#SING ABOUT RATS AND OR WORMS. PLEASE GOD

[toytulini]

they should make more songs about rats i think

[madds-is-ace-trash]

Time for Chapter 7!

Chapter 7: To anger the storm is to get struck by lightning

Summary: Gotham handels sum rats, danny…. the poor baby, and conner gets some news that makes his heart sink.

Hey y'all guess who got a proof reader!

The lovely and super kind @itsallgoingtopot on tumblr! please send them some love.

Ok so this chapter is me having fun with gotham and some more set up. To the person in the comments who suggest that conner should kick the GIW ass….thanks for the brain worms time for big bro superboy.

The night crept on and the storm swelled over the cathedral, the rain deterring any of her wards or her people.  The ground wept in excess as the rain reached its limit.  The clouds settled low in the sky. Thunder rolled, sending  static through the earth itself.  Then the van the men had attempted to take refuge in blared. 

  “Holy Smokes!” One of the men shouted as he clambered out of the shrieking van. All devices in the van began to fire due to the excess energy. The wind whirls, soaking the man to the bone. 

  “G come look at this reading!” 

  “H you're insane, get out of the van! You're gonna get hur-'' All the ghost detectors on the van began to sing in their clamoring chorus.  Sending the screeching sound into Gotham's stormy sky. She traps it, not letting it travel too far. For if it were to fall upon the ears of her new ward he would surely flee. 

  “H, please, I swear to god! Get . Out.  Of . The . VAN!” The man begged his partner as he reached to pull him out himself. Gotham pulled back her storm just enough to allow the men to set themselves free, the pair standing with their hands over their ears in the middle of the flooded street.  

  She hisses, seeming to shake the very ground itself, but Gotham has control, and only the corner the white rats had decided to hide in is affected. Across the vast city her bats have begun their nightly flights, and she needs to dive the vermin out before they come her way. 

  —------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  The wind fizzled out with a pop in his ears, but his soaked suit was a constant wetness weighing heavily on his chest. Agent H had been trained in handling ghosts and he knew some of them could get violent. But this was something else. The readings on the meter had been off the chart. Whatever this thing was, they had entered its turf and were clearly not welcomed.

  The static grew, making the agent feel as though his head were about to explode. The storm itself fell from the sky, encasing him and his partner in the dense gray and purple fog. His lungs felt heavy. It became increasingly harder to breathe as something squeezed his very being.  Two eyes manifest from the haze, a striking yellow as they glare into his very soul. 

  He was supposed to be trained for this, he was supposed to be trained to handle vengeful spirits. So why, why can’t he bring himself to move, to reach for his gun, scream anything? His throat feels tight like it's filled with molasses, he tries to scream, to beg ,to plead for fresh air. 

  Then it speaks , if you can call it that. He hears the voice from inside his head. A hiss, accompanied by a constant static, rings behind his eyes. He covers his ears to no avail. It doesn't stop; it doesn't quiet; it is only loud and painful. 

“ Y̵̧̨̨̛͕͎̞̣͚̳͎͎̫̫̭̬̾̃̂̑̈̋̾̇̄̏̕̕̚Ő̸̡̡͈͈̺̹̀̐̋͌͐͑̓͌͛̿͌̆̓̑͐͋͘̚͝Ų̵̩̤̮̝͔̗̥̬̝̪̤̳̦̘̖͎̝̟̻̄̈́͒̄̀͒̎́̀͜͝͝ͅ ̴̨͍̰̮͕͕̹̞̖̘̘͉̱͔̗̻̭̭͓̮̆͐̾̔̈́̐͐̃̀̋͘̕͠ͅͅĄ̵̟͖̝̯̻͇͔͍͚̝̳̂̕͜ͅR̵̨̛̛̪̱͚̲̝̣̣̺̩̹̉E̵̝̥̰̞̜̬̭̙̻͑̀͋͋͝ ̷̛̠̰̥̤̗̖̲̖̜̼̬̏̀͋͌̀̈̿̈́̿͌͐͗͂̒͘Ņ̷̰̹̖̞̲͈͉͎͎̣̯̱͔̙̩͓̐͒̔̾͋̿͝O̵̪̘̱̞̊̊̐Ţ̵̟̪͉̹̝̫̱͕̗̀̅̂͜ ̶̧̛̬̮͓̫̱̣̗̰͖̼̦̼͔̲̺͖͖̖̭̉͊̔̑̀̆Ẁ̸͙̠̩͉̌̽̒̎̔͋̈́̀̓͐̓͘͠E̶̟̥̘̮̟͇̲̘̦̝̫̓̏͐͆̍̅̍͂̎̌̌͆̑̈́͛̃̕͘͝L̷̨̢̡̨̻̜̰̙͍͚̭̖̹̹̝͍̮̓͛̃̄͋͆́̑̌̇͜ͅC̵̢̛̲̩̘̻͈͔̪̞͈̦̮̱̺̙̦̼͓̮̹̿̀̎͊͜O̴̧͎̩̱̘̳͇̮͈͉̒͗̂M̷̨̥̳̪̦̙̦͉̮̪͉̣̫̯̮̗̬̮̄́̈́Ę̴̨̧̢̧̛̦̤͓͕͙̦̼͍̻͎̹̻̀͛̿̋́͋̀̋̐̓̆̓̓̀͑͋͗ͅ ” 

  The words ring -a piercing whine like the reload of a camera.  

  M̵̨̢͉͇̼̘͔͈̪̜͕͈̥̯̘͛̃̃̏̑̔̓̈̇͐̓̓̍̾̑͆̚̕̕͝ý̵̨̢̢̬͇͕̩̱̯̗̋̽͒̏̇͛͑̍́̾̋͂̏̉̋̇̅͆̒͘ ̴̧̟͚̻͔̩͓̺̮͖͍̰̭̬̙͈͚̹̙̲͑́̀C̴̜̏̀̍̐̉̌̈́͑̓̓͑̏̅̑̓͋͠ï̴̮̫̪͊͗t̵̢̡͙͚̟͍̪̺̺̤̖̩̜̟̭̟̪͒̈͌̅́̀̇̈̂̄͛̀͐͜͜͝ÿ̷̖͈̄̃̏,̴̰̭̣̏̏̒̈́̐̑̅́͗̽͊̆̆̒̌̉́̉̚͠͠ ̷̨̢̧͎̠̰̤̲̣̯̙̼͈̜̬̣̺̾͊̍m̸̢͎͎̘͕̦͙̼̦̫̫̳̽̏̀̒̑͝y̷̨̧͇͓̖̗̝̺͙̻͖͔̹̰̲͌̓ ̴̡͙̩͚̂̆̐̐̈́̀͒͌͂̎̐̅̊̏͂̚͠͝P̶͇͍̠̥̥͚̭͍͕̥͇͎̼̦͔̼͓̭͙͒͆́͗͗̓͂̓̚̚e̷̡̡̢͇̯̺̰̜̠̗̱̹̞̞̣͈̞͉̜̿͒̈́̊͐̄͝ỏ̷̧͔̟̦͕͔̭̝͎͕͌̏̐̍̃͐̊̽̄͒͒̌̈͋̉̌̕͝͝͠P̸̢̧̯͙̳̖͉͓͉̫̩͈̦̫̼͍̩̺̳͐̇̀͆̕L̸̛̛̦̭̣̻̠̙̘̼͕̮̜̹̟̯͓̽́̀̑̆̎͗͌͗͑̂̇̈́̇̎͂͒͂̏͘Ę̴̰̹͕͉̙̼̗̻̖̩̭͔͇̣̱̦͑̾̈͌͐̉͂̕̚ ̶̡̧̡̲̮̞̙̞̞̣̳̫͂̀̉̑͒̂͛̓͛̄͆̈́̐̈͗́̃̎͝Ļ̷̢̱̱̤̹̗̻̙̫̻̩͔̝̩̘̤̤͈͎͐͊̐̆̾̏̈́͑̆̂̅̆̂̇̾̃͂̅̕̕͘͜͝ͅé̶̛̬̄̽͊̂̓̆̂͆̑́͗̋͗̈̈́̏͝͝͝A̴̡̺͕̤͍̰̺̘͕̦͎̗̖̦̥̩͕͓͎̽̆̓͊̆̓͒̈͑̄̏̑̆̕͜ͅv̴͎̤̳͓͛̓͂͋̿̊̇̎̔̃͘̕͠͝Ȩ̷̝̝͖̩̬͒͗͑̒͊

      The demand booms in time with the storm’s waves of thunder, making his skin sting. This is wrong; he needs to run; he has to hide; he needs to LEAVE. 

  Ņ̴͚͇̼̲̖͍̺͑̐̂̔̐̈́͝ờ̶̧̠̻̞͈͚͕̟̥͔͙̮̯̻̆̌̓̓͛́̉̾̑͆̽̕͝ ̷̢̛̜͍̮̘͙͍̲͕̎̐̑͂̐͌̈̓̿̑̐̀̉̄͑̓́̇͠͝H̵̡̞̖̾̓́a̶̡̧̖̬̭͚̹͉͕̓̄͊̾̉͌̏͌̅͗͌͜ͅŔ̶̡͕̼̫̭̻̗͕̬̰̍m̸̡̺̻̻̖̺̝̞̤̌̈̽̎̈́̑̍͆̑̈̈̇̀̕͠͠ ̴̻̹̤̟̔͐́͋̎̾͐̾̎̊̓̾͂̏̈́̓̍̈̚ẁ̷̡̨̧̲̙͎̝̬̘̼̮̱̯̠̤̱̣̼̘͕̩̂͜i̶̲̻̝̾̎̈́͋̏l̷̡̧̧̧͇̭̙͉̺̗̠̭̱͔͗́͑̆͌̃̑͗̒̊̕ļ̷̧̺̘̭̺̹̹̠̳̭͇͙͓̩̠̖̮͍͓̼͌́͛̉̓̕͜ ̶̮̼͙̓̒̌͜͜C̶̨̟͕̲̩͙̲͙̟͒͋̋̓̍̽̋͌̎͌̌́̌̚ͅơ̴̧̡͈̣̰̠͍̟̙̞̈́͘͜M̴̢̧̛̻̳̥̼͇̹̞͉̜̱͙͚͕̬͚͂̌͋̇̊̏͂̀͌́ͅe̴̛̛͍̥̲̟̫͈͓͎̪̪̎͒̓̆̌̀̑̐̈́̒̇̽̏̕͜͠ ̸̮̋̑̆̌̾̍̈́̿̎̒̈́͝͠M̶̢̻͚̜̺̘͈͚̼̓̑̈́̋͆̏̉̂̋͝i̵̧̝̲͇̠̝̘͍͇̗̰̪͓͙̫̦̖̗͐́̔͐̓̒̏̋̈́̊̄̈́͘͜ņ̶̠̲̜̖͕̙̰̼͙͔̺̝̺̋́̋̈́͠ͅȩ̴̢̛̤̬̫͉̮̪̮̥̬̰̄̄̇̅̓̓͑ ̷̢̣̫͇̬̰̹̠̯̮̲͉͚͆̇͗̓͜.̶̢̛̟͖͖͖̪̟͔̟̯̭̙̠̟̓̇̄̆̄̽̌̊̎̇̆̆̈́̚͜͠ ̵̡̛̮͉̠̣̣̦̯̄̀͌͒̍͊̀̕͘̚̚

The spirit’s eyes twist and swirl, teeth form from the fog and the cloud squeezed tighter.  His watch detector shatters, snapping him back into reality. With that, his lungs emptied, his limbs regain control and he runs. He doesn't know where he is going or how he's going to explain this but he needs to run.  He doesn't think -he just grabs his partner and beelines it for the van. He is not coming back. 

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gotham retracts her storm. Her job is done; her wards are safe. She slinks off into the darkness -after all, she has to check on her knights. 

  —-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Tim, you're seeing this right?” Barbara chimed in over the com he still had in his ear. He raised his head off of his knees pulling out his phone and opening the tracker that she had sent him. 

  “It's not the first time we've seen Gotham’s weird weather patterns before. Is something up with this one?”  The storm was constructed in a pocket of Gotham, it happened occasionally. 

  “Yeah, look at the duration. They’ve never gone on this long before. And it seems to be centered around that van I flagged.” 

  “You think it's a meta?” Tim asked wearily. A rogue meta was the last thing they needed right now. 

  “Don’t know. Can’t tell since the storm took out the cameras. I'm trying to get them back online.” He can hear the click of her keyboard as Babara tries to reboot the cam feed. A grunt came from the other side of the line, so no dice. 

  “Okay, guess we’re investigating on foot,” he turns to his siblings who were still sitting with him in the hall outside of the room Danny was sleeping in, “ Somethings going on with that van over by the cathedral. We gotta investigate on foot.” 

  Cass popped up and Dick swiftly followed, all three on their way down to the cave. His brother stalled, pausing in the hall and turning towards Danny's door, a worried expression crossing his face.  Cass softly tugs on his arm, giving their oldest brother a soft smile. ‘Safe’ she signs. Dick smiles back; Tim sure hopes she's right. 

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oracle chimed in not that soon after the bats and birds had flown the coop, reporting that the van had been spotted speeding out of Gotham. This was great news for Dick.  It settled some of the worry sitting in his chest as he and Tim swung their way over to where the cameras had gone down. The entirety of the block was drenched, which wasn't weird for Gotham per say, but the storms were never this concentrated. 

  “Stay on high alert, we don't know if they made a drop off.” Tim called out through the coms.

  “You got it, Red!” It had been a while since he and Tim paired off on patrol. It was nice to get to hang out with his brother.  As they approached one of the alleyways that had been marked on the map, the scale in which the storm had raged became more clear. It had been strong enough to take out cameras but apparently had not washed away several scorch marks on the concrete. Dried patches blackened throughout the surrounding area. 

  “Red Robin, you seeing this?” 

  Tim already had his compact camera out, after all he had always been a shutterbug. Dick smiles to himself at the memories of Tim chasing them around with his camera, thinking of how far he had come. At Tim's affirmative, Dick ducked deeper into the alley scanning until he found something. 

  His gaze fell upon some freshly broken glass, and what looked like the arrows from a compass of sorts, not far from the ring of scorched earth. “Red I found something,” Dick called Tim over to get a shot of the debris before putting it in an evidence bag. 

  “Nightwing, I think whatever storm event this was must have broken a piece of their tech,” Tim observed,  collecting a few good pictures of the scattered parts' location, then took note of their distance from the initial circle. “The street had some small scrap as well, and Oracle flagged the van due to it giving off abnormal radio signals.” 

  “Yeah? What do you think it means?" Dick quaint,  placing his hand on his chin and rolling around the information in his head. 

  “Who knows, but they either found what they were looking for or were scared off based on how quickly they left.” Tim took the bag of parts from Dick and put it in a pouch. “And I'm not sure which is worse.”  Tim scanned the area one more time looking for any more bits of whatever had broken. Not far off from where the van had been parked he finds it. A busted wrist watch, but it wasn't a normal watch. It had obviously been modified, but for what he wasn't sure. 

  “We should take it back to the cave", Dick says, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder to snap him out of his detective spiral. They still weren't sure if whatever (nature or a meta but honestly the storm had been too controlled to be anything but a meta) had wrecked the alley would come back. It was probably for the best they collected the evidence and dip. 

  “Yeah, you're right, best to report to Oracle. We also don't want to leave the little one alone with B. If he runs and none of us are there, we could lose him for real.” Tim agreed easily enough, which was weird. Tim was a total workaholic, but maybe he really was that worried about Danny. That was a touching thought for Dick, but then again his family had always been fast to take in any of B's new wards so he supposed this would not be all that different. 

  “Yeah let's head back,” Dick quickly pulled him into a side hug, and then shot his grapple. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Danny's eyes fluttered open, the sound of muffled voices dancing on the other side of the door. They were soft and warm, nothing like the hisses in his foggy memories.  He phased through the pile of blankets and inched towards the door, placing his ear against it to listen to whoever was on the other side.

  “We can let him sleep,  B, poor thing's probably exhausted,” the man that Dick's daddy had brought home spoke in a light accent. 

  “ I know, Clark, but he’s so small, we've never had one that small,” the other man sounded so tired. “ I just… What do we do? He can't stay here -it's not safe.” Oh no, the big man was gonna send him away! Danny didn't want to leave! Uncle left him with Dick; he was supposed to stay with him. Big Lady said he was safe. So he had to be safe. 

  Danny's breathing picked up as he scooted himself back along the floor, pulling his legs against his chest. He wants Dick to come back, he wants ქმɀɀ. He wants to go home but he can't-home isn't there any more.

  What happened?  Why? Why is it gone? 

  His head spins, the voices outside the door don't stop, he wants all the noise to stop. His ears buzz and he can hear the outside, he can hear the cars driving on the city streets, it's too much. He needs it to stop. 

  A whine escapes from deep in his chest. He's scared and he wants it to stop. He's not sure what he did but he's sorry, he  just wants to know why this is happening. 

  Then like a warm pack on his aching muscles, a hand is placed on his shoulder. He snap his head up, tears trickling from the corners of his eyes. “Hey bud, it's ok. You're ok. You're ok.” The now familiar voice rings out in soft tones.

  Dick came and he answered his pleas, Danny's core buzzing in the relief. He launches  himself into the man's arms burying his face in his chest. 

  “Loud -it's too loud….” he softly sobs, holding his hands over his ears. The noise still didn't stop and he doesn't know why, or how to make it stop. “ I want Ja...I… Big sister…where did she go?” Images of soft smiles and bright red hair dance around his head. He knows who that is, he just can't quite picture her. 

  “Your ears hurt?,” Dick asked, keeping his voice soft and low but it was still so loud. Why was everything so loud?

  “May I?” The other man from the hall takes soft steps forward. “This happened to Jon a few times when he was little. I think he's having trouble reigning in  his super hearing. He's probably overloaded, Gotham's a big city with a lot of noise.” 

  “ Danny, can Uncle Clark try to help? He's got really strong hearing too, he might be able to help,” Dicks whispered as soft as humanly possible. 

  Did Danny want his help? He was big and scary, but his aura was soft. Not like the other big man with his prickly one. He gave off waves of sympathy, love, hope ,worry, same , that made Danny's core reach towards him. 

  “ But don't leave, please don't leave,...” Danny tugged on Dick's sleeve. He didn't want him to leave because every time he did something scary happened. 

