inspiringly plucky, I have to say, but foul-tasting.”

“Ah.” I showed my fangs in a smile. “Suppose the townsfolk should leave you alone now, shouldn’t they?”

She laughed. “At least until they learn to use wooden stakes instead of steel. May I join you for a glass?”

That night we drank til the innkeep’s stores were almost run dry. By the time we retired and the inn was almost empty, he looked ready to drive a stake into my own stomach.

“You know these blood stores aren’t endless, Mistress Frost,” he muttered, hovering angrily over to the shelf for another bottle.

“As far as I know, blood is a renewable resource,” I said. “So what’s the problem?”

I winked. The man practically vibrated in his fury.

I flew Angelique back to her apartment, a modest loft at the outskirts of town, the both of us gliding silently through the night on bat wings so as not to attract the attention of the sheriff’s men patrolling the streets below.

“Will I see you again?” I asked before I left her.

“I should hope so,” she said. “There should be a hunt next week. Everybody’s going.”

“Ah, the summer hunt, of course. How could one forget?”

“So you are coming?”

“Of course, if only to see you.”

We turned human-shaped and stood for a moment, outlined against the summer moonlight. I pressed my lips to the back of her hand in solemn farewell.

“You are quite the flirt, Virginia,” she smiled.

I raised my eyes to her and recited, “”She walks in beauty, like the night—Of cloudless climes and starry skies—And all that’s best of dark and bright—Meet in her aspect and her eyes.””

I left her before she could respond, slipping off like a phantom into the night, my cloak wafting around my ankles as I flew. Maybe living in this town wouldn’t be so horrid after all.

That was when someone shot me.

“Oh, bollocks,” I said, and began to fall.

[thatboomerkid]

Twisting Amongst Mages

Twisting Amongst Mages

Pathfinder Fiction by Clinton J. Boomer

Brought to you absolutely free to enjoy, to test & to share – as always – by the fine folks of my Patreon.

The Old Wishtwister Shadibriri was having himself a simply damn fine evening.

Walking through the warm, early-spring fog of sunset, the Wishtwister smiled idly to himself at the complex work ahead of him. Feeling the vast port city change from bustling to coy, in mood and attire, with the coming of nightfall, a jaunty skip fell into his step. Yes, tonight he had a sizable bet to win, and a suitable con to pull, and -- best of all -- hours of raw entertainment to violently choke from the mortal world.

There was no need for him to stifle a wry chuckle as he sniffed at the changing breeze off the sparkling and wine-dark bay, taking in the soft salty tang of the cool sea.

The immense city around him glittered and shined.

The ageless demon was looking, this night, for a mind as sharp and solid as a forge-worked blade of adamantine, as taut yet flexible as a bow of oiled darkwood, as precise and slick as a wet-cut sliver of polished obsidian ... and, above all those things, as black and brutal as a burning river of pitch.

He was in Nex, in the port of Quantium. It wouldn't take long.

Shadibriri had a point to prove to his long-time partner-in-crime, Yaenit-Ku, and rubbing his inevitable success in the treacherous old dog’s face would be nearly as rewarding as the wager’s prize: sticking his fellow fiend to the completion of a foolishly made contract regarding a dark-elven demon summoner with more ambition than sense.

The Wishtwister only needed to connive a mortal mage into bargaining for -- and choosing -- his own death and damnation within the next thirteen hours.

Relatively simple, as such things go. And it would be fun, as well.

Tonight, the old demon intended to use the ancient "Foolish Sorceress and the Offended Genie" gambit - it was a classic. Like nearly all successful confidence scams, it relied on telling the mark exactly what he already wanted to believe, making him feel smart and lucky and very special, and then playing to his own particular vanity and greed.

The twist on this, though, was that the con was best pulled on studious, self-obsessed geniuses.

That made it tricky.

Which only made the endeavor still more delightful.

The Wishtwister barely stopped himself from skipping and doing cartwheels with the sheer glee of his anticipation.

Coming quite arbitrarily to an abrupt halt, the old demon settled into a disused alleyway not far from the waterfront and wrapped his form in shadow; he popped his knuckles, licked his wolfish fangs, and began to prepare his glamer.

He had to get into character.

That required the right costume.

If any citizen of Quantium had been around to see, they might have noted that the false man-form the demon wore seemed to shift then, from one singularly bluish hue to another, his hair cascading from white to blonde to sea-gray to storm-wracked green; and his features began to run like wind over swift water, flickering from kindly and doddering to wildly foolish and back again twice as fast.

He kept an appraising eye out for young, ambitious men.

Although, in fairness, ambitious middle-aged men were fine as well.

And ambitious old men were hardly any worse.

The pride was the thing, much more than age.

As the veils of his glamers were rearranged, and the Wishtwister tried on one duplicitous identity after another, the he mused to himself over his tactics.

He had found, over the many years he had walked the worlds, that most men did not particularly like women.

Oh, they liked looking at women, certainly, especially if the women were young and healthy. Men often enjoyed spending great deals of money on such women, and laying with them, and lying to them, and collecting them, parading and keeping them like caged animals, displaying them like collected dolls.

A few men, the old Wishtwister had found -- if the woman was quiet enough and clever enough to keep her smarts and ambitions hidden -- even enjoyed the occasional casual company of a woman.

But most men didn't really like them very much.

The Wishtwister thought that was quite funny.

Tonight, he was going to catch an ambitious man, with the bait of a wish, and hook him into immortal damnation, and filet him alive -- but, more concretely, the rod and reel of this trap would be that man’s distaste for women who did not know their proper place.

