#Splinters and Gas Leaks

[not-neverland06]

we're dating? ♡

logan howlett x fem!mutant!reader

One-shot A/N: I've decided using the same X-men name/powers for the reader in my Logan fics is easier because coming up with superpowers is hard and stupid. They call you flux, like once, it's really just a nickname incoming warning for fluff so bad you'll get a cavity Summary: You're on probation from the team and official house arrest after a little accident with your powers. Logan knows you're going stir-crazy so he takes you to the arcade for some fun. And then your friendship takes a weird turn. (80's timeline in mind, but characters not from the 80’s will be mentioned) Clueless!reader

You’d had an accident, a few weeks ago. Well, accident might be downplaying it too much. You’d destroyed the garden and left a ten-foot crater in the backyard of Charles’ prestigious grounds. In your defense, you had warned them all that it wasn’t a good idea to take your cuffs off. 

The metal bands are entirely necessary to make sure you can’t lose control and wipe out everything around you. Manipulation at an atomic level is beyond fatal. You don’t want to think about what would have happened if you’d had the meltdown and the kids were anywhere near you. 

Charles had been able to shut you down, but now he’s keeping you on probation. You’ve been locked up in the mansion, unable to leave until you managed to get your abilities under control. There’s never been a problem with wearing the cuffs before. You don’t understand why he’s so against them now. 

You’re going stir-crazy. There’s only so many times you can pace your room before you start to lose your mind. He’s not even letting you teach classes anymore. You’re stuck training, all day, every day. 

“Focus!” Charles snaps and you resist the urge to turn his bones liquid. Maybe that would get him off your back. 

Instead of killing your friend, you glare at the large tank of water in front of you. You do what you’ve been doing for the past half hour. It fluctuates from liquid to gas to solid, and then liquid again. An endless cycle of repetition that makes you want to melt your brain so you don’t have to do this anymore. 

You drop your hand and huff. “This is pointless, Charles. What’s this even teaching me?”

He crosses his arms, walks over to you, and pointedly glares at the tank in front of you. You roll your eyes and look back at it. “Shit,” you hiss. In your frustration, the glass has cracked and splintered into dust. Water pools around your stool and leaks through the wood of the floor. You flick your wrist, the glass swirling around you before reforming into the tank. The water follows along, droplets lifting from the floor and dropping back into the container. 

“One moment of frustration, of distraction. That’s all it took.” Charles shakes his head and walks back over to his desk. He picks the cuffs up and you slip them silently back onto your wrists. “How can you be trusted to protect your team on the field if you can’t control this? What are you going to do when you’re panicked and fighting for your life?”

Shame bubbles in your gut. It makes you nauseous and forces your eyes to the floor so you don’t have to face him. He sighs, placing his hands on your shoulders and squeezing gently. You glance up at him briefly and he offers a strained smile. 

“This is for your protection, as much as you hate it, Flux. It’s necessary.” You scoff at the use of your X-Men name. Not much of an X-Man if you’re not even on the field anymore. 

“Right,” you mutter. “Thanks for the lesson in incompetency,” you don’t let him respond and slam the door to his office closed behind you. You feel bad the second you get outside and onto the porch. He doesn’t deserve your bitchiness. It’s your own fault you can’t get a handle on this. You don't have anyone to blame but yourself. 

You let out a dramatic sigh, throwing yourself into a rocking chair and running your hands over your face. The once comforting weight of your cuffs is now oppressing. It just feels like a constant reminder of your failure. You should already have a handle on all of this, but you struggle to even manipulate water. 

“Rough day?” You don’t open your eyes as Logan walks by. He takes a seat on the rocking chair beside you, letting out a low groan as he stretches. 

You let your hands drop into your lap, staring at the sunset so you don’t have to face him. You’ve already dealt with enough dejection today. You don’t need to look at him and be reminded that you want him in a way you can never have. 

“Mhm,” you hum, propping your head in your hand as you watch the sun disappear behind the clouds. The sky is painted in hues of pink and orange that seem too hopeful for how you feel right now. 

Logan chuckles, the sound low and gravely. It makes your heart stutter in your chest and you cringe in embarrassment. You know he can hear the way your heart practically beats free of your ribs when you’re around him. You’re sure with that nose of his he can smell some sort of hormonal change in you every time you lay eyes on him. 

You swear you’ve never felt this way about a man before. You haven’t had many boyfriends before, it’s not really common among mutants. Not many people are accepting of you when they know what you are. And some people are too into you. 

But you've had crushes, and none of them have been as bad as this one is. You want to gnaw on him. It sounds fucking insane every time you think about it. But when you train with him and he tears his shirt off, you want to sink your teeth into him and never let go. 

You feel feral around him, a side of you surfacing that you’re not used to. Maybe it’s because of his mutant abilities. They are very animalistic, it’s easy to blame that on how desperately you crave him. 