  “Of course star shine,” he moved Danny's bangs out of his eyes, “ I'll stay right here ok?” Danny nodded and Clark took a few more steps towards Danny. His heart raced and images of looming figures in white flashing in his head. He put his hands over his ears and shook his head trying to clear the fog.

  Two large hands clasp his own gently lifting them off his ears, "What can you hear the softest, what's the furthest away Danny?” He asks in his soft tone. 

  “Cars, foot steps, owls.” Danny listed out as requested.

  “ Ok that's good, good job, now how about some things that are a bit closer?” 

  Danny listens trying to find sounds closer than the rushing of traffic, “ Water, trees, crickets, bats”

  “You're doing great!  Okay how about things just in the manor?”

  “ Talking, buzzing, pots and pans” 

  “ Ok see you're doing fanatic,” He said, placing a hand gently on Danny’s shoulder. “ Now things just in this room.”

  “ Breathing, heart beats , bug” Danny's head doesn't ring so much any more- the far off noise being filtered out and his ears only focusing on the space around him. 

  “ Bug? Just one,” Dick chuckles, rubbing soothing circles on Danny's back. “ That's some pretty good hearing.”  Danny flushes at the compliment, burying his face back into Dick's chest. 

  “Not used to the noise of the big city buddy?” Clark asks gently, his tone still low and even. 

  “Nuh uh,'' Danny mumbles out. His last home was a lot more quiet. He could hear a pin drop from across town. This new home was too loud. 

  “Well you're awfully brave,'' Clark offers.

  “The bravest,” Dick agrees. Danny flushes up to his ears, hiding his face. His core humms, because they're telling the truth, waves of love and compassion waft off the two men. It was refreshing and warm and he wished it could last forever. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Bruce took a moment to gaze upon the sight before him. His eldest son with a small boy held lovingly to his chest, and his boyfriend smiling fondly at the shy child as he offered comforting words.  A small smile crept onto his lips.  His son, his Clark, and his grandson. And wasn't that a thought, how the boy had latched onto Dick so fast.

  In reality they were lucky he had, what would they have done if they had to force the kid into containment? It probably wouldn't have done them any good, the kid had already been through so much and they didn't even know the half of it.  How had the Kents survived when their powers went awry?

  Oh wait,  that's right, Clark's parents lived in rural Kansas, with no surrounding cityscape to overwhelm them and they always had a place to go when they were. 

  “Hey Danny, what if you came with me to my parents' farm, just while you heal a little? It's where I grew up and we'll know how to handle your powers.” And this is why Bruce loved the man.  It was like he read his mind. 

  Danny didn’t even respond, he just clung tighter on to Dick's shirt. If Bruce didn’t know any better he would have sworn that he stopped breathing all together.   “Danny it’s safe there I prom-“

  “I don’t want to leave!” Danny blurts out heaving in a breath. “ I can’t leave, Uncle left me with Dick! I have to stay.” Danny was growing visibly distressed, "How is he supposed to find me if I leave?” 

  Clark winced, setting a hand on his forehead for a moment. Strange, did Danny getting agitated influence how much the kryptonite in his system affected Clark? Maybe the faster his heart rate rose the more infected blood was pushed to the surface.

  “Ok ummm…tell you what, how about we take a few days to think it over?” Dick offered, keeping his voice calm. The boy visibly relaxed at his words.  “We can think about it over the next few days then on the weekend when I’m off we’ll try it out just for a couple days. Just a visit, how about that?”

  Bruce knew that meant he would probably have to work a little extra to cover the lost ground. But to be honest he’s not sure if he minded, his new grandson obviously required a little extra care to adjust. 

  Plus he has to start following the trail before it goes cold. After all, no one hurts a child in his city and gets away with it. 

  ——————————————————————-

  Tim sat at the computer and huffed, Dick had rushed off to check on the new kid as soon as they got back from patrol, leaving him with a majority of the dirty work. Whatever, the analysis of the watch would probably go faster if it was just him anyway. Just as Tim had started laying out and photographing what little of the watch was still intact and the pieces that they had managed to find, Alfred walked into the cave. 

  He politely cleared his throat, causing Tim to turn towards the man who was basically his grandfather. “Master Tim, I’m aware you're probably busy but I have a request.”

  “ Oh Yeah? What is it?” Tim dropped what he’s doing and sped over to Alfred by his spot on the stairs; it was rare for the man to make a direct request. “What is it, wait is it in that bag?” The butler was holding a little disposable bag from a med kit, clearly labeled as medical waste.

  Wait a minute, “Is that- is that from Danny?” He knew that Dick had said Danny was bleeding, but the thought of the red stained cloth coming from the child he was just playing tag with, the boy who spent hours  rambling about the stars, the one his brother held with all the fondness in the world, made his stomach turn. 

  “I'm afraid so. I believe it would be beneficial to get it analyzed as soon as possible. Not only to confirm any links to his origins, but also to check for infection if possible.”  Tim gently took the bag from Alfred, suddenly the weight of just what they were dealing with resting on his shoulders.  

  “The green, what, what is that?” The cloth was littered with green like someone had taken green glitter and mixed it with the blood. 

  “The green was in his blood, still is I assume. The surgical wounds and the fear of medical procedures point to the boy being experimented on.”  That meant Alfred also had no idea. Looks like this watch would have to wait. 

  “I’ll get right on it”, Tim rushed over towards the batcomputer he swung over the railing and pulled the chair out. But before sitting he turned towards Alfred. “Hey Al is he- is he ok? It’s just… Dick is just, he's really attached already, you know?” 

  “I hope he will be, but right now we just need to do our best to figure out what happened. I wish you luck, Master Tim, please get back to me as soon as you get the results.” He gave Tim a smile and made his way upstairs. 

  Turning to his new task, Tim just hopes this provides some answers. 

——————————————————————

  Conner sits on his bed in his room at Ma and Pa's house, headphones in his ears blocking out any sound around him. The headphones had been a gift from Tim, designed so he could block out the outside world.  The warm Kansas breeze flowing through his bedroom window, the soft glow of sunlight caching the curtains as they flutter in the wind.  

  He feels a light tap on his shoulder,  he turns to see Ma holding a phone. He takes his earphones out and sits up a little more so he can make room for her to sit. “Oh hey, how’s it going,” Conner chimed.

  “It’s your father, we got some news and well I think you should hear it,”  the look on her face was worried so not good news. Great, what now? Clark almost never called Ma with bad news. Conner took the phone and gently rested it against his ear. 

  “ Yes dad, it’s Conner. Is everything ok?”

  “Hey bud,” oh no, Clark was calling him bud, "I think you should hear this but I need you to promise to not come rushing.” 

  “Wait what’s wrong, you went to Gotham right? Are you hurt? Is…. Is  Tim hurt?” 

  “Yes I did; no I’m fine and Tim is safe. I promise.” Clark took a shaky breath in, Kon could hear the sound of someone running a hand on Clark’s shoulder. Probably Bruce if he was in Gotham. “Conner, we… we think we found another clone. We think someone cloned me again. And-“

  “ No ”  

  It was all he could bring himself to say as his bed creaked under his grip.

Next chapter: chapter 8: Visiting hours

Jason stops by for a visit, dick is so done, and conner and jon make an appearance.

Also to those of you who couldn't tell, yes Dick is my favorite of the brothers, Why? Because i too am the eldest and the ginipiggu that my parents worked out all their screw ups on so they didnt fuck up the other ones. I RELATE to him on a personal level i to am the eldest in a family full of problem children but I still love them. <3

Tag TIME!

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@sweet-itachi-lovinovin

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[lillaxtrigger]

Street Smarts: Chapter 20

Among the recesses of a shadowy chamber does a single light flicker on to unveil Daydra sitting underneath its glow, dressed in nothing but bruises and cuts all throughout his body while bound tightly to a chair; the man of magnetism overwhelmed with fright and terror as he calls out in the void that: “Please, you gotta believe me. I know my crew is running late on the monthly quotas; but just give me a little more time and I can whip them into-” “Eh, don’t fret over that. Business is the last thing I wanna hear you bitch about.” a disguised voice assures from the shadows. “Then why? Why drag me here?” From the darkest depths does a figure donning a mask depicting a ghoulish visage with no pupils; a sinister chuckle coming out from the other side of the mask as this man glares down upon his bruised and beaten captive. “Oh Daydra, my dear deviant. Our sonata is far more personal than you can ever understand.”

“Boss, y-you know I’d never do you dirty. Even when you stuck me down in the slums with all those rats, I never thought once to turn traitor on you.” “But treachery is part of the piece, my magnetic mister. Our muse of tonight.” the boss claims, flicking at Daydra’s forehead. “For you see, the underlying text of our subject is your run in with a band of traitors; one’s that had mined your mind for valuable nuggets of knowledge.” “I didn’t even get the chance to report on that, how did you even...Those motherfucking rodents of mine. I give them the chance to dig their way out of that shithole and this is how they repay me!?” seethes Daydra. “Their loyalty to this syndicate remains more straight to us then they are to you. But let’s not discuss of the how and get back to the what.” “What?”

“That’s the spirit. All I wanna know is what; what came out of your pretty little mouth while they had you hogtied?” “Nothing boss, I-I swear.” the magnetic man desperately pleads. “Phfft! Like you got your sorry ass nabbed by these worms after they beat you silly and all they make you talk about was nothing? Do you sincerely think so little of me to think I would buy that?” the masked man asks him, clutching at the top of Daydra’s head. “I mean it! Those dicks didn’t make me say anything about our operations. No sellers, no imports, no nothing!” “They had to have made you sing some songs; so you better spill it, before I make something else of yours splatter.” “All they had me discuss was what I knew about Dr. December; it wasn’t even that much.” Upon this claim does the man of magnetism feel the hand clutching the top of his head pull away, Daydra gazing up to his masked interrogator as he hears the boss think aloud: “Dr. December? I knew they aimed to take back the stone, but this directly? Wedsle, you violet jackass; you have no idea the pit of hell you drag your crew down towards. Still, they’ve pulled themselves out of similar deathtraps. If they actually succeed in killing him for the stone, that’d be a real problem.”

“I don’t...I don’t get it. Why be so concerned over a man whispered as nothing more than a myth?” Daydra asks. To this question, the masked man bursts out laughing maniacally; the polarizing psychic sitting before him unnerved as he hears his interrogators cackling echo out beyond the surrounding shadows. “Seriously, Daydra? A man so passionate of learning about others with psychic abilities, and you still think that December’s nothing but a campfire story the little pieces of fresh meat share as they sit on their asses stuffing smores down each others throats? Thought a guy as persistently studious as you would’ve known better by now.” “You mean that he’s...But the experiments, th-the rumors of his powers, his body, even his lair; they’re-” “Yep, every single one. They’re not tall tales of technological terror, they’re as real as you and I.” “Oh my god…” the magnetic man utters in dreadfully utters. Its among this moment of terrifying realization that a goofy ass ringtone cuts in to shatter the dreadful mood; the masked man letting out a little chuckle as he reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone; all before he says: “Oopsie, meant to set it to vibrate. Just gimme a sec to take this, m’kay.”

Backing a little ways into the shadowy void, the masked man holds his phone up and greets who was on the line with a: “Well, how to you do, Tu-tu!?” “How many times must I tell you to not refer to me with that?” the guy on the other end states. “Sorry. One of us wanted to use code names whenever were among the underlings.” “Can you use a name that’s less demeaning?” “How bout Tootie, that sound any better for you?” the masked interrogator jests. “I...Gah! Have you secured Daydra, yet?” “I was just in the middle of a friendly conversation with our well seated and snug guest. He just got done telling me about a previous chat had with some of our former employee’s. And you’ll never believe what they asked him about.” “What did he say?” the man on the other end of the call wonders. “He was just about to tell me what they gossiped about our good doctor.” “Is that so? Then I suppose I should let you get back to your discussion.”

“Before you hang up, I gotta ask; how are things going on your end?” “Preparations for our hibernation chambers are proceeding smoothly. Once we receive a second dose of the stones power, we will be safely hidden against any threats while under the evolutionary process.” “What about the scions, they up yet?” the starry interrogator follows up with. “The good doctor predicts that they will awaken from their comatose states soon. After they finish adjusting themselves to their enhanced abilities, I’m sure they will be more than adequate in contending to our previous employees.” “Sounds good to hear.” “Indeed. I will be tending to a few more loose ends before we go under ourselves. I’ll leave you to your end of business before I state that it’s time.” “When you say what I do as business, it sounds pretty bland. I like to think of it more as visions into ventures.” “Whatever you say, just be ready for my word when the time comes.” “Will do.”

With these parting words between the brothers, the masked man hangs up to fiddles with the settings of his phone; the magnetic man bound to the chair behind him demanding to know: “Just what the hell are you planning to do to me?” “Hmm, what will I do? The possibilities are practically endless for me. The way one looks to a blank canvas in the midst of deciding their first stroke of the brush, the decision paralyzes me.” “What are you on about?” “...Let me show you what I mean.” the masked man tells him. From the disguised interrogators body irradiates a starry night power that seeps into the surrounding shadows, engulfing the darkness in its spacial influence. Before Daydra’s very eyes does the void around them melt away similar to block of ice under the mercy of the scorching sun; the shadows dissolving to reveal a site most fowl.

Beyond the mercy of the void does the magnetic man behold in horror contorted abominations that of which once held human like features; their bodies and features warped in impossible shapes for any person to realistically hold. Limbs and fingers shortened or elongated in different positions, torsos mangled and torn, their faces twisted beyond any recognition. Daydra was struck beyond belief, having been dragged into what could only be described as a body horror nightmare come to life. “Lo and behold, my personal gallery of people; each one of them carefully crafted and molded to my very visions. You see, running an organization as tightly knit and coordinated as ours isn’t as luxurious as its portrayed in media; it needs constant care and meticulous attention so it doesn’t fall under its own girth. And while some embrace that slog by burying themselves in their work, I on the other hand find myself partaking in realm of artwork and creativity to ease the stress brought on by the grind. When I find a muse in the midst of the commute, I can’t help but whisk them away to mold and craft them to what I envision. Let me show you some of my personal favorites.”

Remaining bound to the chair, the polarizing psychic beholds the spot he was tied to be dragged over to one of the grotesque sculptures. It was a strange feeling to realize; but it was as if it wasn’t him or the chair that was being moved, but rather the spot he sat upon; the very space he occupied itself. After being moved over to the heinous figure, a chill runs down Daydra’s spine as he looks to its twisted visage; its mouth widened to that of inhuman proportions, with nothing else left besides its gigantic smile. “A first for one of my treasured sculptures, I dub this piece “Unrelenting joy”, reflected in their unwavering grin. Twas a somber day in the midst of a chilly fall; the people surrounding me irradiating misery and sorrow. I know not what manner of tragedy had befallen the city to leave such a saddening imprint; but among them was but one man that stood among the sea of doom and gloom, one so happy and carefree that it brightened the spirits of those he had passed by. Such magnifying charisma and charm inspired me in the midst of this dreary outlook; I just had to capture such radiance.”

Drifting away from this distorted statue, the man of magnetism holds back the urge to vomit when presented with another; the polarizing psychic terrifyingly speechless as he’s presented with the site of a mass composed of two figured fused together by their very flesh. Their entangled visage holding a set of four eyes, yet no mouth; their limbs wrapped around one another tightly. “One piece that I particularly enjoyed crafting; “The lovers”, depicting a couple immersing themselves in eachother’s compassionate embrace. The muse befallen upon me when I was in the middle of a grocery store, perusing through its shelves for what juice to pick. It was among the particularly busy day that I come upon the site of a pair embracing one another passionately in the middle of the aisle. Their arms cradling each other, entangling their tongues voraciously. And while all else gazed upon this promiscuous couple with a stew of disdain, disgust and jealousy, I had behold a love so fiery and strong that it could simply not be contained. It was upon this site that I was determined to capture such love, bring their melding emotions to life and express their passion for each other in a rapture of eternal coitus.” A tingling terror overcomes the magnetic man as he stares upon the mixed heads of the fused figure, one of their eyes glaring down upon him.

Veered over from that grotesque piece and right to the next, Daydra is left ultimately stunned in bottomless dread as he gazes upon the misshapen body of a young woman. The fright and terror in her foggy eyes was clear to see in her pale visage; her mouth left agap, as if she was screaming from her very soul. The way her legs were crossed, the way she held her arms up; such bodily expression was more than enough to tell that her last moments were pleading for mercy. “My proudest work. Never in my life have I been able to capture such raw emotion since. It was a Thursday night summer evening, the night bringing forth a much needed refreshing breeze through the city. It was weeks since I felt a spark of creativity surge through my brain, wondering when I would come upon my next inspiration in this drab and droll urban jungle. I had just finished slaughtering this man who thought to skip out on his dues, standard affair for mobsters. But upon that night was it not the man that drew inspiration for me; but rather, the girl that was with him. She had just witnessed her lover being contorted to a fine twisted mess, her eyes darting between me and what was left of him. I have never witnessed such raw and disparaging terror before, her body quivering in paralyzing dread. A genuine gaze of utter terror, I could practically see the woman’s life flashing in her eyes. I refused to let such a muse escape me. I knew in my heart that such an astounding expression of fear needed to be immortalized.”

Drips of freezing sweat run down the polarizing psychic’s head as he stares upon the hope shattering fright the figure’s visage held; Daydra’s own mind racing as it threatens to veer into that very same dread. It skyrockets as the magnetic man is turned back over to his masked interrogator, who slowly approaches with a handful of starry night power and states how: “I hope that a peek through my private gallery has lend you the motivation to remember what you had discussed with those traitors. Else I may have to take out frustration out from these fruitless endeavors against a fresh, blank, canvas.”

The bustling city lights that glow among the Manhattan night streets compliment the countless art pieces strewn throughout the city’s artisan district; with statues, murals and graffiti displayed along the sidewalks, roads, and walls. The numerous pieces around the way show off a myriad of art styles ranging from the conventional to the abstract; even dipping in the puddles of bizarre and uncanny, all for the sake of expression. It was definitely a somewhat overwhelming site to take in as you walk through. But even among this district of artistic display and spiritual expressionism does their still prove to be shares of grounded business set in between the lines; case in point being a good chunk of the psychic traitors sitting in the outside area of a fast food joint; Satette chowing down on a delicious barbecue bacon burger with Frida and Thursotte watching her. While the dimensional psychic simply sips on the large soda she had ordered with her chicken nuggets, Thurs on the other hand can’t take a single bite of his salad as he’s left in awe of the pieces of art strewn outside the joint.