It was worth noting, perhaps, that this was a risky gambit indeed.

Old Shadibriri was, he felt, more than equal to the task.

Grinning, the ageless demon crouched in his dark hiding spot, and thumbed idly at the mental task of making his disguise as perfect as possible. The watching and the waiting would be worth it.

***

Many people walked by the alley as the sun set: soldiers and sailors, tinkers and tailors, bookbinders and bookmakers, butchers and bakers, and chandlers as well. Whores and whoremongers, pimps and tricks, some few young ruffians out for cheap laughs, some early-evening drunks, and even a strolling couple or two; all passed by the alleyway, and all were left be.

The city, more so than most, began to glow.

It was very pretty.

Singers and songwriters came and went, and actors and actresses on their way to work, along with bar-wenches and doormen, seers and soothsayers, fortune-tellers and funeral-makers, and a fat woman on a palanquin draped in gold.

The Wishtwister saw a skinny, sad young man, cradling a one-eyed cat, and it made him giggle.

He spotted an assassin, marking a target, and cheered quietly; he watched policemen upon their rounds, and jeered just as soundlessly.

He observed a man getting mugged, and laughed heartily to himself.

He beheld fools: some in motley, some in rags, and many more in the clothes of nobles.

The Wishtwister considered, after a time, the deeper and rarer delights to be seen only in Quantium: few cities in the world held the sort of hidden marvels that really rewarded the divinatory sight which Shadibriri possessed.

As the shadows grew long, his arcane-tuned eyes beheld a handful of lovely, secret things: imps and quasits, shades and phantasms, and shape-changed stalkers; a mage-lord flanked by a dozen invisible bodyguards; a scuttling succubus in the form of a street urchin; and a grim-faced swordsman with a cackling babau riding deep, frothing and buzzing, in the back of his mind.

To each of these he smiled and bowed his head in quiet, fraternal respect.

He watched patiently over wives and cooks, thieves and lovers, tramps and ladies, brigands and bullyboys, and the whole cross-sectioned cornucopia of such a cosmopolitan city as they wandered and waited, preyed and paraded before him.

The demon lurked, and grinned to himself.

***

In due time, before the sky had darkened entirely to jet, while the full twinkling of the sparkles above was held yet at bay by the lush light of the city and the lowering of the sun, the demon spotted his mark.

He was perfect.

The fellow was draped in the silks of a wealthy common-man, but wore the robe of a mystic scholar, the sleeves of his garb stained ever so slightly with chalk-dust and the smells of wood-oil, ink and coffee. His hair, black with strips of gray, receded from an over-sharp widow’s peak at his brow, and his beard was close-cropped into a thin goatee. A slight paunch went before him, but his posture was poised and proud, and his face betrayed a stern expression of idle seriousness on a countenance accustomed overmuch to scowling. His gait was leisurely, but solidly focused: here was a man without any appointment to keep, yet not one in the habit of dallying in bars while on the march to his eventual destination.

The man’s eyes were pale, and hidden behind smallish half-moon spectacles suitable for reading; his hair had not been cut in some time, which suggested the absence of a paramour in his life untroubled by a need to impress businessmen; and the leather bag slung over his shoulder was well-worn from its use -- doubtless the carrying of vast amounts of parchment and ink -- and had not been cleaned or repaired in some number of years.

He carried a finely wrought walking cane with elaborate scroll-work etched upon it, but did not seem to need it; it was an affectation and sign of station, only.

Shadibriri would have guessed him in his mid-thirties to early-forties, of mixed Garundi or Qadiran blood with perhaps a touch of Taldan, and respected -- if not particularly well-liked -- by his colleagues. The mark looked, in short, like an unmarried, tenured academic strutting home from the classroom, library or hall of study where he worked, in a wealthy metropolitan port-city proud of its history, arcane learning, and intellectual achievement.

The Wishtwister smiled to himself.

By a pitiful cough, and a rattle of false chains, the demon made himself known.

Turning in the alley, he caught the eye of the scholar and then cringed away ineffectually, half into the dark, to hide. His buffoonish visage, along with bright blue skin, a curling blonde moustache and a fetching turban in the Keleshite style, was enough to set the man’s curiosity to flight.

“What? Who is there?”

The demon wept and wailed, trying to keep the smile from his voice. “Oh, no, no, you have seen me! And I -- poor me! -- I am compelled to answer your question truthfully, and with neither prevarication nor hesitation! I am a genie, bound into this world until sun-up, and the third wish be granted!”

This, quite rightly, piqued the curiosity of the mage. With a wave of his hand, a globe of light appeared and hovered high above the cobblestones; with another pass of his palm and a few words, he cast a divination to see the warp and weft of the arcane. “A genie, you say? Come out, that I may see you.”

The demon suppressed a wry cackle, and did as he was bidden. “Very well, my lord; I suppose that I have little other option.”

Hanging his head, the demon stepped into the thin light of the street. He was a sight: his short but muscular form was garbed in the thinnest white cotton, cut in the most flamboyant of styles, his chest bare and smooth; his skin shone an electric-blue brighter than a dawn horizon upon the high Obari Ocean, and his eyes were expressive pools of clear water brimming with tears. The toes of his white leather shoes curled into cunning spirals, and broken chains dangled from electrum shackles locked around his wrists and throat.

In the vision of the mage’s divination, for the briefest instant the demon appeared as a singular pillar of bright, multicolored fire reaching some twenty feet in the air.