You hate being around him and despise not being in his presence. It’s conflicting, and more often than not you sound like a bumbling idiot when you speak to him because your brain is going in a million different directions. 

You hear the familiar click of his lighter and then he shifts again. You risk a peek over at him and regret it the second you do. His head is tilted back, eyes closed in relaxation as he stretches across the porch. Smoke leaks out of his lips as he groans in satisfaction. 

You have to pick your jaw up off the floor and make sure there isn’t drool on your chin. This is insane. You’re a grown woman, how does he have this much of an effect on you? He’s not even doing anything! He’s just sitting there and you want to jump his bones. 

You whip your head around, mumbling incoherently to yourself to get it together. Logan peaks an eye open and you miss the mischievous tilt to his lips. “Something wrong?”

I need to have sex with you or I’m going to explode. 

You stutter for a few seconds, getting your mind back together. “Just training with Charles,” you mutter. 

He sits up a little straighter and quirks a brow. When you don’t continue he sighs. “And?” He prods, impatient for your answer. You hope you’re not reading into it, but you think he’s been as disappointed by your absence from the team as you are. He always complains about being partnered up with Scott. You like to think it’s because he misses you. But you’re probably just delusional. 

“And, nothing,” you sigh. Your hands flop against your legs and you glare at the bands on your wrists. “No progress. I still can’t control them without these on, and my abilities are watered down and useless with the cuffs.”

Logan huffs, you’re caught off guard by the sudden warmth on your thigh. You glance down, eyes widening ever so slightly when you see his hand on your leg. It nearly covers the whole thing and when he squeezes your thigh you think you’re going to pass out. 

You’re friendly. But you’ve never been touchy. At least not like this. The placement of his palm is very intimate and you are struggling not to just get on your knees and profess your undying love. You take in a deep breath, looking up at him so you can get your heartbeat under control. 

But looking at him just makes it worse. Because there is so much faith and fondness in his gaze as he looks at you. His lips are tilted up, eyes soft, and you’ve never had someone make you feel so warm and secure from just a look. 

“You aren’t useless,” he tells you. He squeezes your thigh again before he retreats back to his chair. You have to clamp your jaw shut so you don’t beg him to keep touching you and never stop. “You’re just stuck in this house all day. You’ve got nothing to do but sit in your failure.”

You scoff and throw yourself back in your seat. “Don’t remind me. I’ve begged Charles to let me out.” Your gaze drifts to the crater in the backyard. Some of the kids have been working on filling it in, but whatever energy you’d let go of has left a permanent mark. “He refuses to give me permission.”

Logan laughs, the noise teasing and a little mean. Your brows furrow and you glance over at him with a questioning look. He tilts his head in disbelief like you’re an idiot. “Seriously, Flux? Just fuckin’ leave, who gives a shit?”

“Uh,” you think on it for a minute before weakly settling on, “Charles?”

His face falls and you sink lower into your seat. He looks out at the yard, gaze distant. His jaw clenches a few times before he puts the cigar out on the ashtray beside him. He gets to his feet and you think he might just leave. Instead, he turns towards you. 

You’re caught off guard by the little smirk on his face. “Wanna have some fun?”

Only an idiot would say no. 

You grin and place your hand in his, yelping slightly at how easily he pulls you to your feet. You stumble into his chest and are hesitant to back away when his hand drifts to rest on your waist. He looks down at you, smiling, he squeezes your waist once before he backs up. 

“Come on, kid.” He tugs you inside the house, leading you downstairs to the garage. You already know what he’s going for before the door is even open. 

“Didn’t Scott tell you to leave his bike alone?” Logan takes a step inside. He pauses, glancing over his shoulder and grinning at you. It makes your breath catch in your throat, the happiness on his face. You never see him like this around the others. 

You hate thinking like that. Placing too much importance on your relationship with him will only lead to heartbreak down the road. But, you never see him act the way he does with you with anyone else.

“Since when have I ever listened to Cyclops, sweetheart?” 

“Good point,” you mutter, moving to stand next to him. 

He straddles the seat and looks over expectantly at you. “Don’t you need a helmet?”

You shake your head, “Oh, no, it’ll ruin my hair.” You laugh but he gives you a deadpan look. You don’t regenerate the way he does. An accident would be a lot more fatal for you than it would be for him. You huff, “Relax, Lo, I can use my powers.” When he looks like he’s not going to drop it, you let some energy swirl around your fingers. It solidifies the air around your skin, you reach up and flick at his skull hard enough to hear the metal ding. 

He grunts, glaring down at your hand while you grin. “See,” you whisper, sliding onto the back of the bike and wrapping your arms around his waist. “I’m perfectly safe.” He shakes his head and starts the bike. 