Frida can’t help but stare as the lively psychic sloppily chewing the saucy burger held in her hands, getting barbecue sauce and bacon everywhere while devouring it like a voracious dog in the midst of eating a juicy slab of beef. “Jesus. Slow down, girl. The burger ain’t going anywhere.” the dimensional psychic warns. “Sorry. It’d just been a while since I’ve tasted the sweet ambrosia of honey smoked barbecue sauce. I don’t know what they put in there that makes it so savory and sweet, but its gotten me hooked like a severe ecstasy addict...In fact, it wouldn’t shock me much if that turned out to be the secret ingredient.” claims Satette, her tongue slurping up the sauce across her mouth.

“Speaking of juicy secrets, I know you and Tuesco got around in getting some good intel off that guy you both caught, what sort of shit you fished out from him?” Sat then brings up. “Well, we wound up getting a good deal of info out of the polarizing piece of shit. We wound up getting out of him a couple of detailed tidbits about the dear Doctor’s powers, he didn’t know a lot about where he’s laying low. So, Wedsle called in someone who might.” “And that wound be?” “Somebody we’re supposed to meet around here tonight.” states the dimensional psychic. “In the art district?” “Not my first choice either, but what are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know. Meet up around a back alley, around the slums, or even in a dingy warehouse. Really anywhere else that doesn’t draw as much attention as whatever sort of corner of the human psyche possessed people to make stuff like this.” Sat goes, pointing over to a terrifying portrait of a screaming Vince McMahon made out of chewing gum. “I swear I can hear him screaming into the depths of my soul.” she follows. “Weds said something about all this weird shit drawing attention away from the average crusty dealings we go through. Guess with stuff like this, I kind of see his point. I mean why bother looking at what’s going on around you when you’re too busy gawking at a statue of Jennifer Love Hewitts singing at the top of her lunges with a bloody crouch. Don’t even wanna know what possessed somebody to make that.” Frida claims. “Can’t you get sued for making stuff like that?” “Not if its labeled under parody.” “That counts a parody!?” “I don’t know either.”

“Can’t imagine how anybody would be mesmerized by dumb crap like this, right Thurs...Thursotte?” remarks Frida. When hearing nothing from her chaos triggering partner in crime, she glances aside to find the young man utterly entranced by the collection of art that decorates the streets; Thursotte’s eyes sparkling with wonderment in seeing the pieces displayed. “The shapes, the colors, it all speaks to me in ways that I’ve never imagined before. It’s so...beautiful!” he babbles. “Wow, uh. I…didn’t think you had any interest in this stuff.” claims the dimensional psychic. “It’s been a really long time since I got the chance to take in and appreciate art pieces like this, to really wonder about the interpretation behind their creation. Feels like a relief for me after the terrible brushes with business and death I’ve endured.” “I didn’t think somebody like you would appreciate art; seeing as you tend to the order of how things work instead of why they were made.” “You think you wanna be an artist when you get back home?” Satette then suggest. “I’m...not sure. I never really thought about it as a career, really.”

While her two friends continue discussing their plans once it was all said and done, Satette is compelled to gaze over to one of the art pieces lining the streets as she finishes up her BBQ burger with a strange site catching her eye. The lively psychic finds held in the sheen of a metallic statue a woman with silver locks donning sunglasses and a pale gold overall dress, staring at the three of them intently from beyond the reflection in the piece. From the figure in this reflection, Sat peers through the surrounding streets in figuring out where this woman was spying on them from; yet glancing down both ways of the road does she find not a single sign of the woman anywhere among the passing people. Looking back over to the woman in the reflection, Satette can’t help but wonder who this mysterious woman watching them was. But before she could ponder of the nature of this strange reflection, a small crowd casually waltz right past the metallic statue; as soon as this crew of tourists walks right aside the art piece, the gold suited woman within the reflection had vanished. Disappeared without so much as a trace.

As the lively psychic stares to the metal figure that she saw this woman in, the call of her friends begin to break down her puzzling enthrallment; Satette finally shaking off her bewilderment when she hears Frida call to her with: “Yo, Sat!” “Dah, uh...Ye-yeah?” Sat returns to them with. “You doing okay, there?” Thursotte worries. “Yeah...What-what were we talking about?” “What you wanna do after taking over the seedy underbelly of the big apple?” the dimensional psychic reminds. “Oh...Guess I really haven’t thought much about that. There’s just so much I want to do for this city; I wouldn’t know where to start.” “I mean I can’t blame you; there’s just so much to correct. Stop selling drugs to kids and the impoverished, mending the ties between the psychic’s caught up in this whole storm. I imagine the rest of you guys got a real work load ahead of you once we take the top of the criminal totem pole.” claims Thurs. “Yeah...Makes me pretty tense thinking about all that now.” Satette admits. “Hey, Don’t stress about it. If it gives you any solace; you got Weds and me to lean on. Hell, if there can be two bosses, why not three, right?” Frida comforts her with, her words bringing a smile to the lively psychic.

Emboldened by their combined resolves, Satette finishes up the rest of her mouthwatering burger before rising up from her seat and requests that: “Come on! Lets meet with our informant while the night’s still young.” As the trio depart from their table and head into the artistic district, not one of them notices a forth having spied on them from the background; the same woman with sunglasses Satette had witnessed before dwelling in the fast food restaurant window. After watching the three head into the creatively decorated streets, the light of a passing car shines against the window this spy hides within; the lady having vanished as soon as this light fades.

Down in the boulevard of artistic integrity, the psychic trio stroll on their way down the polished marble streets to where they tend to meet their informant; their attention drawn to the graffiti painted against the buildings and the sculptures strewn around the streets. To the paintings plastered on the walls do some depict numerous scenes of the worlds natural beauty, including lush green clearings, thick woodlands, and vast sand dunes. While others hold murals of characters and animals ranging from realistic to borderline imaginary. The statues and sculptures set between the buildings held shapes ranging from the effigy of people to abstract geometry the likes of which sprawl out or seep in to one another; some resembling waving flames, to others taking the form of odd strings cobbled together.

Though taking in the artist merit of these pieces, the lively psychic among them catches site of the very same lady she had seen before, held in the window where one of the murals we’re painted. As soon as Satette spots this mysterious stalker, the woman retreats out from this window; Sat left with a mixture of puzzling worry. While drifting her gaze over to a shiny bronze effigy holding the shape of a man with several arms sprouting across his body, she’s again shaken when seeing the very same woman within the reflection of the statues face; Satette only catching a brief glimpse of this girl before she vanishes, like somebody delving into the depths of a foggy lake. The lively psychic’s worry only grows as she turns her attention over towards a fountain held in the middle of a small square, witnessing the same woman dressed in pale gold within the surface of the water; this lady tipping her sunglasses down to look back at with her orange eyes before disappearing once again.

“Guys, you two getting the sensation down your spine when being watched.” Sat finally speaks up with. “Occasionally. I sometimes get the weird sense that there are others beyond the scope of our very understanding observing our supernatural exploits as if nothing more than a brief respite from their eternal boredom, seeing us as nothing more than fictitious entities held in the chronicles of a predetermined narrative… I don’t like thinking about it, it makes me feel existentially paranoid.” rambles Thursotte. “...No, Jesus...I meant like were being stalked.” “You seeing some recurring faces?” asks Frida. “Just one. A woman I keep seeing around here wearing sunglasses and yellow overalls, saw her in a window, some statues even in that fountains water.” claims Sat, pointing over to the decorative fountain in the middle of the plaza. “Another psychic?” Thurs wonders. “Maybe. I-I don’t know.”

“Psychic or not; if we do got someone tailing us; then it’d be best for us to split. Take some less obvious routes towards where were heading.” the dimensional psychic proposes. “Do we have to? If it’s just one person, then I’m sure the three of us should have no trouble taking them on.” mentions Thurs. “Assuming she’s been following us for a while now, there would’ve been plenty of chances for this bitch to pounce and take us by surprise; but not once while we had our guard down did she try.” “Well, yeah. Even with the element of surprise, three against one aren’t good looking odds.” “True, but there might be another reason why she’s choosing to hide and wait; we might not be the one’s this prowling piss sipper is after.” Frida proclaims. “I get it.” Satette interjects. “She’s letting us lead her right to the informant.”

“Exactly. But we ain’t letting that happen and here’s how. Sat, you take the east route and around over to the northern end of the district. Thurs, you’ll be heading to the west side, circle towards the gallery.” “What about you?” asks Thursotte. “Me? Think I’ll fancy making a little detour through the southern streets. Sounds like the best place to be if our uninvited guest tries her luck with me.” To this end do the trio make the split from the art district’s main street and each go their separate ways, none of them aware of the very stalker they had attempted to trip up dwelling within the shinning marble tiles they stood on; the woman in the pale gold overalls wearing a wicked smile as she vanishes within the polished surface.

Out into the west side of the artisan district, Thurs strolls towards a collection of buildings that host a number of galleries and shows of various art forms; the wide windows on the side lending him a peek of what pieces lay inside. While you had the more traditional museums that presented paintings and statues, others have opted to break from the mold and host more experimental pieces. One had sculptures made from bent scrape metal and trash, another hosted light shows and holograms to express graphic art no real piece could cultivate; all of these previews had him thinking back to the conversation he had with Frida earlier.

For so long, I’ve bee fascinated of the ins and outs of what makes the world tick; the sequences of the world that govern our lives.  Be it machinery or the behavior of animals and humans, no matter how hectic it may look, I thought everything followed that law of patterns. For my young adult life, I sought to make sense from what seemed like a cruel maelstrom of chaos; I thought if I did, I could tackle whatever troubles come my way. But look where all that got me; pushed down to the bottom after climbing so high, all my efforts for a better future in vain. Even knowing that I would have been pinned for that scam of a start up company, there were too many variables and factors at play among that entire mess that trying to make sense of it all would’ve been like finding a piece of hay in a giant needle stack...or does that saying go the other way around? But then there’s the world of art.

Stopping in the middle of gallery way, the young man peers to a building containing a myriad of abstract art; all made from colors and shapes the likes of which hold no concrete recognizable geometry or patterns of hue. Clashing colors, nonsensical structure, not even any familiar elements to wrap your head around. Art doesn’t have to follow a single rule regarding pattern or rules whatsoever...But there’s a strange beauty to that. Instead of clashing with the chaos, art revels in it, harmonizing with its unpredictable flow; like a powerful earthquake ravaging a still oceanside. The water divides, yet it continues to flow into the cervices of the land; more and more water streaming through the fractures caused by the chaotic tremor until it forms into a mighty river branching out from the very sea it came from.

His trip down the junction of self reflection takes him towards an enclosed building hosting an amateur art exhibit, strolling straight through the steel door and into its baron halls to find housed within sculptures made from miscellaneous broken objects like pieces of plastic and scrap metal; stuck together to create sculptures with a wide range of forms. People and animals, everyday tools and appliances, even familiar machines and transportation. These sculptures, despite their discordant appearance take forms familiar to the human perception, holding some control over the cobbled and broken mishmash made from it. Physical proof of chaos being reshaped and molded into an orderly form.

Yet in between these recognizable sculptures, Thursotte finds standing among them abstract and out there pieces made from similar mixtures of busted trash, taking on more abstract and out there forms to contrast their fellow pieces. Discordant geometry folding in and splintering out against one another to create indescribable shapes. No matter how much the I stares to these particular pieces, no matter how I try to fit them into what shapes they make up, nothing about their very forms conforms into what I’m familiar with; unbound by sequences and rules beyond even the sculptures own conventions. Discordant chaos in melded from the familiar rather than for it. It doesn’t care what we as people think of its existence, it simply does.

Among viewing some of the more bizarre sculptures among this less than popular gallery, the young man spots something strange held within the metallic parts of these pieces; beholding on their surface the image of a silver haired woman with sunglasses and golden overalls faded in. Was...that there before? Why even put the picture of a lady in the metal like that? Is it some kind of statement about some people trapped in the storm of chaos and discord that looms over our very lives? It isn’t until he watches the picture of this woman turn her head right over to him that he snaps out from his artistic introspective and swiftly backs away from the strange sculpture; the lady in the strip stretching her arm out from the depths of the metal for a glowing red aura to come breaching out. From this pool of strawberry red power does that same arm emerge out from the other side, brandishing a pistol aimed squarely towards the young man; Thursotte making a mad dash over towards the cover of another statue as the firearm blasts at him. The bullet streaks across Thurs’ face as he delves behind one of wider sculptures, leaving him with a shallow slit across his cheekbone. The young man covers his cut while peeking out to watch the arm that shot at him slink back into the metal strip; the woman within it vanishing into its depths.

That definitely wasn’t part of the exhibit; no amount of artistic expression can make an arm come out from the surface of a statue and try its luck shooting you. And the woman underneath that piece of metal; her sunglasses, her gold overall dress, it fit Sat’s description down to a tee. I thought she was just hallucinating from the stress, but now I can’t deny it; we were being stalked this entire time. Frida might’ve right about this lady, she was laying low so we could lead her right to our informant meetup. But why come out of hiding and go on the offense now? Did she somehow figure out we were attempting to throw her off? All that to take in and it still doesn’t get in to what this woman’s powers may be. She poked her arm out from underneath the surface of that sculpture, kind of like how Frida does when phasing out from walls. But she didn’t slide away, she vanished; almost like she was diving down into a pool; it might look similar, but this lady’s playing on a different set of rules. Whatever those rules might be, it’d be suicide to try and find out in here. My best chance right now is getting back outside, give myself more room to work with.

Having his fill of both the abstract artistic experience and this newfound gallery goer, Thursotte sprints straight towards the same steel door he entered from; the discordant psychic clutching to turn the handle only to find it to not budge an inch. No matter how much or how hard he jerks the knob around, the steel door leading back out stays locked tight. Locked!? The door was wide open before, who the hell locked it!? Most of these big city art galleries are free to just walk into, aren’t they!?

Just when discovering himself trapped with his assailant inside the amateur art gallery, it goes from bad to worse when an arm suddenly emerges out from the surface of the steel door’s shiny face to clutch at his shirt collar; Thurs pulled closer as he witnesses the woman in the golden overall dress from earlier rise out before him. Pulling her other arm out from the door’s face, she takes out one piece of a set of claws to slash down upon him; Thurs ducking underneath her swinging assault for the claws to swipe against the wall. Catching his foe wide open, Thursotte grabs the girl from underneath her arms to yank her straight out from the face of the doorway; the young man tossing the silver haired woman down onto the smooth concrete floor.

Before the chaos inducing psychic has the chance to so much as approach, the woman in gold overalls jumps back onto her feet with a pistol in hand; Thursotte shoves his hand down into his pocket to toss out some pocket change at her. The woman holds her arm up to her face to swat away the collection of coins, none of them doing so much as bruising her; the lady swiftly pointing the end of her weapon towards the man before her. Faced on the wrong end of the pistol, Thurs holds his hands up and shouts to her to that: “Wait, you can’t shoot me! You won’t know who we’re meeting!” This statement is enough to keep his assailant from immediately unloading her pistol mag into him; the woman with the shades keeping her finger on the trigger. The girl in the golden garbs before her having not put a hole through his head yet, Thurs begins to ease his breathing as remains calm against her. Okay, good; that stopped her. But I can’t relax yet, need to keep peddling at her while my money works its magic. Gazing past the lady holding him at gunpoint, Thurs watches the coins he threw out at her roll out towards some of the sculptures behind her; the cents infused in his own discord inducing power. Knowing full well that his influence will take a minute to cascade, he opts to stall his foe by continuing to claim how: “That’s who you’re really after, isn’t it? You put a bullet in my brain and that’s one less chance to find out where we’re supposed to meet them.”

Lending his coins some more time to roll with, the quarter among them taps at the leg of a statue resembling that of a person; this small tap making the sculpture come tilting down towards one of the other pieces. The person shaped collection of scrap and plastic falls upon another statue to spread Thursottes orange power into it; the cluster of trash shuffling around under the statues weight to make one small piece of scrap come hurdling out towards another shaped like a bicycle. Hit with the piece of metal, the bike rolls off its base and towards more of the statues; its handlebars catching a couple of them by their holes to send them tumbling down towards the woman with the gun. The silver haired woman is only offered a moment to glance back at the collection of sculptures as they collapse down upon her; pieces of scrape and plastic sent everywhere as the mass of them bury the golden girl under their weight with a hefty crash. “Yes!” Thurs cheers. His moment of triumph is little hampered when one of the heftier pieces of plastic flies right into his stomach, the young man kneeling down and clutching his belly as she claims aloud how: “Could’ve been worse...Still a win.”

Once the pain in his gut begins to subside, Thursotte pulls himself back up and hurries past the spill of junk he had a hand in making to races into the rest of the gallery. That downpour of junk might slow that lady down, but it ain’t gonna stop her; I gotta find another way out of this gallery before she gets out from under there and guns for my hide. As the accident causing psychic hurries further into the gallery, one slim piece of metal atop the pile reflects against the light fixtures above. Under the surface of this metal does the woman with the silver locks watch Thursotte take the corner, all before she delves down into the face’s slick sheen and disappears.

Contrasting with the harsh concrete buildings that she typically surround her, Satette strolls along the glistening marble path through the artisan districts botanical garden; the lively young psychic beholding the lush garden beds and blooming bushes cut in numerous shapes and sizes depicting both common shapes and others abstract. Among these tended bushes and flowerbeds stood effigies of both people and animals alike, some standing tall among themselves and others carved working together; their polished surface reflecting the surrounding city lights.

Though the statues of marble interest her little, Sat wanders over to the finely tended bushes to stare at the flowers that bloom across its surface; their vibrant colors complimenting the lush green leaves coating the bush. Despite the bush itself having been trimmed to a specific form, the flowers on the other hand hold themselves to no such convention, sprouting from the bush to wherever it wishes. Such uncontrolled growth was contrast to the uniform way the bushes had been trimmed; perhaps an analogy of how nature weaves its way into the lives of human society, sprouting wherever it wishes despite our attempts to maintain an orderly appearance. Or...maybe the guy trimming these bushes thought the flowers just looked good, who knows.