The mage composed himself swiftly and dismissed the effect: in elegant Quantium, xenophobia has been known as the very height of barbarism for over five thousand years; staring is considered quite rude; and non-consensual spell-use upon others is punishable by death. “Ah. You speak truthfully, good genie.”

The demon shrugged, wearing a façade of deepest misery. “Both fully as well as truthfully, I fear -- and much to my own dismay, sire. I am bound to do so; I would gladly lie, were I allowed. Or escape, had I the means.”

The mage cast a nervous gaze up and down the deserted street. “Can you not, ahh -- take some more mundane form, friend genie?”

The demon pretended to fight back tears. “I suppose. For what it is worth, I might garb myself in the mantle of men, like so ,”—his clothing and skin-tone changed in a wink to match the local style—“but my pupil-less eyes will always betray my true form. You see?”

The mage nodded, gazing into the colorless pools the demon presented, and chucked nervously. “I did not know that. Such a fact about your kind, I mean.”

“Hmm. You must not have met very many genies.”

The mage shrugged, waving off the observation, and smiled slightly. “It is true; I have not. So, can you not take the form of pure air, or water? Can you not step sideways to your home plane, amongst the elemental realms?”

The demon sighed. “Neither. I was bound by a most foolish sorceress, indeed, but amongst her many shortcoming and failures, sadly, was not to be found an inability to greatly inhibit my methods of travel. I am, in short, trapped.”

A long silence settled across the pair.

The Old Wishtwister had tried this trick many times before; long ago, he had occasionally substituted out the ‘foolish sorceress’ for an aged and infirm wizard. The problem, he had found, was that young mages tended to hold their elders in very high regard indeed, and oft became suspicious; the best trick he had come upon to mitigate that was to play on racism of some kind, and to use a greasy Varisian hedge-mage or a mad, backwoods Kellid mushroom addict in the role of the confounded summoner.

But his card was played now; his die cast.

The demon waited, and let the bait dangle.

He hoped the man before him was a divorcee, or perhaps had loved once - very intensely - in his youth, and been rebuked.

The Wishtwister sighed loudly, with intense weariness, and shrugged himself into a still-deeper slump.

Night had fallen upon the city.

“If you would, friend genie, tell me,” said the mage at last, “... what was the name of this sorceress?”

The demon sighed once more, quite deeply, to keep himself from spinning in a circle and clapping loudly with joy. “That, I cannot tell you. My tongue is bound against it, or I would speak her name with greatest glee, and tell you moreover what the harlot’s first two wishes were -- and what became of her in the process.”

The mage tried to hide his smile. “And you are bound here, then, until sunrise?”

“And the granting of a third wish, which is the heaviest and fastest of all bindings. My temper got the better of me, I am afraid, and thus my summoner lies trapped, blind and insensate. Now, I must find a mortal arcanist onto whom I might grant a wish, or I will be stuck here forever, cursed, a shadow of myself.”

Rubbing his chin, the mage nodded. “I see.”

The demon’s voice jumped, suddenly, as if he were startled. “My lord, surely, you are a learned spell-caster; might ... might you take this wish? Can you answer the riddle?”

The mage frowned. “And what ... ah, what of this riddle?”

“The sorceress who conjured and bound me, she did not desire that I might give away my wishes freely to others, and restrained me mightily against it. She impressed upon me, magically, a most cunning riddle: solve it, though, and I will grant you your heart’s desire, and then be on my way!”

Here, thought the demon, was the drawing of the reel.

The mage’s eyes were alight. “And if I cannot solve it?”

Shadibriri sighed again, with deepest sorrow. “Ah, well. Then I would have to find another mage, I suppose. If you could direct me to one, I should be ever so grateful ...”

“Hmm. Perhaps ... let me take a crack at it, first.”

And right here, thought the demon, was the trickiest part.

What he needed, in all truthfulness, was the right riddle for the right mark: one that seemed quite difficult to answer, yet that came accompanied with a frighteningly huge number of relatively easy possible solutions. He needed the mage to suddenly be caught up in the idea of being very, very damned clever.

The demon knew hundreds of such riddles.

So: which lock would fit this key?

Over the years the Wishtwister had tried offering three full attempts at solving the riddle, but he had found it problematic in several regards. Many ambitious young fellows became nervous, and overthought the problem, psyching themselves out in a vain attempt to strategize the system. In addition, some became wary when their first answer was correct: it seemed too easy, then ... The trick was to make it seem all-but impossible, and yet surmounted by a genius on his one and only attempt.

If a mortal mage buggered it too badly on his first effort, there was always the option of solemnly intoning, with as much authority as the demon could muster, that the mage now had two guesses remaining.

He looked over the man before him, and tried to guess at the fellow’s areas of passion and expertise. His fantasies, focuses and foibles. A mage from a seaport city, with a passion for books and the solitary life of an academic ... hmm.

Did he live alone? Had he any close family members? Any hobbies or delights, beyond the obvious guesses of ‘self-referential writing, self-sufficient pets, sedentary games requiring a little skill, and some small appreciation of legal inebriants and stimulants?’

Well, it couldn’t hurt to go with an old standard.

The demon took a deep breath. “Very well, sir. The riddle: I am dark, but not empty; liquid, but never flowing; I contain all mysteries and treasures, but am silent, and without a tongue. What am I?”

He watched the mage before him begin to frown, and to puzzle.

The demon held his breath.