Beyond the neatly trimmed bushes is Satette’s attention then drawn over to one of the flower beds; a collection of colorful roses, lilacs, poppy, tulips, freesia, and anemone all arrange together to make an entire rainbow made from their petals. It was amazing to see that even among the depths of this corrupt concrete jungle, that natural beauty like this can still flourish; carving a path of life for itself despite the odds against it. Pondering this artistic analogy over the pervasive nature of this blooming foliage makes her think back to the conversation she had with Frida and Thurs not too long ago; both of them concerned over her plans for the mob after taking control of it. Of course there so much needed to be done in setting things right among the drug trade; cease pushing them on kids, the poor and unfortunate, how to go about tending to what psychic’s are left, the list was long. But what about after fixing all of that would we do with our newfound and illicit power. There’s so much we could accomplish, so much we could make better for New York.

Amidst the streetlights that shines upon the flowerbed, Satette snaps out from contemplating her future when a shadow slithers across the petals; the lively psychic glancing up to discover the site of an arm brandishing a gun emerging out from the surface of a marble statue. Her hands already deep in the flower bed, Sat swiftly runs her aura through them to erect a thin wall of stems and petals just when the gun cracks off a shot; the psychic of life ducking down to avoid the bullet. Underneath the veil off her flowery wall, Satette springs out from cover and leaps behind one of the closest marble statues, peeking behind its polished rock to see the arm belonging to the same girl in the golden overalls she had seen before as she slithers back into the depths of the statue. So I wasn’t losing my mind, this bitch here really was stalking us the entire time. But how, and from where?

From the very polished statue that Satette hides behind, the lively psychic witnesses the same arm as before breach out from a part of the sculpture the street light shines against; the hand swiping at her with a set of deadly steel claws. Before an inch of these claw could so much as slice across her, Sat stops the arm wielding them with the small bouquet of flowers she snatched up from the flower bed she had retreated from, using their stems as string to hold back the limb from lashing out at her; trickles of scarlet dripping down as the tip of the claws brush against her cheek. Sliding underneath the protruding limb, the lively psychic pulls against the strand of stems entangling her foe to drag her out from the depths of the marble statue; the woman with the silver locks slicing off the stems entangling her arm as she fumbles across the grass.

Knowing full well what this mysterious psychic intentions we’re, Satette digs her fingers into the soil to infuse her natural green aura into the lawn, morphing the freshly cut grass into deadly green blades that rend through the dirt while after the girl dressed in the golden overalls. Her foe’s steel claws prove tougher than these sharp, but thin lines of grass, the silver haired woman simply slashing them to nothing but pieces. As the confetti of cut grass flutters onto the ground, the mystery woman aims her pistol straight against Sat; the lively psychic bolting across the garden as her foe unloads her magazine. Satette delves into the cover of a thick garden bush trimmed into the shape of an orca, using her natural green powers to smoothly dive inside among the thicket.

Poking her head out from the top of the carefully trimmed garden bush, Sat peers back to find her enigmatic enemy having vanished from where she stands, finding nothing around but a part of the polished marble path cutting through the grass. Where...where’d she- Feeling a hot piece of led graze beside her head, the lively psychic jerks her head over to see the girl in the golden overalls peeking out from the surface of the marble walkway stretching around the bush. Before the silver haired assassin could crack out another shot at her, Satette commands the orca shaped bush to uproot itself from its planted spot and swim through the soil as smoothly as the sea; the lively psychic remaining partially buried in the bushes body as her mysterious foe continues to fire at her. Among evading the barrage of bullets, Sat has her shrub leap right over a part of the marble walkway as she gains some distance away from the woman firing at her; the life psychic peering back to find her foe slithering back down into the depths of the polished pathway.

Approaching one of the birch tree’s that make up this artistically crafted garden, Satette leaps out from within the sea mammal shaped bush and up into the treeline; the lively psychic climbing to the top of the mid sized birch for an eagle eyed view of the botanical park. Looking down from atop the lanky tree’s crown, Sat scours for where girl in the golden overalls may prowl, all the while she wonders of the nature of her enigmatic enemy’s abilities. Even though she might operate on different rules, its nothing that new; almost similar to how Frida traverses across walls. But so far, this gaudy golden girl’s only been popping out from the marble walkways and statues set around here. Why specifically the marble though? And even then, when I was taking cover behind one of those sculptures. If she freely move through them, then she could’ve attacked me at my backside; but she instead opted to pop out from aside where I hid instead. Right on the side the street lights shined against, but why on that side? What’s it about that part of the statue she could only pop out from. Earlier, I caught her snooping from in a window, a sign, even in the water running through the fountain. What’s so special about these sorts of surfaces that she can only travel through?

...Wait. Another look down into the artisan botanical garden, Satette fails to find even a single trace of the silver haired assassin anywhere among the park; not around the bushes, not among the flower beds, not a trace of her within the marble statues. Where the hell’d she go?

Several blocks away from the lush botanical garden, the girl in the golden overalls surfaces out from within an apartment window, gazing down from where she breaches to find the third of her group of targets wandering among the graffiti plastered city block. Having located the last of her three pursuits, the silver haired assassin slinks back into the depths of the shimmering window, biding her time to wait until her true target shows themselves.

Strolling among the graffiti district block, Frida can’t help but take a gander to some of the pieces left plastered across the walls; the dimensional psychic admiring the effort and time it took to craft these striking and vibrant murals made with nothing but spray cans and the bold visions of their creators. Though Frida herself didn’t hold much of an artistic eye as Thursotte had expressed, even she could appreciate the detail and color choices that make each of these pieces pop among the usual bland urban atmosphere. One piece of graffiti she fancies being one depicting an entire crowd of protesting people melded together into one mass standing against a clean cut and towering man in a business suit of rivaling size, staring one another down among a venue of a polluted and broken cityscape. Another the dimensional psychic spots being a collage of animals and creatures of all sorts of sprouting from the planet, like one big explosion of lively proportions; a piece of which possibly signifying the diverse species of  the Earth sharing the same origins. And finally does Frida’s sites come to a collection of words and phrases crafted in the usual urban graffiti like style; the kind of grunge tag one would usually find plastered among the streets beyond. Weather or not one would find these tags deplorable or not, the technique and effort put into the craft behind them was nothing to scoff at; even the most uptight and snooty of citizens can’t admit that the work put into them was far from amateur. Perhaps it was the reason why the blocks around here were dedicated to these spray painted beauties.

But despite cultivating a more appreciative side towards the arts, her cultural growth is forced on hold when a figure suddenly jumps out from the window one this building; the girl in the golden overalls breaching out from the depths of the glass and lunge down at her with a set of steel claws. Having little time to dodge away from danger, Frida reaches into her jacket to pull out her pair of handguns and uses their slides to stop her foe’s descending slash; the pistols solid metal proving effective in blocking the sharp claws. Made to face off against this close encounter, sparks go flying the dimensional psychic continues to block the silver haired assassins constant swipes with the metal of her firearms; her enigmatic enemies swift movement making putting a piece of led in her at point blank next to impossible. The numerous tourists that peruse through the artistic streets, doing nothing but beholding in the graffiti plastered walls, start to disperse as the two women rumble; clearing out the street gallery in but a matter of moments.

Gold overalls, silver hair, shitty shades. Yep, matches Sats description right down to the tee; guess we were being followed after all. This bitch’s quick too; can’t even hold my guns out to aim. Long as I’m on the defensive like this, can’t do jack shit, and seems like she knows it. Though Frida remains firm in block off the gold dressed assassins slashes, some of her foes unrelenting swipes manage to slip around the metal slides of her handguns to streak across the dimensional psychic to leave behind bleeding gashes across parts of her body. Dammit, I’m slipping! Need to make distance and fast!

Among holding off the golden overall girl’s relentless assault, Frida flips one of her handguns in her hands to have the handle protrude out before she swings the weapon out; the butt of the gun smacking across the silver assassins face. The girl in the golden overalls left momentarily stunned by the unexpected pistol whip, Frida follows with a kick straight to her foe’s stomach, knocking her away to make some distance between them. The dimensional gunwoman takes aim against the silver haired assassin tumbling away from her, watching as the gold girl fumbles down to a stray puddle left standing in the street. But before Frida could pop a piece of led into her assailant’s head, she’s flabbergasted when witnessing the girl in gold sink into the puddle completely; as if the body of water was far deeper than it seems.

Still left taken aback by her foe’s miraculous escape, Frida dashes over to the same puddle that she watched the woman in gold slip into. The dimensional psychic reaching into the reflecting water to find it as shallow as it appeared; a puzzling predicament that leaves her understandably confused. Yet the gunwoman knows that there stood little time to ponder over the nature of her enigmatic enemies power, for she looks towards the windows closest to her find her silver haired assailant swimming through their glass. Frida fires out against the windows in hopes of nailing the golden girl, but finds not a trace of her assailant among the shards that shower the streets. Try as long as you want to hide wherever the hell you’re in, I know you’re gaudy golden ass can’t stay in those windows forever. The way you crawl around in that glass, the way you cleanly slipped into that puddle? Might not know what else you can dive into, but it doesn’t matter. If your power work even remotely like mine, then I’ve already found you’re Achilles heel. Sooner or later, you’re gonna have to come up for air.

The silver haired assassin draws in a deep breath as she surfaces out from underneath the edge of a polished car door, gazing through her surroundings as she slithers back out into the physical world; the tussle that ensued earlier clearing the streets of any lingering tourists and visitors. But despite the graffiti plastered blocks being baron and empty, not a hint of the gun wielding woman could be found anywhere around; almost like she disappeared without a trace. Nevertheless, the girl in the golden overalls is fully alert as she carefully roams the streets, sticking to the spray painted walls in going through the artisan blocks. Approaching the corner, the silver haired assailant peeks behind the graffiti covered wall to gauge at the streets that wait on the other side; the scene seeming as void of any lingering onlookers as the one she had finished traversing through.

But just when wondering where her gun toting foe was lurking, the golden girl suddenly feels hot led pierce through her shoulder; the woman’s blood splattering against the tags that litter the wall. After taking the piece of led, the assassin swiftly leaps behind the corner before another one could find its way in her; narrowly evading a stray shot that cracks off against where her head was. Once behind the safety of the solid wall, the silver haired assassin glances back around the corner to try and survey where the shot had come from. Strangely however, she could find not even a sign of her sniping foe anywhere around the streets; not on the sidewalks, not around the corners, not even up along the rooftops. Nevertheless, the direction the bullet had struck her shoulder didn’t lie, she has to be hiding somewhere in those streets. Aiming to discover where this sneaky sniper sits for her, the girl with the golden overalls dives into the depths of the nearest window; hellbent on uncovering and holding her to find her real target.

From the lowest parked car bodies to the highest hanging windows, the silver haired assassin surveys down and around the stripe of graffiti lined street for even a sign of the wall merging gunwoman and scans through the spray painted walls for where she may hide. All of the bright colors, all of the abstract and distorted shapes making the murals, it was practically an assault on the vision for somebody to rapidly take in all at once; almost forced to look away from the bigger picture to keep her eyes from straining any further. Along with her eyes hurting does the woman’s breath draw short, compelled to emerge out from within the depths of a shining statue on the side for air. The very moment that the silver assassin pokes her head back up into the real world, a piece of hot lead grazes across the top of her ear and ricochet against the statue’s bronze surface; the crack shot forcing her to return into the depths of the statue. From the other side of the statue’s surface, the girl in gold glares out towards where she felt the bullet had come from, staring out towards one of the graffiti covered walls plastered across this block of the district. But no matter how much she strains her sites through the colorful spray painted portraits and murals, the silver haired assassin fails to find so much as a hint of the wall sliding sniper anywhere.

Seeing little sign of her gun toting foe among the spray painted streets, the gold girl retreats back into the depths of the bronze statue, unaware of the dimensional psychic hiding among the graffiti itself. In the middle of a wall sprayed to depict a crowd of people singing together among a raging storm, Frida emerges out from in between the painted mob to take in her own breath of fresh air; the dimensional psychic looking towards the bronze statue that she had seen her silver haired assailant delve into. Puddles, glass windows, even shiny statues. There’s some pattern to it; I know it.

Peering over towards the corner where she had shot at the golden girl first does Frida catch something left upon the cold concrete in her foe’s hurry; the dimensional psychic sliding across the mural and over to the street end to investigate. Carelessly dropped on the ground was a bright sky blue billfold, left haphazardly behind by her foe as she scrambled towards cover. Opening up the woman’s wallet reveals inside an ID firmly placed behind a piece of plastic; revealing the name of their enigmatic enemy. Secra?

A sense of worry haunts the amateur art gallery as Thursotte wonders through its halls, holding an anticipating sensation as the extent of his mysterious assailants abilities still remaining unclear to him; for all he knew, the girl in the golden overall’s could appear from anywhere at anytime. And with such, his biggest concern was simply finding a way out of this artisan maze. Though but even among about 10 minutes of wandering through the 2nd floor of the gallery does the young man only find in his search more amateur and abstract sculptures and scrape metal statues set through the halls; all with not a single way out to speak off. No doors, no windows, nothing.

You think they’d install an emergency exit in case the place went up in flames. But nope, not even one. Kind of a dick move, really. Like are New York art galleries so concerned with the whole aesthetic and experience that they think putting an emergency exit in the middle would clash with the art pieces? Or, maybe they converted this building into an art gallery and the fire escape was already just out of the way. Either way, it has to be a safety violation of some sort. I get wanting to take in the art at its fullest, but that shouldn’t be an excuse to risk your life over it; or really any one’s for that matter. Pretty screwed up to do so.

Amidst pondering to himself over the lack of any feasible exit, the young man inhales a sharp gasp when finally coming upon a way out from this gallery of this artist labyrinth of amateur artwork; a window leading outside at the end of a hall holding rough looking statues made from rugged, craggy carved stone. Rather then wonder the significant of these oddly made effigies and sculptures, Thurs makes a dash straight towards the gallery’s window, swiping a small slab of rock held by one of the sculptures he races by; the young man determined to smash his way out through the fragile glass.

But his urgent evacuation is thwarted when witnessing the silver haired assassin breaches out from the windows glass; Secra brandishing her claws as she lunges out at Thursotte. With little time to evade her, Thurs instead holds the slab of carved stone in his hands up against the girl in the gold overalls to block her vicious steel claws; sparks flying across the wall as the assassins weapon streak across the rugged rock face. Having stopped his foe’s initial swipe, the chaos inducing psychic almost immediately starts to dash away to make distance between him and the assassin. Thursotte sprints towards one of the nearby effigies as the silver haired assailant pulls out her handgun and fires, with the shots are deflected by the slab of rugged stone as he hurries behind one of the stone statues. From behind the sculptures rugged rock, Thurs peers back to see the golden girl delving back into the depths of the window; slipping effortlessly into the glass as easy as a pool of water. I can’t keep fighting her like this, not without knowing what she can do.

Yet before the young man could even have time to think over the nature of his enigmatic enemy’s power, he suddenly feel a sharp pain pierce through the back of his ankle and peers down to see the same woman surfacing out from the polished wooden floor at his feet; the silver haired assassin having slashed at the back of his leg with her set of lethal claws. Just when priming to swipe at him once more, Thursotte acts fast and throws to slab of stone in his hand down upon the woman; the silver haired assailant swiftly retreating back into the polished wooden floor as the piece of rock breaks into dust that spreads across the floor, the young man who threw it down quickly scales to the top of the statue he had hid behind, hanging on the head like a chimp as he glares towards the rest of the hall. The window, the metal statues, now the floor; just where the hell is this woman gonna pop out from next?

Thursotte quickly gets his answer when a part of the statue he stands atop of sudden breaks off from a bullet coming from behind, looking over to discover the girl in gold shooting at him from a part of the floor untouched by the stone dust; the young man swinging right behind the sculpture as he coats its stone in his own chaotic orange aura. Thurs pushes the giant effigy down from its pedestal and send it tumbling down, breaking apart against the floor for the orange glowing pieces to scatter all across the gallery; a couple of them smacking against the other statues to knock them down in a domino like fashion. As the remains of these statue scatter all across the gallery floor, Secra dives back down into the polished wooden floor just before the stone’s dust could reach her.

Among the destructive discord does one piece of a statue go flying across the hall to end up smashing straight through the glass window; Thurs almost immediately taking this opportunity to make a full blown mad dash towards the broken open window before his silver haired assailant could strike once again. The young man leaps out from the broken window to emerge back outside, the few people outside witnessing his urgent escape watching as he sprints off through the streets.

Racing away from the amateur art gallery, Thursotte dashes over to the start of an outdoor gallery containing die cast metal statues the likes of which made from the most shimmering silver to the greatest glistening gold; each one of them sculpted into the shape of abstract figures and shapes resembling contorted people and animals. Yet there stood little time for him to admire the complexities of these metal pieces of art, as the golden girl pursuing him emerges out from the polished surface of one of these statues to lash out at him with her claws. Thurs rolls off to the side in dodging her pouncing lunge and tosses out a left over rock from the statues he broke earlier at her; its stone coated in his chaotic orange aura as it flies towards a hollowed out bronze statue in the shape of a sphere. With nothing but a small tap from the wayward pebble is a bronze piece of abstract art knocked off its pedestal and sent rolling across the courtyard; snagging some of the other silver and gold sculptures in its wake as it comes barreling towards them both.

While Thurs opts to simply dash out of the way against the oncoming mess of shiny statues, he watches the silver haired assassin on the other hand leap right towards the oncoming collage of mangled metal; watching closely as Secra delves into their reflective surface with ease. The confidence she displayed when diving into the oncoming mess of metal stood out to Thurs as something of an important note. In the gallery earlier, she shown a similar lack of concern when all that junk was about to fall on top of her, almost like she knew she’d come out of it unscathed. And yet when I chucked a piece of rock down at her, she didn’t even risk it and immediately dived back down into the floor.  Even now, why merge into the metal statues instead of the ground under her feet? There’s definitely a difference, but I need to make sure its what I think it is.

To this end, Thursotte remains vigilant towards the other statues still standing among the courtyard; all the while he digs his hand into the outdoor gallery’s soil for a fist full of dirt; waiting for his foe to appear out from one of their shiny surfaces. Its then that he spots among the collection of sculptures a handgun emerging out from one of the golden effigies set along the side of the courtyard; the young man instantly sprinting away as the firearm is unloaded his way, several of the bullets drilling into the soil as the man she shot at sprints behind one of the benches.

From behind the gallery’s bench, Thursotte watches the collection of shining statues around him carefully for where the woman may pop out from next; clutching the dirt in his fist tightly as she anticipates the silver assassins next move. Its then that his attention is drawn to the metal frame holding the bench’s wood to see something within sliding underneath its polished iron; Secra soon breaching from the depths of the metal to lash out at him. Yet to the golden girls surprise does the young man manage to evade her lunging swipe, almost as if he predicted that she was going to come at him from so close; Thursotte clutching at her wrist to uproot her out from the depths of the polished iron frame and throw her out into the open.