What reply would his challenger provide? He was ready to accept any of the following answers:

ink, dried on a page, telling tales and scribing spells;

the depths of the ocean, which hold the still corpses of wrecked ships;

a chalkboard, freshly-washed and ready to be filled with new lessons;

the inside of an old and broken bell;

an onyx scrying pool;

a miser’s treasure-vault;

a dragon’s horde in a sodden cave;

any specific example from a great list of famous and more-mysterious wells or pits;

or even ‘the mind’ -- usually the dim mind of a child, or a madman, or a slave or a woman.

He was also willing to accept a number of other responses.

The Wishtwister wasn’t particularly picky.

One of the very few answers the demon could not, in all good conscience, allow would be ‘a raven’ -- although, he the mused, the day he found a wizard dumb enough to guess that, it would be a very interesting day indeed.

It would be quite a bit of fun to see what such an idiot wished for.

A hush fell along the city street, and demon wondered for a moment if he could accept ‘a city street at night’ as a response.

It would be a bit ... on the nose, tragically. Not a particularly good fit, either.

The mage frowned further, and the demon breathed as slowly as possible, holding in his anticipation.

Actually, the demon considered for a moment, he might be able to accept ‘breath’ as an answer. He might have to fudge it, though; breath could hardly be called ‘silent,’ and it would technically be ‘flowing, but never liquid.’

He might have to change the wording next time.

An electricity filled the air.

The mage, at last, surprised him. “The sky full of stars, and the Dark Tapestry beyond, and the many worlds hanging in it.”

The demon, quick as a wink, rattled the riddle back to himself, and double-checked the response: I am dark, but not empty; liquid, but never flowing; I contain all mysteries and treasures, but am silent, and without a tongue. What am I?”

It fit.

He grinned, then, from ear to ear. “Indeed ... master.”

Old as he might ever get, Shadibriri would never tire of seeing such a look of glee on a mortal’s face ... tinged with such hunger, avarice, and paranoia. He took it upon himself to savor the moment.

The demon bowed. “Yes, truly, I had my hopes pinned upon you. So, then ... what is your wish, my master?”

The mage took a moment to compose himself. “I have my wish?”

“No.”

The look of crestfallen confusion on the mage’s face was even more delightful than his look of glee a moment before, if that was possible.

The demon continued, after letting the pause hang for a moment out of sheer bloody-minded cruelty. “No, no my master -- you have the sorceress’ wish; it is bargained, bought and paid for by the bitch you boldly bested. I am now at your command.”

Glancing away, the mage visibly struggled with his emotions. “Any wish, then, is mine.”

“Yes.”

“Mine to make as I see fit.”

The demon smiled. “Oh, indeed. Most certainly and truly, master.”

“Any ... any wish at all?”

Shadibriri shrugged. “Within ... ah, limited guidelines. Barring a wish for more wishes, there is little of which I am not capable. As I have said before, to other men in other places: I can call forth any spell, I can resurrect the dead, I can rewrite time and space. I can create from nothing, and make you wealthy beyond your wildest dreams; I can open doors to other worlds, and cast you across the infinite pleasures of the planes as you desire. I can turn lead to gold, pig-farmers to pigs, and day to night. With but a word, I can unmake mountains, reshape flesh and topple kings ...”

“Very well.”

The demon smirked. “I was not done, master, and am still bound to speak the truth. The whole truth. I can also rewire your brain so that you think you’re a hummingbird, or set your bones on fire, or turn you into a pillar of salt and throw you into the ocean to dissolve, as a certain nameless sorceress once discovered. My abilities are not much limited; you drink from the very waterfall of creation’s torrent when you unleash my gifts. Be careful, I suppose they say, what you wish for.”

“It is to you, then, to interpret the meaning of my wish?”

The demon shrugged again. “My powers are great, and call on majesties older that your species can fathom; even I do not truly comprehend the full scope of what I do, any more than you understand the mysteries of digesting a glass of warm milk and turning it into blood and flesh, nor how it is that you fall asleep, and dream, and then wake again. I would be careful, were I you, to know exactly what you want, and to make it clear to me what you want, and to phrase what you want as precisely as possible. Barring that, you should also hope that I’m in a good mood, and that my values coincide rather perfectly with your own.”

The mage swallowed, hard. He then allowed himself a thin smile, but it was wry, and without much humor. “Heh. Yes. Amongst my colleagues, there exists something of a joke. About situations much similar to this -- a warning.”

“Ah! Does there, truly?”

“Yes. It seems that a foolish magician once wished of a captured genie that he should be made, and I quote, ‘the greatest of mages’. The genie acquiesced ... and ballooned him to a mass of over twenty-thousand pounds in weight -- heavier again, by thirty-fold, than even the largest cyclops-enchanters of the time before Starfall.”

“Ah,” the demon said. “You know, my people tell the same story.”

The mortal hemmed and hawed for a moment at that, swallowing again, once, then finally spoke. “So, let me clarify: I will not get the results of this wish until I specifically say the words ‘I wish,’ quote-end-quote, and then follow through with a specific request, is that correct?”

Shadibriri nodded. “Most assuredly. Why is it that you ask?”

“Just ... ah. Thinking it through. As they say, ‘It is the mark of an educated man that he might hold in his mind a possible course of action without necessarily choosing it.’ I’m simply ... weighing my options.”

“Yes, yes,” the demon agreed. “As my own people say, ‘You don’t have to believe everything you think.’ And so it is. You do seem a clever enough sort. For a mortal, anyway.”

“Well, I am a wizard.”

“Good point. You seem a clever enough sort, for a mortal wizard. Master.”