Flung out in the middle of the courtyard, the silver haired assassin swiftly gets back up just as Thurs charges against her; Secra dashing out of his away just as the young man comes swinging at her. Once evading his swinging assault, the girl in the golden overalls lunges right back at him with claws at the ready; Thursotte constantly dancing around her constant slashes and swipes. But even when consistently evading the sharp edges of his foe’s steel claws, a couple of swipes can’t help but sneak their way through and tear through his clothes to leave behind shallow gashes and wounds across his body. In retaliation, Thurs kicks her in the stomach away from swiping range, tumbling across the floor and away from swiping range. In the middle of pulling herself up, The silver haired assassins eyes is alarmed when seeing her target dashing after her and starts to look around for a swift escape. Her eyes widen when she finds herself having been kicked near one of the many shimmering statues that make up the outdoor gallery; the girl in the golden overalls leaping out towards the silver sculpture of a centaur being rode by a man.

Mere moments when the golden girl was about to slip into the surface of the silver statue, its reflective hide is muddied by a splatter of mud and dirt which cakes it in a thin layer; Secra slamming her head against the statues hard silver instead of cleanly diving into it like usual. Once shaking off the blow to the head, the golden girl glares back to find the dirt having been flung by her discord triggering target; Thurs’s palm covered by the clump of soil he had held in his hands moments ago. Though his palms were left soiled and dirtied, Thursotte’s smile was confident and clean; a grin of which his foe takes as the tables beginning to turn. Looks like my little hypothesis was right on the mark. It might work similarly to other abilities I’ve seen, but I’ve figured out the one key factor on what her powers work on. There’s no doubting it now; though she can phase into surfaces as cleanly as water to use as portals, those surfaces have to hold a reflection.

To this end does the chaos inducing psychic thrusts his hands into the dirt once more and starts to sling clumps of soil all around the statues that make up the outdoor gallery; the clumps of flying dirt infused in his bright orange power as icing on the cake. The golden girl frantically sprints all across the outdoor gallery as dirt is flung everywhere; the shiny statues she attempts to retreat into splattered in soil, clumps of mud, and dirtied beyond their previous luster. More opportunities to escape close the longer she stays in this gallery of statues, and such, darts through the yard, desperate for a way out. Its among her moment of hopelessness that her eyes beam, the shimmering surface of a presentation board standing over at the edge of the gallery. Before any specs of soil could so much as be careened its way, Secra darts towards the ordinary glossy sign and leaps into its reflection; successfully making her dramatic escape.

Finished flinging as what could be described as a mounds worth of dirt and mud, Thursotte climbs out from shallow hole left in the middle of the outdoor gallery; preparing to throw down against his silver haired assailant on more fair grounds. But his hype starts to deflate when finding no sign of the golden girl standing anywhere among the muddied sculptures and statues, glancing over to the side to find the glossy sign presenting the gallery rippling like water. Oh…Well, least I fended her off.

But just when after fighting off one problem does another quickly sprout up; a gang of officer rushing on the scene and charging straight for him; one of them stating that: “You’re under arrest for defacing public artwork!” The swarm of officers coming his way, the dirtied young man makes a mad dash out of the outdoor gallery and through the rest of the streets in hopes of outrunning them; refusing to so much as even turn back as the cops chase after. Hope Sat and Frida can figure out this woman’s tricks as fast as I did.

Peeking out from the surface of the botanical garden’s marble walkway, the silver haired assassin looks across the tree’s bushes, flower beds, and statues that make up the finely snipped courtyard; partially emerging out from the path’s reflective face as she scans through for any of her life controlling foe. But even among the wide open spaces encompassing the garden, Secra can see not head or tail of Satette anywhere among the foliage. A sly grin then stretches across the golden girl’s face when spotting from behind one of the polished statues does she see slight glimpses of a shadow, swiftly sinking back down into the reflection held in the marble path.

Surfacing out from where the light shines against this same marble sculpture, the girl in the golden overalls slithers over to the back of the statue with her claws raring to dig into the flesh of her enemy; the silver assassin feeling the edges of her weapon pierce into what she slashes at. The reflective psychic’s confidence shatters when her eyes adjust to the darkness and finds what she swiped at not be the flesh of her foe, but the hard bark of a birch tree; the tree reformed to resemble the silhouette of a person. Just when realizing on how she had been duped, the rustling branches of another tree draw the assassin’s attention towards its crown, where Secra witnesses the lively psychic leaping down towards her. Pulling her other hand out from the depths of the statue, the gold dressed girl whips her pistol out and quickly fires out towards her descending enemy. From behind Satette commands a line of thick wood to slide out from behind her to guard against the barrage of bullets; the birch’s thick hide proving effective against the firearms ammo.

Failing to stop her foe’s rapid descent, the silver assassin attempts to withdraw back within the depths of the polished statue’s reflection; her desperate escape stopped as she feels something stuck against her arm. Quickly peering back to her other arm, the golden girl discovers the blade of her claws lodged within the wood of the birch tree she slashed at, stuck within the thick bark no matter how frantically she tries to pull it out. And before she knew it, Satette was dropping right on top of her, swinging a log of thick hard birch right down upon her head; the hammering hefty blow dislodging the assassin’s claws out from the reformed birch tree. With her weapon freed from the birch’s bark, the golden girl quickly slithers away into the polished statue’s reflection before the lively psychic could strike at her once more.

Reemerging out from another marble statues a ways across the garden, the reflective psychic lets out a seething hiss as she rubs her head from the blow she just took; Secra checking her hand to find its palm stained in scarlet. The golden girl then turns her attention back towards where she fled, shocked to find the lively psychic who had struck her in the head having vanished without so much as a trace; a circumstance that indeed puzzles the assassin as she looks across the rest of the courtyard for her. The left side of the garden holds only strips of flower beds accompanying the walkway, planted for a peaceful atmosphere among visitor’s stroll across the courtyard; while on the right stood the collection of finely trimmed bushed shaped in various people and animals. Though among these cut bushes there lies conspicuous patches of baron dirt left with nothing but several holes across its surface, as if somebody had uprooted what had been planted there before.

Its during her little look across both ends of the garden that she suddenly feels something course and rough slither across her upper torso, glaring down to discover a bramble of bush winding from the bottom of the polished statue she was halfway submerged in; the shrubs swirling limbs entangling across the silver assassins body similar to an octopus capturing its prey. Her struggle in escaping from these floral tentacles only worsens as the thorns strewn across the bush vines scratch at her skin, making multiple shallow cuts throughout her body. Entangled in the whirling bush of thorny vines, Secra gazes out to see Satette charging at her from across the garden; the line of birch wood she possesses transforming into a sledgehammer with a head covered in splinters. Desperate to escape before she could feel the lively psychic’s stinging swing, the golden girl jerks her claw out from the bush’s clutches and starts to slash at the vines wrapped around the rest of her torso, ripping and tearing at the natural ties that bind her to the marble statue as Sat swiftly approaches. Once swiping away the last of the vines entrapping her, Secra makes her slip back into the polished statues reflection just as Satette comes in swinging right at her, managing to escape before the splintered hammer strikes against the sculpture.

The statue’s polished marble breaks apart as Sat’s hammer hits its surface, its pieces scattering across the well cut lawn and the nearby flower beds; the lively psychic surveying the rest of the garden for where her silver haired assailant may have scurried off towards. Along the marble pathway does she spot glimpses of her reflective foe swimming under its surface, noticing how she only appears midst the sheen running across its polished face; this phenomenon she observes lending her some guesses on how her enigmatic enemy’s power tends to work. With this understanding does Satette kneel down to the grass and begins to spread her aura all across the garden’s lawn, redistributing the blades of grass and flowerbeds to envelope the walkway and for the other bushes to whorl around the statues; the lively psychic making sure that every inch of their reflective surface is covered in the overgrown foliage. Let’s hope I’m right on this.

Secra’s means of resurfacing tightly wrapped in thick overgrowth, she hurries across the reflections of the garden for any polished piece of marble that bares a reflection against the light; her breath running short as she desperately searches for somewhere to surface. Yet among every piece of reflective marble that encompasses the courtyard was covered from base to tip with a thick sheet of natural plant life, none of its blades or petals of which lend any reflection for her to emerge from. Though the silver haired assassin might’ve been able to race to a reflective surface outside of the garden, her urgent retreat mixed with her diminishing air makes such a feet at the moment impossible for her; Secra would surely drown before she could reach over in time. But among her increasingly hopeless circumstances, the golden girl discovers a beacon of light midst the breathless darkness; a marble sculpture crafted in the shape of a giant flower unmasked by the invading overgrowth. Without so much as hesitating about this, Secra frantically swims over towards the baron piece of the reflective marble as the last of her breath wavers; the silver assassin quickly rising to a part of the sculpture to take in a much needed breath of fresh air. Though in relieving her air problem does another quite literally sprout up from under her, thick vines made from grass, flowers, and bush enveloping the floral shape sculpture; strands of which were already entangled around the golden girl arms. “Gotcha now!” she then hears the lively psychic exclaim.

From the where she had been snared, the reflective psychic sees Satette making one more charge towards her; transforming her hammer of birch into a splintering pike with a skewering tip. Realizing that she had fallen right into her foe’s clutches, Secra attempts to reaches out for her claws to slash at the natural ties that bind her; the vines that entangle her arm refusing to so much as let her get so much as a finger out. With no time to wriggle her way out from the floral net, the silver assassin instead leans her head over to her bare shoulder; her sunglasses sliding down from her eyes and onto her the side of her head. The very moment that Secra’s shades touch the bare skin of her shoulder, her entire body starts to be slurped into the reflection like water to a drain; her body dislodging out from the ensnaring vines that once grounded her to the statue. Watching this unexpected escape unfold, Satette hurdles her birch pike out to the fleeting golden girl akin to a javelin in a bid to pin the reflective psychic down; the rest of Secra’s body slipping into the reflection of her sunglasses, leaving for the thrown spike to pierce only through her shades.

Approaching the flora covered flower sculpture she had caught her silver assailant against, Sat looks down to the a piece of the broken pair of shades that were left behind in the unexpected escape; their glass shattered to pieces upon being smash by the hard birch she threw out. Inspecting the shards of darkened glass however, she notice driplets of scarlet left behind along the sharp edges; a sign that her daring escape might not have been as clean as on first watch.

“You!” the lively psychic then suddenly hears from behind, breaking her attention away from the shades and turn right around. Glaring at her from behind stood a short man donning a robe and turban, beholding the overgrowth that now plagues the ravaged sculpture garden. “The garden, the flower beds, the statues! Did you this!?” he demands her to answer. “Uh...Kind of.” “This...All of this is just….Gorgeous.” “…What?” “The natural flora overrunning the man made statues, the bushes entwined and twisted beyond a comparable shape, the flowers swirling beyond their placements and coating the walkways. All of it feels so raw, so unfiltered, so real. A testament of nature refusing to contort to human standards. Answer me! What had compelled you to amass such a realistic depiction over the takeover of nature?” “Um...Global warming…” she halfheartedly answer. “Hmm...Of course. The wrath of nature against the advancement of man. I see it now! Don’t move! My colleagues this wondrous marvel.” the artistic reviewer proclaims. But as soon as the man was out of site, Satette instead decides to sneak away from the undeserved praise resulting from her skirmish; racing out of the botanical garden gallery as fast as she could. Just walk away Sat, you ain’t nowhere near ready to make up a story that explains away all this.

Breaching out from the reflection of a dumpster’s reflective side, the girl in the golden overalls lets out a pained hiss while rubbing the back of her foot; the back of her bottom ankle left cut apart in a strange fashion, similar to the way glass tends to break. The laceration only being minor though, the silver assassin opts to simply work through the pain instead of treating it; gazing out from the alleyway she had spawned into to discover having returned to the graffiti covered part of the district. Secra remains cautious when peeking out from the alley, remembering the trouble she faced last time she scouted in between these spray painted streets, rubbing the part of her shoulder where she had been shot from. And again, no matter how much she looks among the graffiti can she find not even a single trace of the wall merging sniper. But in the very brief moment that she steps out into the streets is she accosted by that very same threat; a speeding bullet streaking right against the side of her hand. The silver haired woman keeps herself from letting out even a peep as she slinks back into the alleyway, diving right back into the shallow reflection on the side of the dumpster.

The golden overall girl swims across the glistening sheen of the windows and glossy signs strewn across the district in searching for the wall slipping psychic; scanning across the tag plastered walls of the apartments and shops that make up the artistic district. But like last time, the brightly colored and abstract murals make searching through their spray painted brush work a terrible strain to the eyes. No matter how many times she attempted to look within the funky and stylish graffiti art for any sign of her 2 dimensional foe, the silver haired assassin couldn’t stare at all the colors for more then several seconds before she has to look away. Tension rises as her breath begins to again run short, but prolongs her need to surface back up; for she knows full well that the moment she breaches from the reflection to catch her breath; a wayward bullet could be waiting to go straight through her head. And so, the reflective psychic swims across a dozen or so shimmering surface in hopes of making enough distance between her and Frida; across windows, signs, car shells, and water puddles all across the street.

Its soon enough that her air finally runs out and she’s forced to return to the corporeal world, breaching back up from the depths of the car’s sideways mirror to catch her breath; Secra sticking her head out from the mirror to take in a much needed inhale. Yet even among this brief moment of reprise is she not safe from her foe’s aim; a bullet streaking right past her head and hitting her ear. Fighting through the intense pain from having her ear shot off, Secra peers over towards where the bullet had been fired to discover her sniper perched in a graffiti plastered wall depicting the head of a man and woman melting into the silhouette of a little kid. With knowing where her sharpshooting foe now hanged from, Secra slinks back into the other side of the mirror.

Sliding back in the surface of the brick wall, Frida slithers across the painted face over towards the neighboring mural; the dimensional psychic striking poses so as to blend into the piece so well, that she would likely be mistaken as a part of its design. A strange stealth technique that she has a little bit of fun with as she makes goofy and unassuming positions. Never in my life did I think I’d find myself enjoying a piece of work so much as to be a part of it. Eat your fucking heart out, you limp dick art professor from collage; Saying I’d never hold any artistic merits to contribute.

The dimensional psychic stops her slide across the pseudo street gallery at the face of a local restaurant, the graffiti sprayed above showing a crowd of people dining upon and smorgasbord of Italian dishes. Frida emerges out from the surface of the graffiti for both a breath of fresh air and to reload her pistols magazine, all the while she keeps a sharp eye out for wherever her reflection hopping adversary had scurried off to. Yet no matter where along the streets she looks, the wall merging gun woman can’t find even a hint of the bitch’s tacky golden overalls or silver hair in any of the windows or car shells strewn across the street. Where the hell’d she go then?

Its among searching for the reflection traversing psychic that her attention is drawn to the side of her own handgun, the glossy sheen wobbling around in a strange, but familiar way that the likes of which worry her. Just when she starts to realize what swims in the reflection of her gun’s metal, another gun appears out from within the surface of her own firearms; unleashing a flurry of bullets a point blank against Frida. Even with most of these shots having missed and hit the wall, one manages to graze past the side of her head and nearly hit her eyes; the dimensional psychic quickly tossing her weapon aside to stop her foe’s finger from shooting another bullet. Watching her discarded firearms fall, Frida sees the hand and the gun that came out from it start to slither back into the sheen it emerged from; the wall merging psychic determined not to let her foe’s bullshit slide as she aims her other pistol down towards her descending weapon. Though this golden bitch had to take multiple shots to so much as graze her, it only takes Frida one to shoot right down at the retreating hand; the bullet hitting the silver assassin’s hand right in the finger and forcing her to let go of her weapon, all before Frida’s gun could even hit the ground. “Try pulling that shit with my baby again, bitch! See what happens!” the wall merging psychic.

Her satisfying moment of inflicting karma the takes a concerning turn when coming out from the restaurant, a woman gazes up to the mural overhead to discover the dimensional psychic quite literally inside the brickwall; Frida quickly wandering what to say as the woman’s curiousity gradually to shock and terror. “Um...Bonjour, I am art.” Frida halfheartedly feigns in saying; the lady she speaks letting out a panicked scream as she points to the woman in the wall.

“So yeah, after I slipped out of making another part of the public freak in a horrified spiral of mass hysteria, I kept searching around for that silver haired skank in case she was still hanging around; no luck. And judging from all the bruises and cuts she took, I’d say she won’t be stupid enough to try the direct approach on us again.” the wall merging psychic finishes explaining to the rest of the crew. After their shared quarrel against their reflective foe, the trio chose to stop and rest within the comfort of small cafe hosting a collection paintings and miniature statues.; the few other patrons around them showing concern over their small cut covered bodies. “Reflection, huh? Guess from the places she popped out from, it makes sense.” Sat adds. “Still, it sounds like she was trying to fight with all three of us simultaneously, maybe trying her luck in getting one of us to spill the freshly opened can of generic store brand kidney beans.” theorizes Thursotte. “We were several streets away from each other while she fought all three of us, too. Scary to think how quick she could get around while swimming in the polished sheen of everyday surfaces. That kind of travel time would give even the average midnight street racer fueled on a lethal mixture of energy drinks and back alley bought amphetamine a run for their money.” Sat states.

“There’s has to be some way we can pin down and finish her. I don’t think I could take glaring at every reflective table, sign, and mirror around me without the paranoia of an assassin coming out to pop a piece of led through my brains for the rest of my days. Life has already handed me enough to deal with, thank you.” “Thurs is right; we’re not out of this haunted house of mirrors yet. I’m almost certain our little scuffle didn’t deter her enough to piss off; betting she’s watching us talk among ourselves as we speak.” supposes Frida. “Is there any way to contact our informant to reschedule?” Satette asks. “Even if there were, its too late. We’re supposed to meet them in about an hour.” the dimensional psychic states. “An hour!? She could be spying on us right now for all we know; that’s nowhere near enough time to sus this woman out!” Thurs points out. “I know, and what’s worse is where were supposed to meet up. Of all the shitty luck we had to be served tonight.” Frida “Wait, where are we meeting them?” asks Satette “Just finish your mocha’s and you’ll see.” Frida suggests.