The mage frowned at that, and thought deeply -- his eyes squinted with mistrust -- and he stroked his bearded chin.

After a minute of this, just as the mage was getting into truly heavy thinking, Shadibriri cleared his throat. “Master?”

“Uh? Yes?”

“May we walk?”

The mage seemed startled. “What?”

“Well, your city is legendary for its beauty; I might like to see some of the sights of the place before I go. You have shrines and statues, hanging gardens and such, yes? Artificial waterfalls of the most cunning design, filling heated pools so that beauties may bathe even in winter; glass tubes of colored smoke, lit by captured lightning to illuminate the streets of alabaster, with ziggurats and terraces and mosaics galore?”

“Indeed,” the mage allowed. “Mostly, yes. So?”

“Well, it would be nice to have a look at them,” the demon said. Giggling to himself, he began to tap his foot and to feign that his patience was nearing an end. “Briefly. And then I rather would like to go home, you know.”

“Ah. Yes, of that, I am aware. Let us walk.”

The strange pair began a slow stroll through the city, one of them wracked with a torment of indecision and the other lapping it up.

The city had her most resplendent treasures on display as they walked, keeping to their privacy.

As they crossed a broad thoroughfare, the demon interrupted yet again. “So, look - you’ve done the hard part. With the riddle and all. What is the hold-up? You do want to make a wish, right?”

“I am ... thinking.”

The demon, relishing every succulent moment of the mage’s discomfort, prodded. “About?”

“About many things.”

Shadibriri did not hide his predatory grin. “Ah. I know what this is about.”

The mage balked. “Do you, now?”

“Of course! You are not the first mortal I have ever met, Master! No, I think I may understand how you feel: you are beset with too many options. You are like a gourmet seated before a feast; where the starving man digs in, and the glutton simply feeds, you are no fool: you are simply not certain where first to make a cut in the fine meal before you. Am I right?”

The mage frowned. “Perhaps.”

“Yes. Any one wish you make would be a wish against all the other things you could otherwise have,” the demon said, as he gestured to the city streets around them, and the throngs of evening life. “You could have any of this. Her, or him, or them, or those, or that and all that comes with it. Or all of it. Or none of it, if you are imprecise with your wording or don’t really know what you really want. Yes ... the first thing everyone wants, once they have a single wish, is that they had many more. And that is quite unpleasant, surely.”

“Yes,” the mage allowed.

The demon smiled his most disarming smile as he began to walk once more. “A shame, then. For you have only the one wish, after all.”

The mage’s scowl sent a shiver of joy up the Wishtwister’s spine as he caught up to the demon. After a few more blocks, he spoke. “And also, I wonder at my luck.”

“Oh, I see! Or, no -- no, I do not. What luck is that?”

The man’s frown deepened. “My own. I wonder at it, and meditate upon it, and hesitate to press it.”

“How so?”

The frown deepened yet further as they strolled. “I was lucky to meet you, that is clear. There are some three-thousand-score inhabitants of this city; half of them or more are arrayed around you. I am but one man. Probability was plainly not on my side in this regard, yet here I am with you; fewer than, I would guess, a third of those sixty thousand could have solved the sorceress’s riddle, yet I did so ... I am very fortunate indeed.”

Chuckling to himself, the demon nodded. “You sell yourself short, master; I would wager that far fewer than one in ten could solve it. Maybe less than one in a hundred, or even a thousand. Think upon it this way, if it please you: statistically, no one ever meets a genie and gets a wish granted. No one passes the Test of the Starstone, either. But it happens anyway. You’re living proof, as are Cayden Cailean and Iomedae the Inheritor, and doubtless a few more in the centuries to come. In a world with more than a billion inhabitants, after all, million-to-one odds must happen a thousand times a day. And further, would you not agree that you are - as I, myself, noted - exceptional?”

The mage began to shake his head. “I suppose.”

Shadibriri grinned. “So, you have been lucky! That is good, not bad! But better yet, you are smart -- as my people say, while it is certainly better to be lucky than to be smart, it is probably easier to be smart several times in a row than lucky the same number of times.”

“Hm. Do they really say that?”

“They must. I’m under a compulsion of truth, after all. Look, this is simple. Wish for something.”

They turned a corner and began across a bridge. The mage did not look happy. “Like what?”

“A fine question, master! Some people take a liking to fame. Or fortune, I’ve found,” the demon began to count on his fingers. “Strength of arm, or glory in battle, or a title of noble station. A gift for witty jokes, or a cunning tongue. Immortality. Sexual prowess.”

“Immortality, you say?”

“Indeed! Very popular!”

The wizard’s glower darkened further still. The pair came to a stop before a ball-court of some kind. “That seems ... problematic.”

The demon frowned, as well. “Hmm. In what way, master?”

“Well, life is fragile; eternity is long. The mortal form is susceptible to all number of maladies, from old age to disease to wounds in battle. Of all the problems that can beset a man, death is -- nine times of ten -- the commonest result of harm taken to its most logical conclusion. I should not like to suffer all the ills of life while nimbly dodging only final release, nor should I like to be flippant with what type of immortality for which I might be wishing; eternal existence as an unkillable tree or regenerating sea-slug, for example, would hardly be my preference.”

“I see.”

The mage continued, gesturing to the hoops and lines of the game-field beyond. “There is a ritual we perform at my college, and the company in which I work: each of us, when positioning for promotion, must create a game. A simple game of chance and skill, of strategy and risk, often with dice and cards and chits. Ways to win, to wager, and to lose.”

Shadibriri smiled. “I see.”

“We must present these games and their rules to our seniors; our rivals are then given the chance to break them, and find ways to cheat.”

“Hmm,” the demon mused. “I quite like the idea of this ritual.”

The mage nodded. “So, if I am cautious, it is because I have learned to be.”

“Plainly so, master!”

“So, indeed: if I were to wish that my own human flesh could never die, that I might remain young and vital and ever free of disease or harm, I might yet find myself transported magically to Hell -- or, less dramatically, trapped on a desert island without food or reading material, or alone with my arm caught beneath a boulder on the side of some mountain -- yet be unable to perish. That would hardly be ideal.”

The demon grinned. “There is that.”

“And never mind old age: what of an unexpected attack upon my life? Would any so-called ‘immortality’ you might see fit to grant me prove perfect protection against mundane sword-blows, or the axes and spears of starving peasants? If so, should my skin be altered into steel, that it could turn aside blades, yet still retain its tactile senses ... yet, what of poison? Or would I just be trapped in a furnace, or frozen in an iceberg, or sunk in a chest to the bottom of the sea, or any of another ten-thousand terrible ways to die -- or, in my case, live?

The demon began to walk again, heading towards an alleyway between an art museum, a street vendor, and a monument of some kind. “Good questions, master.”

The mage followed. “Yes. The easiest way to achieve for me this immortality might be to kill me -- for if the soul is truly deathless, I would then pass on to immortality.”

The demon suppressed a grin. “There is that, as well. It would certainly suit Pharasma’s liking, at the very least.”

The mage shuddered and made a sign of reverence, spiraling his right hand over his heart for a moment, yet went on. “You might instead grant me access to Sun-Orchid Elixirs -- and with it, all the enemies that access would supply. You might skip me ahead, one century a second, until the sun burns out in a few thousand-thousand years. Or, perhaps, you might fit me with a magic ring that sustains my life processes, and then shut me in a perfectly spherical adamantine prison floating invisibly in the sky, a hundred miles up.”

Old Shadibriri nodded sagely. “Yes. Yes, I might. You forgot that I might transfigure you into a painting or a sculpture ... for art is, truly, immortal.”

The mage frowned. “No. No immortality, I think. Not today -- an eternity is long; it wouldn’t do to pick the wrong one. This is a problem requiring more study than I’ve yet given it. Wishes are fickle things.”

The demon shrugged. “As you say -- you’ve certainly given this subject a lot of thought.”

“Mortal wizards spend a lot of time thinking about immortality.”

He chuckled. “I’ve noticed. So then: wealth is, admittedly, also very popular.”

“Wealth. Interesting. I might, then ... what? Request infinite gold?”

Shadibriri smiled as they stepped into the shadowed darkness of a park. “That would do, certainly.”

“Bah. You might teleport me to a demi-plane of nothing but gold, without food or water, or even air to breathe. You might drown me in a flood of coins, or even crush me to death with them as they rained from transmuted clouds. Perhaps you would grant me a single gold piece a week, appearing one at a time in my pocket as I lay crippled forever in a cave, afflicted with a wasting sort of immortality devoid of agelessness, until the stars burn out.”

The Wishtwister was startled. “Egad! That’s actually quite remarkable in its cruelty.”

“It never hurts to be too careful when it comes to wishes.”

The demon smiled and nodded. “I agree, master. Then, perhaps, wish for the thing you might have hoped to buy with this aforementioned limitless gold -- a castle, and land. An army. A boat, a yacht, a very fleet of pleasure cruisers, and an island paradise upon which to dock! Or, perhaps, ask for what money cannot buy: the adoration of a beautiful young woman, maybe.”

The mage slowly shook his head. “Ah! But she would have to be one who truly loves me, and who shares both my intellect and appetites, and who was pleasing to me in all ways, and yet also bettered me by her very presence; otherwise, she would be only a terrible curse, and my undoing. Yet, if I truly loved her, and she was my boon companion in all ways -- why, I would be deeply saddened when she died, or she would be distraught when I did. As cruel as anything else you might do, that would be.”

“Hmm, you forget that I might also make her barren. Unable to grant you heirs, you and she might grow to hate one another despite your love,” the demon said. “Or perhaps I could twist her blood, so that she might birth you only monsters. If I were feeling truly spiteful, I might grant you two wives, one each with half of what you desire, and set them at each other’s throats. Such things have been done.”

“Yes. There is that.”

The demon mused. “So. What about power?”

The mage shook his head more emphatically. “No. No good. I am an apprentice still, for all my knowledge ... and my master is, in his way, merely a student as well, to even more senior masters -- the chains of scholarship and allegiance here are complex. To grant me ‘power’ in such a way would be cheating, much the same as plagiarism, and I would be cast out. And from whence would this ‘power’ come? A spell book? A stolen staff? The tutelage of a demon?”

Shadibriri grinned. “Fame, then?”

“Fame isn’t everything.”

That sounded practiced. The demon shrugged and stepped over a broken bottle. “Only to those who don’t know what to do with their celebrity, I suspect.”

“Oh, I know exactly what I would do. I would be appointed by popular demand to a position on the Nine very quickly, and then I would be murdered overnight by either Master Phade or by Gen Hendrikan.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. I would be subsumed, rapidly, into the fold of the one -- on pain of death -- and then swiftly murdered by the other. Although I suppose I might be slain by someone else, come to think of it.”