Slurping down the last of their caffeinated beverages, the psychic trio depart from the small art hosting coffee shop; the other patrons in the cafe left a little worried from their roughed up presence. Nevertheless do they all try to brush it aside and simply return to mingling one another. As a pair discuss among one another over the fresh, hot button topics of video games, one of them lifts up their porcelain cup to finish up the last of their caramel latte. Sipping the rest of the drink reveals to him what appeared to be a person hiding within the polished cup’s finish, a woman with silver hair holding numerous wounds and cuts across her body; the brief glimpse of this unexpected figure shocking the guy to the point of him choking on his drink. Once he coughs up the last of his caffeinated beverage, the man gazes inside the cup again to make sure his eyes didn’t lie, but his left only more perplexed when finding nothing but drops of his caramel latte within the cup.

“You gotta be fucking joking?” Satette curses, beholding where they’re meant to rendezvous. Beyond the twin doors, the trio stood among the entrance lobby of a museum sized art gallery housing statues, sculptures, and painting from centuries past; all of which protected behind transparent plexiglass sheets, material well known to stop even the force of small firearms. The reinforced glass was not the only surface within that held reflections cast by the lights overhead; the floor of the museum made from marble polished to a fine sheen, to such a degree that it nearly reflects those that stand atop its surface. “This is where we’re supposed to be meeting our informant!? The lobby alone has more reflection and polish than the vainest beauty salon in New Jersey. Hell, the only things missing is the lingering stench of cheap hairspray and the complete lack of artisan refinement.” “So many reflections, there’s no way we would be able to tell where that woman could ambush us?” points out Thursotte. “Yep; it’s borderline comedic.” Frida deadpan jokes.

“What do we even do? It’s not like the three of us can cover up all of this.” Satette further questions. Pondering of how they could counter their reflection swimming stalker, Thurs’ gaze is drawn towards the light fixtures hanging underneath the ceiling windows; their luminescence flooding the lobby with their brilliant glow. “Wait...maybe we don’t have to.” he claims. “You have an idea?” the wall merging psychic asks. “Kind of. Most of the reflections are coming from the lights over us. Shutting those off might level the playing field.” “A good start; but still, gonna be tough drawing the prowling piss colored bitch out from hiding; especially with the ass beating we served her the first time around. Playing cautious here would be her best bet.” “So, we got less than an hour to take this bitch down before she ups and claws our guy, apex predator style? Honestly, not the hardest thing we’ve done.” “That’s the spirit. Now lets get to work.”

Upon this determined call, the trio prepare to head into the depths of the historical art museum; their confidence entrance halted when stopped by a man wearing a staff uniform, with a roll of tickets attached to the side of his belt. “Tickets please.” he requests. “Oh uh, right. How much per ticket?” asks Frida, pulling out her wallet. “$20 each.” “Twenty!? Are you for real!?” “I thought public art museums didn’t charge admission.” Thursotte claims. “I don’t make the rules, I’m just made to enforce them.” “Fucking upkeep mandates. Government should be funding this stuff, not make us fucking…” the dimensional psychic crumbles, her and the others digging through their wallets to scrape up enough cash.

After cobbling their funds together, the three manage to have enough for the three to be granted entry into the museum; the guy at the booth swiping up the cash away and quickly counting the amount up. “Enjoy your tour.” he greets after finishing. “Yeah, sure.” the dimensional psychic coldly leaves with as she and the other’s head in. “Can’t believe we had to burn $60, at an art museum no less. That’s just plain robbery.” Thurs complains. “The paper thin line between amoral scams and legit business practices erodes more and more every day.” summarizes Frida. “Eh, I already nabbed about $80 from his fanny pack.” Sat whisper, showing the cash hidden in between her fingers. “That a girl.”

Once splitting up from the girls, Thursotte is left to stroll through eastern end of the ancient art museum, gazing upon the collection of old artwork from famous artists of centuries past lining the hall with obvious hints of nervousness. Not just simply because of the fact their silver stalker could emerge from practically anywhere around him, but of the paintings and sculptures displayed all across the hallway; the only protection they hold of any outside harm being the thick plates of plexiglass covering them. The old guitarist, Pablo Picasso. Cafe terrace at night, Vincent Van Gogh. Flaming June, Frederic Leighton. Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, Gian Lorenzo Bernini. The Burghers of Calais, Auguste Rodin. Mile Pogany, Constantin Brancusi. Wow! This place pulled out all the stops when coming on its art collection, most of these pieces are pretty dang old and expensive; no wonder ticket admission is so high.

Approaching one of these famous works, the young man can’t help but look upon the apparent age of these pieces with wonderment, brushing his palm against the glass shells that shield them. Yet behind that mystique lie an inherent worry, one that shakes Thursotte deeply. If that woman stalking us grows impatient again and tries to subdue me, I don’t know how much I can circumvent my powers away from these works of art. Once that domino effect starts, there’s hardly anything that can stop it; uncaring of who or what dares to cross its chaotic path. Even when behind there thick shells of plexiglass, the hand of discord is fickle and strong. If I’m forced to fight her off, I can’t guarantee the sanctity and well being of these well crafted pieces; I don’t know if I could live with myself if any of them were caught in the crossfire. Worried over the welfare of this collection of sacred art, the psychic of Murphy’s law heads out from that part of the gallery and proceeds around the corner; all the while a pair of familiar eyes watches him from within the reflections of the plexiglass.

Around the Northern end of the museum does the wall merging psychic silently peruse across a part of the hallway displaying an assortment of finely cut jewelry and metals crafted from around days of centuries past; their shimmering, well polished surfaces lending Frida further concern and paranoia. As if there ain’t enough shiny shit around here to hurt my eyes, and that’s not even getting started about the plexiglass covering everything. Props to the admin for going the extra mile not stinting out on security like some money grubbing, curved pig dick, but it leaves me in a bit of a bind. Plexiglass is one of the strongest, most solid transparent materials to work with, used a lot in making bulletproof trucks and tanks; make a panel even a few inches thick and it’ll be enough to stop a magnum without suffering even a dent. I doubt most of the small stuff from my arsenal wouldn’t put so much as a scratch on it. Even if I manage catch this gaudy golden bitch out, nothing’s stopping her from escaping almost anywhere else around here; she could easily surprise me. But that tacky trash taint ain’t the only one that’s got surprises up her sleeve.

Walking a little further down the gallery’s hallway, a sense of suspense begins to build when the dimensional psychic finds herself standing among the crafted ornaments and jewelry on her own; not another soul around to appreciate the finely crafted decorations and jewels extracted from the annals of art’s history. The deafening silence among this part of the hall was all too perfect of a moment for their silver haired stalker to potentially make a move, and Frida knew it; her hand held close to the flap of her denim jacket. Her eyes constantly dart across the eerily empty corridor, searching for any sign of wherever her reflective foe may lunge from; none of the polished surfaces she see’s rippling even a single wave from within their tough exterior.

Its midst her careful inspection that the dimensional psychic catches something swimming within the depths of the marble floor beneath her feet, quickly peering down to witness Secra begin to rise up towards the surface. Frida leaps aside where she sees the silver haired assassin and takes a pistol out from the inside of her jacket, keeping it aimed towards that part of the marble floor and waiting for the moment the golden girl breaches the surface. Yet when intensely waiting for her foe to emerge, Frida is instead struck at from above as her silver haired assailant plummets down before her slashes her claws against the gunwoman’s arm; Secra dipping down into the marble floor before the wall merging psychic could so much as flinch. Frida jerks her site up towards where the woman had dropped from, peering to the ceiling to find the windows installed above reflecting the museum lights against their clear surface.

Its when realizing where her enigmatic enemy had descended from that she aims her hand gun towards the roof of the gallery, unloading the bullets in her magazine to fire at the windows above; the windows glass raining down upon the floor and clear cases. Panicked screams suddenly erupt out from around the corner of the hall right after the shots go off, the outcry coming from the other museum patrons. Shit! I was so busy trying to sus this bitch out, I didn’t think about the other people waltzing around here. No doubt even hearing a single gun go off in a place like this would make anyone flee and phone the cops ASAP. Best to wrap this showdown quick before it turns into a shitshow.

Everyone that had been admiring the collection of old pottery across the museum’s western wing were now hurrying out towards where the came; the banging they had heard a second ago urging them to streak right past the shrub planted in a pot along along the wall and escape for the exit. Each of them too worried over the gun shots to pay any mind to the strange bush that had grown within one of the pots. Its when the coast was clear that a natural green glow commands the shrubbery arise and split open, revealing the lively psychic having hid inside; Satette gathering the mass of foliage as she carefully climbs out from inside the fragile and old piece of pottery. When just about to step off the stand holding the pot up, Sat starts to lose her footing and tumbles down towards the floor; the stand along with the pot she hid in falling down with her. Though the lively psychic just straight up flops onto the hard polished marble, the ancient pot the young woman had climbed out from is caught before it could smash against polished surface like she had; the ancient porcelain cushioned by the same soft shrubby Sat had used to hide in. Putting the pedestal back upright, Satette places the pot back at the top of the stand it had been displayed on; the young woman breathing a sigh of relief from this piece of artistic history being saved. Yet there was no time to cheer from this swift save, for a set of rapid footsteps urges the lively psychic to hurry through the halls before whoever approaches could find her.

Taking a couple of more turns through the museum’s west wing, past the polished collection of ancient pottery, Satette soon comes to a lone door set along the dead end of a hall; its face plastered with caution and warning signs to veer the average patron away. While one sign set on the door clearly states “This door is not a fire escape!”, another claims that this door was for “Employees only” along with a couple of electrical hazard warnings. It was more than obvious to the young woman that the controls for the buildings electric stand beyond the door, wasting little time to reach for the knob to let herself in. But like all critical control rooms of moderate importance, the door leading inside was locked tight; the knob refusing to budge an inch no matter how hard Satette attempts to turn it. Of course its locked; why would it not be. It’d be pretty much asking for disaster to leave it open for any curious or mischievous little gremlins to wonder inside and play with the electrical panel. Nothing fun await for you on the other side of this door, kid; only painfully stinging zaps and potential cardiac arrest.

Could just try and break down the door, but it sounds like there’s enough of a commotion going on as is; wouldn’t want to risk incoming security to rush in and pile drive my ass down against the marble. Pretty obvious to just find where they keep the key, but the clock was already against us enough;  skulking around for it would take far too long. In pondering of another way to slip through the other side of the door, her attention is drawn to the growth of shrubbery coating her arms and torso like a jacket made from a forest hermit, the smaller branches poking out from the sides being as thin as needle holes. Maybe I don’t have to.

A strange idea in mind, Satette reaches out towards the doorknob once more as she coats her sleeve of shrubbery in her own natural green influence; the lively psychic commanding the small roots of the branches to slither across her fingers and into the door’s lock. The tiny cluster of wooden branches squirm within the metal hole like burrowing swarm of worm; Sat occasionally twisting them with a gentle turn to feel if they had mimic the intended locks key. Come on, need to get the right shape. After a few more moments of letting the tiny shrub branches meddle inside the doorknob’s lock, Satette ears perk when hearing a distinct click coming from inside the keyhole; the lively psychic grin from ear to ear as she twist her hand again and feel the knob finally give in and turn. Holy shit; that worked!? Can’t believe the branch didn’t snap off. Looks like this lady ain’t gotta blow money on cheap ass lock picking sets that break from twisting inside a single lock; got something way stronger then whatever kind of urine soaked sandstone or aluminum Chinese factories make those from.

Satette quickly opens the door and proceeds to let herself in, the light from the hallway behind her flooding in to show inside a dozen or so panels line with diodes, switches, gauges, buttons and wires; all of it most likely holding control over the electricity that flows all throughout the building. Beyond just a couple steps approaching these panels, Sat stares to the collection of controls while wondering of how to go about simply shutting the lights off. An electrical engineer would know more of what every button and switch set on these panels would likely do, but I sure as shit don’t. You think the people who install these would label them for anyone to use, or at the very least leave a sign telling you what they all do. But nope, nothing, not even a single damn letter. What the hell is your deal electricians, think your too good to let the rest of us fiddle with what you tinker with? Or is it some kind of trade secret thing that you can give in full, else risk getting ass blasted by your supervisor.

Trying each and every button and diode to see what they do would be a bitch and a half to slog through, one haphazardly mixed with the constant conundrum of wonder if you turned that dial or pulled that switch yet, only to do it and remember you tinkered with it a moment ago because they don’t fucking label or color code these damn things. There has to be another way to skip the bullshit buttons and just skip to the power outage. Perplexed of this is her attention again drawn to the shrubbery she wears like a thick green coat, using her powers to unravel one its sleeves enveloping her arm to watch the branches within wriggle around; their thinly roots as thin as needles. Eh, you know what, fuck it!

Frida remains tense while constantly peering across the gallery of cut jewelry and finely polished décor displayed; her finger ready to pull the trigger at the moment her reflection hopping foe emerges. The panicked screams and shouts that had echoed across the hall had ceased, leaving the Northern wing of the museum eerily quite; the gunwoman inching towards the beige painted wall as she keeps her eyes peeled. Its among this brief moment of tension that the golden girl makes her move; Secra breaching out from the marble floor beneath her foe’s feet to slash at Frida’s side; the dimensional psychic quick to act as she merges into the wall beside her to evade her silver assailant’s swipe.

As Frida climbs towards the top of the beige museum wall, the plexiglass set beside rapidly ripples as the visage of her foe comes rising up to its surface; the silver assassin breaching out from the bulletproof glass to thrust her claw into the very wall the 2-D woman dwells. The 2nd dimensional psychic stops herself just before she slithers up to where her foe’s claws plunge, swiftly evacuating the face of the wall before the sharp steel slashes down upon her. Though Frida isn’t just insistent on evading her silver assailant’s swiping assault, clutching at the same arm Secra slashed at her with to drag the reflective psychic down with her; both woman plummeting back towards the museum floor.

Despite being baited out from the plexiglass’ reflection, the girl in the golden overall is little worried over it; the polished marble floor beneath them both close enough to let her simply delve right back into the dimension of reflection. Yet instead of splashing down within the marble floor as smoothly as water, the silver assassin instead harshly falls down upon its hard face as any other surface. Left stunned both emotionally and a little literally from her reckless impact down onto the hard stone floor, the silver assassin pries herself to look down to where she had crashed upon and is astonish to discover that part of the polished marble floor having been painted down with a layer of non reflective black paint; the shadowy splotch of jet black refusing to give so much as a glisten against the museum lights. Alarmingly confused over where this black spot had came from, the golden girl quickly looks back to where she had seen her wall merging foe had descended with her from; discovering a can of black spray paint held in one of Frida’s hands.

The reflective psychic quickly starts to roll off from the black splotch in hopes of retreating back into the marble’s polished surface; Frida pulling herself off the floor to take aim towards the fleeting gold wearing girl. Just as her silver assailant was moments away from escaping into the floor’s reflection, the gunwoman cracks off a shot at her and manage to hit her right in the thigh; the golden girl letting out a pained yelp as she delves back into the safety of the reflective surface. “Gotcha, bitch.”

Its in that very moment that the light fixtures lining the top of the gallery walls then suddenly blink out, leaving the entire hallway as pitch black as the New York night sky above; the entire museum once glistening with reflective brilliance now left standing as nothing but darkness. Its within the shadows that now haunt the museum, Frida’s eyes start to adjust themselves to the inclusive void; soon able to see among the darkness that encapsulates its halls. Damn, got dark fast in here. I can hardly see anything past my bare hands. Whatever Sat did to the power box had to be real effective.

Out from the endless sea of darkness do two security guards bust through the door leading into the electrical room, shining their flashlights inside while wielding batons; one of them demanding aloud: “Hands up! Stay where you are and we’ll what the hell...” Their alarmed rush quickly deflates when finding nothing dwelling in the power room but length of branches and leaves rooted all throughout the control panels; every button, diode, switch and wire entangled in the mess of shrubbery that covers every inch of the wall. “What the hell am I looking at here?” “I can’t tell. Looks like mother nature got up with a hangover and threw up what she had last night all over the wall.” “Augh! This is gonna take a week to pull out and fix.” “Yeah, hate to be the electrician stuck with this…Smells nice in here though. What is that lilac?” “I think that be azalea.”

Blindly stumbling throughout the eastern wing of the darkened museum, Thursotte keeps his arms held out as he slowly navigates through the shadows; his eyes starting to adjust to the darkness as he tries to figure his way around. Kind of kicking myself for not suggesting some sort of warning ahead of time; like maybe give Sat about 10 or 15 minutes before she cuts the power. Would’ve given more time to memorize the layout of these halls so none of us are literally stumbling in the dark here. Too little too late now. Only thing to do is hope my eyes adjust to the shadows before I wind up tripping over something- Among his regretful hindsight does the young man suddenly fumble down from what felt to him like a gap in the middle of the floor, feeling himself fall before smacking against the face of a plexiglass case; all before he flops down onto the cold hard marble floor. Important...

While pulling himself off the freshly polished floor, he witnesses an open gloved hand reach down to him from the depths of the down; Thursotte taking this offering hand to help him up without so much as a second though. “Oh, thank you. I can hardly see past my arms around here. But what are you still doing here, I thought everyone else ran off when they heard the-” His thankful demeanor swiftly transforms into fright when pulled up to the face of his helping hand, their face disguised by a wonky looking Elmo mask; the unexpected site nearly causing him to scream in a panic. The masked person holds their hand over Thurs’ mouth before so much as a peep could slip out. “Shut up, man. You wanting both of us to get whacked?” the disguised individual tells him. “Sorry. Just got a little spooked by somebody in an off brand Sesame street mask skulking around in the dark.” “I’m not fucking skulking I just…Listen; your name’s Thursotte, right?” “Yeah, but how’d you...Oh, you must be the informant were supposed to meet.” “Yep, Weds put me up to finding out more about the Technological director of the New York crime syndicate. You guys better appreciate this; this December guy doesn’t leave behind that clear of a trail to follow, had to delve into some really old, real analog archives just to figure out where his lab is hidden. Turns out its somewhere out in the-”

“Hold on, before we keep going; I gotta know. Who are you and why the mask?” Thurs then interrupts to question. “Seems pretty obvious. Can’t have the dicks I’m blowing my whistle to figuring out whose head to blow off.” “Okay, l-let me just reiterate a bit. Why “that” mask?” “I can’t just go telling any smartass that has the time to question the way I go about doing my business; especially with people that could be eavesdropping on us at any…” the masked individual tries to at first dodge his question with; their confidence diminishing when finding Thursotte looking at them with an odd glare. “It...was the cheapest one they had at the Halloween store.” “There it is.”

Though the scales have been tipped more in her favor, Frida remains vigilant peering throughout the shadowy gallery of the museums Northern wing; her finger kept at the trigger of her pistol as she keeps her aim forwards and steady. Hardly a spot around here that this golden garish bitch can pop out from now; but that doesn’t mean I can’t let my guard down. Lack of reflections aside, I ain’t out of this polished art show just yet. Even within the dark recesses of this museum, this silver shrill could pop out from the darkness at any moment. But as long as the shadows stick around here, I think I can handle whatever comes out from around the corner.

But alas when coming around said corner, she is caught off guard when a blinding light suddenly shines in her direction; the wall merging psychic covering her eyes as she hears somebody before he orders her to: “Put the spray can down.” Gazing beyond the light, Frida discovers standing before her a museum security guard aiming a bright flashlight right at her; the man further stating to her how: “Thought you could just sneak in while the power was out to pull your little prank, well you just wait right there while…” In the midst of accusing her of vandalism, the guard’s nerves quickly climb when spotting the pistol she holds in her other hand; the security officer swift to pull out a gun from his belt holster and aiming it right at the intruder. “Drop the gun, now!” he sternly demands.

Though Frida could simply merge into the floor to make her escape from this predicament, an alarming detail crops up when looking down to the marble floor; the flashlight in the guards hands lending the polished marble a stark reflection that begins to softly ripple. “My man, the flashlight! Turn it off, now! You don’t, things are gonna get ugly real fast!” she tries to warn him. “Some punk like you isn’t gonna go threatening me. Put the damn gun down, now! Don’t make me say it again!” Left forced at a standstill by the stubborn security officer, Frida can only watch as her reflective foe breaches from the reflection between her and the guard; the officer left utterly frozen in terror as he witnesses the girl in the golden overalls appear out from under him. Before the museum guard could snap out from bewildered terror, the silver assassin lunges out with her claws at the ready, lashing out at his neck and cutting right into the side of his throat.

“Shit!” Curses Frida, taking aim towards the silver haired assailant. Try as she might to shoot down the golden girl, the flashlight’s intense blinding glow tremendously impairs her aim; her bullets only hitting the unfortunate security guard in the scrambling chaos. With the museum guard about to drop dead, Secra takes the chance to swipe both his flashlight right out from his clutches before she starts to flee down the hall; keeping the light shining at Frida to keep her sites off her. Her aim impaired by the incredible bright light, the gunwoman fail to line her sights onto her fleeting foe; the golden girl keeping the light onto her until she races right around the corner. Her blindness finally subsiding, Frida’s eyes once again adjust to the darkness to find nothing in the shadows with her except the bleeding remains of the unfortunate security officer; his gun having been pilfered from his grasp. Dammit. Looks like she ain’t risking it anymore. Gotta find this tacky taint before she ends up finding the others.

“Is that seriously where Dr. December’s supposed to be hiding?” Thurs can’t help but ask. “Yep, every piece of evidence and receipt I dug up on the guy tells me that’s exactly where he’s scuttling.” the masked informant assures. “That’s so stupid. Like you have to have grown up on James Bond movies to think that’s anywhere close to a practical location.” “I mean with all the shady shenanigans I’ve heard that guy do down there, practicality is probably the last thing on his mind.” “Fair point. Guess you can’t be the mob’s IT guy without having a good hidey hole. But still, down there; that’s like in the middle of the-”

Putting their conversation on hold, a bright glow suddenly disperses the darkness surrounding them; both Thurs and the masked informant gazing up to witness what appeared to be a flashlight careening through the air. The light winds up getting caught in one of the metal decorations suspended on the ceiling, the light hanging downwards akin to an overhead spotlight. “Is that a flashlight?” the informant wonders aloud. Veering his eyes away from the bright light overhead, he returns his gaze towards the marble floor they stand upon; the young man utterly alarmed when witnessing their silver haired assailant rapidly rising to the surface of the polished surface.

With very little time to give so much as a warning to the masked person, Thursotte rashly pushes the informant right out of harms way; all the while able to say little more than: “Look out!” In the brief moment that the informant is pushed aside, the girl in the golden overalls breaches through the floor to slash out at the masked individual; her claws instead swiping across the flesh of Thursotte’s shoulder. After fumbling onto the hard marble, the informant looks back up to see the silver assassin halfway submerged in the polished floor; the reflective psychic turning right over to aim at the masked person with the very same pistol she stolen earlier. The second she pulls the trigger however, Thurs kicks the gun right out from her hand and cause her to misfire; Secra delving back into the depths of the floor. “What the hell was that!?” the masked informant exclaims. “Forget it! Just run!” the young man demands them to do. Taking Thursotte’s advice, the masked informant races towards the other side of the hall as swiftly as they could; the young man she leaves behind glaring back towards where he kicked the gun over to find the firearm missing. Wha-whe-where…

Frantically looking across the museum gallery hall, Thurs sees his reflection swimming foe emerge from the surface of a mirror placed over the entrances archway; the silver assassin holding the perfect venue as she pulls out the pistol and takes aim towards her fleeting target. With their silver assailant held so high up and his arm slashed up, there was little the young man could do but watch on in dire terror for the moment the golden girl shoots the informant where they flee. “No!”

A loud bang then echoes all across the gallery hall; the silver assassin gleeful anticipation dropping as hard as bricks when the reflective surface she partially swims in shatters to countless pieces, with a torrential downpour of scarlet red raining down alongside the shards. In the last moments of consciousness that she is able to hold, Secra glares out towards the other side of the hall to where the unexpected bullet had flew in from; discovering the wall merging psychic she had fought with moments ago having fired at her with nothing but the last shot of her trusty pistol. “Bullseye.” cheers Frida.

The portal the golden girl stood within now broken to pieces, the upper half of her body that peeked out into the corporal world plummets to the floor; her severed half drowning within the inner dimensions of the reflective world. Though relieved over the close call, Thursotte lets out frightened yelp when witnessing the torn upper body of their foe flop onto the floor in front of him; with her blood and guts gruesomely spilling from her torn torso. A traumatizing scene for even the toughest motherfuckers to behold. “Oh my god!”

“Thurs, that you!?” he then hears a familiar voice call out to him from the corridor. From beyond the stretching darkness that encompasses the corridor ahead, Thursottes lively partner emerges out from shadowy hallway to approach; an urgent worried tone present in Satette’s words as she goes: “What the matter? Is the assassin here!? I heard you screaming from across theAAAAAAA-” Her questions swiftly morph into horrified screams as she looks down to the partial remains of their reflective foe laying between them; the pool of crimson coming from the woman’s severed torso spilling across the polished marble floor. “Holy shit, Thurs! What did you do!?” “I-I didn’t S-she just fell in front of me, I-” stutters Thurs.

“Thurs wasn’t the one who made the mess this time.” both of them here the voice of their gun toting friend defend. Plummeting from overhead, the dimensional psychic delves into a part of the marble floor next to them to safely land; quickly breach back up to the surface as smoothly as a jumping dolphin before she further claims that: “That’d be me.” “How even? Like what the hell you’d do to her for her to end up like that?” asks Satette. “Well, turns out our silver assassin here wasn’t as untouchable as she tried to be. During our last scuffle in the streets; I noticed one particularly bizarre looking gash she suffered on her ankle; pattern of the cut sort of looked like broken glass. Part of her ankle must’ve got caught while plunging in somewhere before it shattered to pieces, and that’s when it hit me. Try imagine getting caught in the middle of an instant closing hatch; with how fast it shuts on you in the middle of going through it, it might as well be a makeshift guillotine, splitting whatever’s caught cleanly in two.” “Cleanly being the more absent description.” Sat mentions. “Yeah, I gotta be honest. I didn’t expect it to be that...effective.” Frida admits, glancing over to the gruesome scene.

“Either way, our immediate threats taken care of. Hopefully, it’ll be the last time those mobster fuckers try their luck in messing with our guests.” the dimensional psychic then claim. “Where even are they? We combed through this whole museum and they didn’t show up.” Sat complains. “Oh, they already left. I just got finished talking to them about what they found out about Dr. December. Hated our discussion being cut short the way it was; I could tell that under the mask, they were a caring person.” “Really? I came in at the last second. You’re gotta fill us in.” Frida requests. “Did they figure out where Dr. December’s hiding?” asks Sat. “Sure did, and you two are gonna laugh when you hear where his lab is at.”

[write-ur-wrongs]

Mother, Mother pt.2

A/N: Finally ready to post part 2 of my dad!Geralt fic!!! Part 2 is loosely based on this prompt Another request with baby!👀🥰 Reader has a newborn and geralt is just watching them thinking about how much have changed and how reader turned his life around...🍪 so I really want to thank that anon for their prompt and their patience! I definitely took some liberties with this story and worry the plot got lost along the way(?) but I really hope you like it nonetheless! Full disclosure I haven’t proof-read this piece so forgive the many typos!!

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“I said, no,” Geralt repeated himself slowly and with great authority, “thank you.”

The village healer looked at the witcher with eyes wide in disbelief, unable to accept that there was anything a witcher wouldn’t do for coin. Especially this witcher – the White Wolf – or so they used to call him. He used to be a force to be reckoned with on the continent, but now it seemed there was rarely a job he’d be willing to take.

“No? B-but who will help us!” they shouted desperately, “you can’t just leave this village to fend for itself! The creature will kill us all, Witcher!”

Geralt closed his eyes and took a deep breath before repeating himself yet again. “Please understand, I can’t help you, but I know people who can. Eskel is highly qualified and will be here by the next full moon. He will help you; I assure you.”

“But you’re here now,” the healer said, still shaking his head, “you could resolve this by nightfall! Why should these people wait a week for peace?”

“Hm.” He growled, lowly, biting down on his cheek to keep himself from giving into his rage and his pride. He wasn’t just living for himself anymore, not just living for the coin or by the witcher’s code; he had a family now.

He knew the world wouldn’t be easy to convince regarding his change in career path. Hell, it had taken most of your pregnancy to convince his brothers at Kaer Morhen of his plans. When he first told them you were pregnant, and it was his, they laughed heartily while sharing quick looks of concern between one another; fearing you’d strayed and were trying to play poor Geralt for a fool.

Yet that reaction was nothing compared to the one they gave him when Geralt admitted that his days of being a witcher were over. He’d be a consultant now. He’d travel the continent only when he heard of monsters through Jaskier’s letters, and once he reached these villages, he’d take stock and refer the case to one of his brothers, who’d pay him a modest commission for the referral. Geralt never took contracts he deemed to be too dangerous (which, so it happened, was most of them). The rule was if he wouldn’t readily bring Cirilla along to help, it was too dangerous for him alone.

Once, he let pride take precedence and he accepted a contract he knew was dangerous. It felt good to be back in the saddle, both literally and figuratively. He and Roach took to the forest like birds on a breeze, and his sword was just an extension of himself as he wielded it fiercely and with grace.

While he did conquer the beast in the end, it did put up quite a fight, and everything he thought made the fight worth it was washed away the instant he limped into your home and saw the look on his pregnant wife’s face and heard the cries of his beloved child surprise. To this day, he still feels the panicked sound of Ciri’s fearful shriek and your horrified sob weigh heavily in the pit of his stomach.

He felt this very weight now as he considered this desperate healer’s words. Yes, he’d handled this type of monster many times before, but it wasn’t worth it.

“Listen to me, this type of creature is only a threat during a full moon,” Geralt said, “just educate your people, spread the word, you’re in a position of authority here – use it.”

The healer sighed deeply before muttering to themselves in frustration. They pulled their cloak tighter around their body and made a scene of grabbing the coin-filled sac from the table. Geralt rolled eyes his at the paranoid healer before gesturing for them to head outside.

“Fine, leave! But if you leave now and anyone dies, their blood will be on your hands!” shouted the healer, as Geralt tended to Roach.

Geralt rolled his eyes before mounting Roach, urging her onto the trail.

This isn’t my fight, he thought, and their people will be fine.

You were having a wonderful morning. Wren slept through the night for the first time in who-knows how long, and Ciri was relaxing as she entered her fifth day without a magical episode; those lessons with her aunt Yennefer were definitely paying off.

Now you were savouring the gentle afternoon breeze, resting your knees in the cool earth of the garden as the sun warmed you from above. You loved harvesting produce and tending to the flowers; this year was especially bountiful thanks to a rainy spring and temperate summer. As you picked tomatoes off the vine, you smiled softly at the sound of Ciri celebrating a successful hit on her target across the yard.

Meanwhile, Wren played happily in the dirt at your side. She’s been sitting up on her own now which was such a thrill. Such a small change, but it granted you freedoms you didn’t know you’d been missing.

“Mama, snek!” Wren squealed, proudly holding an earthworm up at you. You laughed in relief upon seeing what she was holding up – for half a second you thought she’d managed to snag an actual snake.

“Wow my girl,” you cooed, “what a find!”

At the sound of your praise, Wren smiled up at you brightly and closed her little fingers around the earthworm with pride.

“Careful now, love! Don’t harm it,” you said, gently prying open her stubby fingers and releasing the worm back into the soil, “these little guys play an important role in the health of our garden.”

“You know she doesn’t understand you, right mom?” Ciri said a little breathlessly after stabbing her sword into the earth.

“I don’t think we can say that with certainty, Ciri. She is a witcher’s daughter after all, we are in for a lifetime of surprises I’d say.” You replied with a small shake of your head. Ciri rolled her eyes at you before making off towards the house at a run.

“Cirilla,” you warned, “don’t leave your sword in the yard! And wipe it down before you take it in – I don’t want dirt tracked in again.”

“Mom!” she groaned, stomping back to get her sword. “Witchers don’t need to do these ridiculous chores…” she said under her breath.

“They don’t get warm meals or comfortable beds either!” you replied in a sing-song, knowing it would drive Ciri crazy – you hated when she grumbled at you. Ciri had great respect for her father but would sometimes treat you like you were nothing more than a headmistress at school. Having spent time with witchers and sorceresses alike, scolding didn’t command respect; at least when you played it light it got her attention.

“Yeah – I know! I’ve lived those lives!” Ciri shouted, storming back towards the house, sword in hand.

Fuck. You forgot she was there when Cintra fell. How could you forget?! She was alone and, on the run, and oh gods if Geralt had been here and heard this he’d –

“Ciri, wait, I’m so sorry. I’m –”

“Sounds like someone could use some help.”

You stopped cold at the sound of the strangers’ voice. It ran through you like mead – ice cold but left a strange burning sensation in its place. Ciri also stopped in her tracks, dropping her hand from the door but keeping a firm grip on the helm of her sword. Ciri cast a quick glance at the stranger standing on the edge of your property before settling her nervous eyes on you.

You did your best to evoke confidence before turning to see this stranger for yourself.

It was Visenna.

Again, you did your best to seem confident as you addressed your eldest. “Ciri,” you said, not taking your eyes off the druid, “take Wren into the house, quickly!”  

“Mom?”

“Cirilla please, take her and go into the house,” you said, impressed at your ability to keep your voice level. “And take your sword with you,” you added, turning to give her what you hopped was a look that encouraged her to stay calm and be careful.

Ciri said nothing but scooped her sister up and onto her hip with one arm while keeping her sword steadily by her side.

Once you heard the door close, you cast a quick glance to make sure your girls were safe before turning your attention back to the woman standing at the gate.

“Why are you here, Visenna?” you asked, holding your head high despite the fact your heart was pounding in your ears.

“Oh child,” her words dripped with condescension, “I never expected my son to write me back, but I had hoped he’d share the contents of my letter with his wife.”

“He told me about the letter,” you said, giving her a tight close-lipped smile, “in fact he told me all about you. So, I’m going to ask you again, why are you here?”

“If you know about the letter, then you know why I’m here.”  

“Could you be so cold as to have you forgotten your history with your son? The way you left him to be tested on like a rat? You have no right to be here.” Your voice cracked as you finished your last sentence, and Visenna tilted her head at your sign of weakness.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, dear. You weren’t there -”

“Neither were you!” you spat; with a harshness you didn’t think you had in you.

“Hm.” Visenna crossed her arms and watched you closely through narrowed eyes. You hated that she reminded you of Geralt as she seized you up – the had the same mannerisms, the same affinity for the non-verbal. Geralt could never know.

The druid’s scrutinizing glare made you squirm, and when you broke eye contact with her for a moment of reprieve, she moved to open your gate. For the briefest moment, your panic left you paralyzed as you watched the woman begin a confident stride towards the house.

“Stop!”

You whipped your head around as you heard Ciri come bursting out of the front door. She was wielding her sword up in front of her with one hand while the other hugged Wren onto her side.

“Do not come any closer, I am warning you!” she shrieked, her light eyes wild as her mousey hair blew behind her.

“Ciri-” you tried, holding one hand out to calm her.

“No!” she yelled, keeping her eyes and her sword fixed on Visenna, who was now standing stock-still at the gate.

“Stop trying to tame her, dear,” Visenna interjected. “Let the lion cub roar.”

At the sound of her old nickname, you took in a sharp breath and felt your heart drop to your stomach. It felt like the world stopped turning as Ciri reacted to the trigger.

Cirilla could handle discussions about her old life in small doses and only on her terms. Whenever the dreams came to her, it would take you hours to calm her down. More often than not, the episodes left you and Geralt drained and deeply concerned. Yennefer was really the only person Ciri responded to, and while her methods and lessons have helped, sometimes the pain brought on by the memories was simply too great.

Now, as the four of you stood in your garden, you could feel the earth begin to vibrate beneath your feet. Ciri’s jaw was clenched tight and her nostrils were flared. She slowly knelt down and placed Wren onto the ground before standing tall once again.

“Do not call me that.” She seethed, voice dripping with magic.

“Come now, child,” Visenna replied, seemingly unaware of the storm brewing, “I am your grandmother. I can help you; teach you.”

“You are not my grandmother!” Ciri shrieked, pushing a violent wind towards the druid which forced her to take a step back. “Get out of here! Leave!”

“I – I don’t mean any disrespect, Ciri. The Lioness was –”

“Ciri, no, wait –”

Everything happened so quickly. You felt the burning rush of Ciri’s magic roar past you and tried desperately to keep your eyes open so you could see Wren. Though your eyes stung against the harsh blast Ciri was emitting, you saw Wren crying soundlessly behind her sister, her chubby hands reaching out towards you in desperation. You tried to step towards her but an invisible force pushed you to the ground. You pulled yourself up on one elbow and tried to reach towards your baby without luck. Everything was burning and it took all of your strength to stay alert.