“Very well. Ambitious as you are, you want for little here as a scholar in Quantium. You lack neither food nor water, nor pleasant diversions or luxuries. In all truth, you might as well ask only for happiness. Pure happiness.”

Enough happiness, thought the Wishtwister, to make stabbing orphans in a basement abattoir as delightful as a summer waltz; to make your heart detonate in your chest as you dance in the blood of violated grandmothers and bite off your own eyebrows.

The mage considered, his brow furrowing yet further.

The demon was enjoying himself.

They continued to walk; now past brightly-lit fountains set behind a most-cunning gate of shifting, serpentine iron.

“Some people wish for unicorns,” the demon said after a time.

“Hmm?”

“Well, they do. I couldn’t tell you why, or what they could possibly want with the creatures, but some people do wish for them.”

“I ... unicorns, you say?”

“Indeed, master. I’ll be the first to admit that it’s odd - but it couldn’t hurt to consider it. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?”

The mage nodded, and a joyless smirk creased his lips. “Yes. What, precisely.”

“Eh?”

“What is the worst that could happen?”

“Master?”

The mage’s expression took on a fierce look, and he adjusted his spectacles. “I command you, genie: tell me what the worst that could happen would be.”

“Ah! Of course, my master; a fine desire! So, do you ... how best to phrase this? Do you ... wish to know, exactly, the worst that could happen?”

Pale, sick worry crossed the mage’s face in a wave of panic. “No!”

“Ah,” said the demon, hiding his dejection. “So, then instead you only ask me to tell you the worst wish I know, for a fact, to have been granted?”

“Yes,” the mage intoned breathlessly.

“Of course. I only check, so as to know your desire. It pays to be precise, master.”

Coming to a stop between a church and a large statue, the mage collected himself. “I ask you, genie, to tell me the tale - one you know to be true - of the worst wish ever granted.”

The demon fought back a grin, and thought for a moment quite fondly of his old partner, Yaenit-Ku. “Very well. Our tale concerns two very naughty genies, who decided to play a funny game in a scummy little town.”

“Where?”

The old Wishtwister stifled a giggle. He liked telling half-truths. “No place of particular importance; I think that it was in what is now called the Riverlands— in those days it was still part of Sarkoris —far to the north of here, in the thickest of black woods. The two genies, it seems, came to a cold and wretched village wracked by war and poverty, and each adopted one of two brothers. Orphan boys, young and starving, alone and frightened, without friend or family; one the age of three winters, the other only five.”

“Interesting.”

“I thought so. The genies took the forms of travelers to the region - one a warrior who swift became a sheriff, and the other a wealthy antiquarian and merchant of art, specifically - and to each of these boys, they then gave every treasure and desire, granting each wish that the children made, once a month, for a time of seven years.”

The mage frowned. “That sounds quite ... dangerous.”

“It was! The children grew up strong, tall and handsome, arrogant and greedy, and the world greatly suffered in their wakes. After seven years, the city and its citizens and environs had become warped by the dozens of miracles afforded each child, so the creatures changed their game. Once the boys reached ten and twelve, respectively, the two genies required that they compete: each month, one boy would be granted a pair of wishes, and the other would be granted nothing at all.”

“Hmm. And how ... how was the victor decided?”

The demon smiled. “A variety of ways, master. In some instances, the two wrestled, or held their breath underwater, or competed to bring trophies, or were asked to tell tales of bravery, or cunning, ... or cruelty. Whatever most-amused the two wicked genies, in simple truth. In some cases, they would require each boy to state what he would wish for; whichever desire was the more interesting would be granted twice-over.”

The mage fidgeted and harrumphed. “Devious.”

“Yes. At the end of another seven years, as the boys entered adulthood, the two genies changed the game yet again: each boy was guaranteed his due of magic, but could only grant this wish to another, who had sworn blood-fealty to him. And so the two began to build armies, with which to oppose one another, and their many creations, and all the world.”

The mage grimaced. “And at the end of that seven years?”

“Oh, the games never made it to that point, I’m afraid. They were dead within a few months,” said the demon, simply. “Them, and everyone for miles around, and most of the land scoured clean of life. What little that was left wasn’t human, or sane, or really even sentient.”

The mage did not look amused. “And you know this tale to be true, you say?”

“Indeed,” said the Wishtwister, brightly. “On my honor.”

“And ... what is the point? How is that the tale of the most terrible wish?”

“Oh, yes! Of course, master! It is simply my assumption,” explained the Wishtwister, “that of the 300-some wishes granted in that time, the very worst one of all was probably in the mix there somewhere. It might have been one of the ones about werewolves. Or for mastery of fire and wind, or for big funguses or the secrets of the grave ... or the poison-sword, admittedly.”

“Hmm. Interesting. Yes. ,” said the mage, sighing. “Do you know… I think I’m ready to make my wish.”

The demon brightened. “Yes?”

“Yes,” said the mage. “Friend genie, I would wish ... only that you might return to your home, forever unable to be summoned again to this world.”

The Wishtwister blinked.

And blinked again.

“Eh?”

The mage smiled. “Is that wish not to your liking?”

“Well, no ... it’s ...”

“Oh, because I might have thought that you would enjoy that. I suppose that instead I might wish that you could never again be asked to grant a wish ...”

“Ah, no, I think perhaps ...”

“No? Why ever not? Would you prefer instead that I wished you permanently transformed into a dretch?”

“I’m not granting that.”

The mortal magician had quite a smile upon his face. Not one of charity, either - no, this was a look that the Wishtwister recognized as one of his own favorite expressions.