Meanwhile, Ciri’s blast of magic shot at Visenna like a bolt of lightening. Out of the tip of her sword and from her outstretched hand came a bright blue flame surrounded by pulses of violent wind. The destructive blast uprooted the gate and surrounding fence, throwing them back into the forest beyond. Burning shrapnel and earth flew towards her at breakneck speed, but the druid reacted quickly, pulling a portal with the help of an amulet and escaped the blast.

The garden in the path of Ciri’s blow burned harshly – leaving nothing behind but ash; except for the pocket where you lay. You tried to call out to Ciri to calm her down but there was no air for you to draw from. You let the force of her magic hold you down for a moment, trying to recuperate your strength, and when you looked up again you saw Wren taking a few wobbly steps toward her sister.

Holy fuck, you thought. These were her first steps.

You watched with wide eyes as Wren took step after step towards her sister, whose magic raged on. You were so drained by the weight of Ciri’s magic that you were convinced your eyes were deceiving you.

You watched in disbelief as Wren took step after step towards Ciri. The moment her little hand reached her sisters leg, the spell broke and Chaos released its hold on Cirilla. Drained from the exertion, she lost consciousness and started to collapse in on herself, her sword falling from her hand and onto the ground with a dull thud.

You scrambled to your feet and raced to Ciri, dropping to your knees once you reached her to catch her in her fall. You smoothed the ashen strands out of her face and rocked her gently from side to side, breathing shakily through your silent tears. You didn’t know when you started to cry, but when Wren waddled her way to you and nestled onto Ciri’s lap to press her face into the crook of your neck, you were sure you’d be crying forever.

“What the fuck,” Geralt growled upon seeing the destruction as he rode up to the house from the trail. In a growing panic, he urged Roach into a canter. When they got to where the gate should have been, he dismounted and ran towards the house at a sprint, his heart pounding in his ears. When he saw you sobbing on the ground with an unconscious Ciri and weeping Wren, he lost all control.

“Y/N! Y/N what happened?! Who did this?” he shouted, panic rising. When he spotted Ciri’s sword on the ground, Geralt fell to his knees beside you and quickly scanned you all for any sign of injury. You were weeping, holding tightly to Ciri, who was unconscious, and Wren, you

“Y/N please talk to me,” he said more harshly than he meant it, while brushing wild strands of hair out of your face gruffly.

“Ciri, she um –” you choked, working to slow your breathing, “she lost control of her magic…”

“Yeah, I can see that, love.” He said with an incredulous laugh, his eyes scanning your ruined garden with disbelief. “What the fuck happened to make her so upset? Did – did she have a nightmare? Did you, hm, say something to her?”

“Geralt – no,” you said quickly, the tears you managed to calm coming back with a vengeance.

“Y/N, I’m sorry I just…” Geralt regretted the insinuation that this might have been your fault but he’d only ever seen Ciri’s magic be this destructive when she was afraid or hurt. He was at a loss.

You shook your head and turned in his arms to look back at him, readjusting Ciri and Wren in your arms to free an arm which you placed onto Geralt’s chest. You held his eyes and took a steadying breath, unsure of how he’d react.

“We – we were in the garden just, just like always and,” you cast a quick glance down at your daughters before bringing your eyes back up to Geralt’s, both to ground yourself and to hopefully remind him of their proximity in order to temper his reaction, “and Visenna appeared at the gate.”

He gasped sharply at your words, and his body around you. You brought your hand up to his face and tried to calm him. His cat-like eyes were wild and unfocused – he looked like a frightened child and it broke your heart to see him like this. Wren seemed to sense this too, as she scrambled up and reached towards her father’s hair.

Wren’s light tugs managed to pull Geralt out of his shock momentarily and his eyes seemed to come back into focus. Seeing this change, you gently redirected his attention back to you.

“Visenna came for Wren… T-to take her or, or to raise her or something? She mentioned the letter…” Geralt clenched his jaw at the reminder.

You hadn’t motioned the letter in months. Geralt wasn’t at all ready to welcome his mother back into his life, and he definitely didn’t want her anywhere near his family.

“What did she do to Ciri? I swear I’ll –” he seethed.

“No, no, Geralt,” you interrupted gently, moving your hand back to his chest, “she didn’t get the chance. I don’t know what she was going to do, but Ciri came out with her sword,” you stopped short to look down at her with pride, “to protect us.”

“She did?” Geralt let out another incredulous breath, shaking his head at his child surprise.

“Yeah, it was like nothing I’ve ever seen. Her magic, it destroyed everything in its path but somehow, she was sheltering me from the blast. Visenna escaped through a portal, I- I think? But Ciri was… unstoppable.”

“Y/N, if Ciri was able to harness Chaos like this at her will, to protect you; this could mean –”

“Oh no, love, I’m sorry I’m not telling this right. She came out of the house with her sword to protect us but she lost control when Visenna called her the Lion Cub.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Oh, I know,” you agreed emphatically before adding, “and then she called herself Ciri’s grandmother…”

“Fuck!”

“Right,” you sighed, shaking your head as a shudder ran through you.

“Da-ee,” Wren said suddenly, pushing her little hands into her father’s face, causing a shocked laugh to escape his lips. Geralt’s face softened in a way he reserved for his youngest daughter and the sight of it was enough to pull you out of whatever was left of your panic.

“Oh, gods!” you exclaimed, “Geralt you won’t believe this.”

“Hm?” he hummed, not taking his eyes off Wren; he was completely enthralled by his baby.

“She took her first steps – and, gods it was incredible Geralt – when she touched Ciri, it pulled her out of the trance!” You gushed breathlessly.

“She did? That’s my girl!” he beamed, earning a proud giggle from the toddler. “Fuck I hate that I missed this, you’re just full of surprises aren’t you, goose?” he said, peppering light kisses across Wren’s little face.

“I know, love.” You said softly, leaning into his arms once more. “I’m so relieved to have you home.”

“Come on, Y/N, let’s get our girls into the house.” Geralt said as handed Wren off to you before picking Ciri up gently as he stood. You took his outstretched hand rose to your feet along-side him. “I’m not leaving you again, I promise.”

“Geralt, you say that every time.” You tease lightly, holding the front door open for him.

 “No, I mean it this time Y/N, really.” He said quietly, as he laid Ciri down in her room. “I can’t keep doing this. When I’m gone, all I do is think of you and the girls…” he trailed off when he noticed Wren had fallen asleep on the couch. You smiled tenderly as you watched him cradle her into his strong arms.

“My love, you know you’d go crazy if you stayed here with us all the time.” You said as you smoothed his hair out of his face.

“I’d go crazy if anything ever happened to you.” he whispered.

“Hey now… we’re fine,” you tired to reassure him, “today was an anomaly. I doubt Visenna would try that stunt again. Ciri will be fine, she just needs to rest, and tomorrow we can send word out to Yen for support. We – “you paused to take a steadying breath, “we can’t let fear rule our lives, Geralt.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, setting Wren down into her bed before wrapping his arms around your frame, “now when did you get to be so wise?”

“A certain witcher taught me a few things,” you said, a small smirk playing on your lips, “always preaching something or other but sometimes the lessons stick.”

“Is that so?” he growled, a fighting back a smirk of his own.”

“Hmm,” you teased, kissing him deeply.

[babysprouseisart]

It is abnormal to create a filthy dump of needless insults and mockery of human nature

Nowadays, people are more and more forgetting about humanity and simple respect for each other.

This is not surprising, there is always a place and people who fall out of the normality of society, representing nothing more than insignificance.

One of the most rotten places, with the exception of some of its smallest ‘islands’, where a bunch of rats gather and spread various gossip and exclamations, is the long-suspected and identified Twitter.

It would seem for a second, since the personification of Twitter is a blue bird, proudly spreading its wings, that this place is about something bright and great, noble, because this very bird declared in the label, is presumably about to start its beautiful melodious singing, and so will continue from day to day.

However, this is just a stupid deception that draws people into this ugly world, whose personification can only be described as a dump, a large pile of manure with flies around and maggots in it.

And each of us simply has to decide for himself who he wants to be: a gentle and affectionate bird or a dung fly.

After all, it depends on each of us, on our behavior and conversations, posts, and so on, whether this place can become something better, transform itself so that it is going to be pleasant for everyone and the harmony to reign between the inhabitants.

Unfortunately, it is easier for many subjects to take the side of filth and evil than on the side of nobility and good.

It is much easier to pour buckets of dirt into this place, insult others, humiliate them, act low, than to tell compliments, support people, keep all the bile in yourself and direct all the negative energy in the right direction.

And one of these representatives of such garbage is the example below:

I am more than sure, and I'm very concerned about how the Earth is even holding this creature, because it can not be called a person, or even more so a personality, because it lacks any morally significant qualities, has almost completely atrophied.

Just look at how he forms his opinion, how he repeats and literally cracks all over just to judge, be so disgusting and hurt someone, and in this case, his potential victim is an actor, everyone's favorite performer of the role of Jughead Jones  - Cole Sprouse.

That's disgusting, isn't it?

But that lousy worm apparently doesn't think so.

Or maybe there are those who agree with him?

If there are such, then I strongly advise you not to continue, do not torment your eye sockets, unfollow me and go fuck yourself, sit wanking in your dung pit.

And for those who stand in solidarity with me, we continue the court of contempt and shame.

We all know, at least real fans of Cole or just mentally healthy people, how much he had to suffer this summer and spring.

Cancellation trend, death threats, address leaks, heavy breakup, and so on, along with bullying like this, which again spilled out of this stinking place - Twitter.

Maybe it's time to end this?

Maybe it's not okay to insult and humiliate a person who is nothing more than a stranger to you? Maybe it is enough and deciding for others how they would be better off should be over? Perhaps we should not accuse another of imperfection, when nobody is perfect?

Don't say anything, because I know that those who continue to read this are full of common sense and are people, not soulless creatures.

I just want to say and perhaps announce the common opinion that no person, being a representative of the human race, for anything in the world, under any circumstances, does not deserve such a vile insult and equating with an animal or inanimate things. Although even animals in their diversity do not deserve discrimination and disrespect. And each of the living being is destined for something in life.

Speaking of us as representatives of the human kind, we are neither dogs, cats, or elephants or, nor a ball, a glass or something else. We are people and we, by we I mean each of us, where Cole is no exception, regardless of how popular we are, what is the kind and type of our activity and national affiliation, deserve human treatment.

To equate someone with a dog and a breed of dog, to compare parts of the body or organ, such as teeth, with those of a dog, is humiliating and so disgusting that I can only imagine what a person might feel.

This is not normal. This is very different, incomparable, and a person is therefore a person, he differs from animals in all the aspects studied in social science .

People, think about how you would feel in the place of the person whom you insulted? Imagine that your mother, little sister or brother is called obscenely, comparing to a monster or some kind of Chupacabra, that looks not pleasant. It's not funny and even stupid. This is a kind of humiliation of dignity. Downplaying the role of a man and literally equating it with less developed organisms, I'm not saying that they are not developed at all, but in fact, they do not have what has developed in the process of evolution in humans, which is contradictory.

Yes, I understand you may not like this particular man, we all we have different opinions, how many people - so many opinions, but to nuzzle the man in the features of the physique, face shape and other qualities like an animal in the own shit is bad and unhealthy.

It is especially unbearable when a person has a feature, and some people turn it into a disadvantage and shame. Like, what?

As, for example, in the case of Cole. Yes, he has an uneven tooth. So what? God forbid you will never encounter such a problem, but please look at yourself in the mirror or under the microscope and you will definitely find your own features or disadvantages, it doesn’t matter how you call it.

That’s why this is no reason to insult him for what nature has given him.

And he doesn't need to fix it for the sake of scum like these trolls on Twitter, because he's not ashamed of it, it's a feature of him, not a shameful flaw.

He is handsome with this tooth in his own way, different from other people and, by the way, having a charming smile, no matter what. As handsome with his special features as each of us with our uniqueness, objectively. Maybe for some he is more handsome than a certain other, for some - less, whatever, but it still should not cross the line appropriateness.

I sincerely do not understand people who are bullying or making attempts to mock this person, instead of emphasizing the important, beautiful qualities of him as a person.

That is why I appeal to everyone who understands at least a little what I'm talking about, with a request - think and reconsider your life positions.

Do not be a dung beetle that oozes bile out of hatred and envy for another, be the same bird or butterfly that brings respect and respect to another, so that the place, like Twitter, where you live, act, or whatever becomes better and flourishes. Thank you to everyone who read this, and everyone who didn't, because you don't need this, and I hope you will draw your own conclusions. The end.

[crazyartdad]

Good Timez

The blaring music seemed to dissipate to a pleasant buzz the more Stuart drank. Shouted lyrics rumbled through the speakers, lyrics from a forgotten Doors tape that was all but mumbles to his ears. The noticeable bass line that pulsed through the Winnie Keeping him awake as he tried to focus on his moving lips. Murdoc was blatantly aware of Stuart losing focus but none or less loved to hear himself talk, as well as gazing to the no-tooth loser as he nodded to deft words. He gives a smirk to the songbird, rubbing small circles with his finger to gain the other's attention.

“We, ok there faceache?” Murdoc asks, voice hoarse from the night's drinking.

As he starts to pull through his eyes focused on the misshapen nose, why was he so close to Mudz now? He was practically leaning on the older man and they both seemed, comfortable? Glancing to the burning eye he leans over to grab the bottle of tequila at his side, taking a long drain from the neck till he hacks from the burn in his throat.

He can't really remember how he got here and he sort of blames himself. His medications and rum before a shoot(or was it a concert?) don't normally mix, But he can't all complain. Especially since it feels this nice against him.

He kept his hazed eyes on Murdoc as he watched him finish his roach with a quick hit. Flicking it to the ash trash as its own form of incense burner till it eventually dies out. This is good, its soft. Really soft

Did he eat the worm on a dare what's going on?

“Whats with that look?, Fuck your not gonna throw up are you?” He asked with worry, not for him but for himself and his cigarette singed couch.

“Mudz, are you” He makes a gesture with his hand finding himself uneasy to voice the matter “You know, bent?”

“What makes you say that?” he said in that voice all to predator like. He knew that warning tone signified he was treading on serious ground if he didn't play his cards right, and right now he felt like a rabbit having a heart attack.

Fuck it was nice before let's go back.

“Its,, its jus nice. Its really nice right now an- your close.” He rambles drunkenly over his sentences, unaware of the arm around his shoulder pulling him into a kiss till it currently happens.

It surprises him, Its soft with sultry undertone to where the longer it happens the more it feels right. The room starts to blur in colors thanks to the effects of Codeine, taken God knows when, melding together with what looked like multiple shots from the empty glasses across the table. He parts his lips with a groan forgetting the identity of the man in question till he pulls away with the bottle in his hand.

Stuart opens his puzzled eyes, mouth still parted from the irrupt kiss that Murdoc laughs as he takes a swing from the bottle.

“That answer ya question poof?”The Bassists says with a smirk. “I..um,” He says completely ignorant of what was said not even 2 minutes ago.

Murdoc rolls his eyes as he places a hand on the ramblers knee, watching the Singer eye the hand inching up thigh, it was nothing but priceless, and the blush that crept along his face when he whispered took the cake.

“I-...I dont know”

“Ahh eyy, we had a good night tonight yeah?, why not make it better~?”

2D chuckles, reaching a hand to the scruff of his neck as he watched the the pair of lips lag in movement.

“You're drunk” he says softly “And you're on some other level” Murdoc(?) says with a smirk.

Stuart runs his fingers through the black mess of hair, the oily locks feeling like serpent tongue as it wrapped around his fingers

“You're gonna ‘it me inna morning” He slurs with caution observing the blissful look of the other as he tugs lightly at the roots. “Mmnn iim too drunk ‘t care” He finishes, closing the sentence with another kiss as he lowers him down onto the ratted couch.

Everything about this dance was quick. The blur of rushed movements and hitched breath made Stuart dizzy as they fumbled around for friction. They paid no mind to the ended tape rewinding back as moans started to fill in its place of silence. He couldn't get enough of the tongue that melted in his mouth, as he squeezed him closer with his tangled legs.

His hands were hot, boiling. It made him sweat against his goosebump flesh and Murdoc thought it fun so see him squirm under light scrapes of his nails, He soothed the skin as a form of apology.

A demon, is what he sees as Murdoc breaks the kiss. His horns(or was it just hair) stood proud as he he makes a show of tossing his shirt to an uncharted map of the place, claws taking place as it pushed up the hem of his tee, kisses from a tongue slowly creeping up.

He felt small despite the lanky limbs dangling off the side. He thinks to himself as Murdoc eyes became the only thing visible, he can't see him, he can't see the room.

“Mud...z. Mudz i” “I turned off the lamp nitwit” “Jesus fuck” He says with relief “Cute” He says with a laugh as he smooths his hand across a small patch of chest hair. “Everything matches hu?” he states rhetorically as he messes with the sensitive bud between his fingers, Drinking in the pleasured mewls to the tripping mess beneath him.

Oh he’ll give him a good time.

The older male tweaks both as he watches Stuart do nothing but bite back the falling noises from his lips. Wanting nothing more then to fuck his throat as Stuart decides to rake his fumbling fingers along the hair of his happy trail.

“Treading lower hu?” ‘Lemme-” Stuart loses his sentence as he grabs for his belt yelping a loud moan as hands grip his hips to pull him flushly against himself. He gives a few teasing thrusts with equal hazed eyes as his tongue starts to lolle. “uh-uhh, let's give a little guess before revealing the goods luv” He says with a pleased sigh, getting a good feel of the growth happening underneath. “Good boy~”

Stuart scrabbles for his belt, yanking him closer to pull him down once more for a kiss. Murdoc denies his request and instead goes for the neck, giving a rough bite as he ruts against the chirping song bird.

Why hasn't this started sooner and other variations were the only inebriated thoughts rushing through the Bassists head. Moaning as he licked the bruising mark starting to form on his ghostly skin. He’s as beautiful as the day he hit him with his car,he tells himself. A tall no eyed God that was fit for the decaying man he called himself. He couldn't help picture bruises covering every form of his body. The chest, his legs, neck anywhere his mouth could reach.

And as he undid the belt he didn't see why not.