“Just as an aside, do you know where we are?”

The demon blinked once more. “No. Look. Ah, if you don’t ... if you don’t mind me asking, master ... what is it that you do? For a living, I mean?”

The mage grinned. “I’m an actuarial consultant for a legal firm, specializing in the transport of rare books.”

Shadibriri frowned. “Which means ... ?”

“An investigative accountant for lawyers, who work to defend legally nebulous smugglers who buy, sell and ship forbidden tomes, basically. I specialize in keeping the Pathfinder Society honest when they trade with the dark library of Scrivenbough, since the folk from Absalom seem to have a tendency to claim that things are lost-in-transit.”

The Wishtwister frowned.

The mage went on, his smile suggestive of a cat. “I’m also a former student of Scrivenbough, of course. And to answer the question you did not ask, this place is the courtyard of a monastery; we are about fifty yards from the inner sanctum of one of the more-major temples of Irori on this continent. The monument behind you commemorates Nex’s gifting of the island of Jalmeray to the maharajah Khiben-Sald. Three different fighting-styles were invented here over the last four thousand years, seven more were perfected, and you should know that a single whisper of your true nature will bring forth approximately two hundred of the most vicious hand-to-hand combatants who have ever been born, all of them aching for a test.”

The demon shrugged, feigning disinterest. “Then ... perhaps I will leave after all, come to think of it.”

“Hmm. Well, I should hope,” said the mage, “that we need not part company on such terrible terms.”

The two of them stared at one another, and the ocean wind swept across the immaculate flagstones of the courtyard.

Finally, the mage spoke. “To answer the other question you did not ask, I suspected from the very first; I have some great knowledge of genie-kind, and knew you to be something else entirely. No djinn or marid are you, no. Thus, I sought confirmation of your true nature, which you provided in abundance; although your mind is quick and your illusions quite beyond my skill to pierce, it was the slip of one-wish-a-month that did you in, at the last.”

“Eh. Yes, I suppose that would do it,” said Shadibriri.

“Indeed. I name you ... glabrezu, if my schooling does not fail me.”

“Ah, well. You got me. I had you going for a bit, though, didn’t I?”

The mage’s grin did not dissipate. “Sure. So I’ll take my prize, if you are still offering; if not, I might suggest that we simply go our separate ways. I might wish for some measure of power, after all. Perhaps a ring that makes me invisible.”

“Ah. Well, at that ... here’s the sticking point, master,” the demon spat, with as venomous a sarcasm as he could muster. “Let’s clear the air. You see, I have a bet to win. The terms of that bet are that you, a mortal mage, must wish for something that will (a) damn your soul to the Abyss, and (b) get you killed, and relatively quickly.”

“Hmm. No, I don’t like that at all.”

The Wishtwister nodded. “I can see why. Unfortunately, I’m on something of a schedule; tonight time is, I’m afraid, quite a bit of the essence, as they say.”

“Well. Then, I suppose,” said the mage, “that if it’s up to me, you are going to lose your bet.”

The demon nodded, and turned to go. “Ah, yes. That was my assessment as well. The night is young, of course ... but the dawn comes all too quickly. Another mage to track down, then, I suppose. Nothing for it, and no time to waste. Which, interestingly enough, reminds me of an old saying amongst my people.”

The mage smiled, spreading his arms wide to encompass the vast city. “Ah, yes. Something about there being, what -- always plenty of wizards, amongst all the many worlds? Or how there is never enough time, even in immortality?”

Shadibriri smiled. “Oh, no, no -- nothing like that. The saying goes: ‘I’m going to rip your arms off’.”

“...”

The demon shrugged. “My people are actually pretty simple.”

“I see.”

Old Shadibriri turned back to face the mage, and flexed himself to his full height. “Anyway ... I’m going to. Rip your arms off, that is. Just for fun.”

The mage glared at him warily. “In case you’ve forgotten, there exists a literal army of fiend-hating martial-artists, located quite surprisingly close to us. And there are alarms and wards all around this place that sense magic. If either of us invokes the least use of a spell --”

“The alarms will go off, yes, and a horde of holy killers will emerge with swiftness to smash us to broken, bloody jelly. My glamers aren’t technically spells, but what you cast against me surely will be; doubtless, you know of my immunity to fire and acid, and will choose to blast me with a bolt of lightning ...”

“Really?” the mage asked, disapprovingly raising an eyebrow.

“Eh, it was worth a try. Well, anyway, I’m betting that I can kill you first.”

The mage nodded, his hands moving into position to cast. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Or, perhaps, it would be useful to you to have a lawyer in your pocket.”

“You think?”

“Yes. And I can get you a rival of mine, in less time than you might expect.”

The demon stopped. “Is that so?”

“It is. We can go to him presently; I’ll vouch for your authenticity as one of the nobler efreet, and explain that I could not solve your cunning riddle. We’ll work together to get him to wish for something stupid -- damning and lethal -- and then we’ll both be on our way with something we want.”

“Hmm,” mused the demon. “And why would this rival trust you?”

The mage smiled. “Very few of the people I hate have any idea how much I hate them. So, have we a deal?”

“I think,” said the demon with a smile, “that we have ourselves exactly a deal.”

“A pleasure doing business with you, then.”

And thus, it was with great joy that the old Wishtwister won a bet, and made a friend in the city of Quantium, in the nation of Nex.

—

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Held, Moffie, 2021 Oscar Shorts, And Looking For A Lady With Fangs and a Moustache

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