The ride to the arcade is spent in silence. Logan always seems to break every speeding law known to man whenever he takes Scott’s bike out. You’re not sure if he does it to purposefully piss the man off, but it makes you cling to him like a wild animal. You feel like if you hit one speed bump you’re going to go flying. 

By the time he parks your legs feel like jello. He laughs a little at the way your face has blanched. Again, he offers you a hand and holds the door open to lead you inside. You’re trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but this whole thing is odd. 

You guys are friends. And you’re friendlier with each other than most of the mutants in the school. But this feels different somehow. For one, Logan kind of despises the arcade. It’s an amalgamation of bad smells and loud noises, and it overwhelms his already sensitive senses. You’ve heard him complain about the smell of body odor and fake cheese enough times when you went on a field trip with the kids. 

Secondly, he’s being more touchy than he normally would. You’re not complaining. You weren’t exactly hugged a lot as a kid, mainly just passed between different mutant fetish clubs. Logan isn’t known for handing hugs out so easily. But right now, he doesn’t seem to be ready to not have at least one hand on you. 

Maybe he’s just cheering you up. You need to stop drifting so far into your mind and just enjoy the night. “Alright, what’s first bub?”

You grin and drag him towards the claw machine. “I’m horrible at these things,” you inform him as you put your quarters in. “But, I hold out hope that one day I’ll be able to actually beat this monster.”

Three failed attempts later, it’s become embarrassingly clear that you will never beat the claw machine. Logan isn’t even trying to hide his amusement as you become increasingly more frustrated. There’s a certain point where this game stops being fun and starts to be an affront to your character. 

Logan peers into the machine and asks, “What are you going for?”

“The pigeon,” you mutter. Your tongue pokes between your lips, and your eyes narrow in concentration. You aim the claw over the pigeon perfectly and slam your hand down on the big red button. 

You’re allowed five seconds of celebration before the damn thing slips out of the claws grasp and tumbles into the pile of stuffies below. “Dammit, Bart,” you let the ridiculous name you’ve come up with for the toy slip.

Logan snorts, leaning against the glass while you jam another quarter in the slot. “Bart?” He teases. 

You shake your head and give him a look out the side of your eye. “What, you think I call myself Flux because I’m good at coming up with names?” You give up after the last failed attempt and turn to face him with a huff. 

He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Tough luck, kid.” He slings an arm over your shoulder and pulls you towards the concession stand. 

“Shut up,” you laugh, slapping lightly at his chest. 

The rest of the night is nice. He doesn’t play much except for the strength-oriented games. And then you kind of just exploit him for more tickets. By the time you get back to the mansion, you’ve forgotten all about why you were upset in the first place. 

Nothing had gone wrong, you didn’t have a total meltdown and wipe out the entire arcade. You don’t know why Charles was so afraid of letting you out. 

Logan walks you back to your room, his hand heavy on your lower back as you head up the stairs. You’re talking endlessly, filling up any gap of silence with rambling you’ve lost track of. You don’t know what it is about him that invites you to yap the way you do, but you’re always embarrassed by it the second he leaves. 

You reach your door and smile up at him. “Thanks, Lo.”

He gives you a soft smile, his eyes wrinkling endearingly at the corners. He reaches up and brushes some hair off your shoulder. There’s a certain shift in his expression that has your breath stopping short. Whatever else you were going to say to him tumbles off into an incomprehensible whisper. 

He leans down and every inappropriate thought you’ve ever had about him suddenly surges to the front of your mind. Your lips part in anticipation, thinking he’s going to kiss you and your fantasies are going to come to life. 

His lips brush against your cheek so gently you almost don’t feel them. “‘Night Flux,” he leans back and your body goes with him. He backs off with a smile, walking down the hall to his own room. You feel dazed, eyelashes fluttering rapidly as you fan your cheeks and try to come to terms with what just happened.

He didn’t kiss you, but you oddly aren’t disappointed. You go to bed that night with a lovesick grin on your face. Well, you would have. Were it not for the annoyingly British voice ringing out in your head, “Training’s at four tomorrow morning. Consider it your punishment for sneaking out.”

“Fuck,” you hiss to yourself. Stupid fucking telepaths. 

You thought the arcade was a one-off moment. But Logan keeps sneaking you out of the mansion. Charles hasn’t officially lifted the house arrest, but he’s given up trying to keep you inside. Besides, you’ve essentially got a chaperone since Logan is always with you. 

You make lunch for the two of you and he’ll take you out to the woods for a picnic. Or you’ll go to the movies together. Sometimes you don’t even do anything, just linger around each other. You enjoy the company, and you love having these quiet moments together with no one else around. 

Your favorite part of all of this has to be the way he’s started touching you. He’s always got a hand on your leg or back. And if he can’t do that, then you’re tucked into his side. It’s feeding into a starved part of you that you’ve left neglected for far too long. 

It’s only been about two weeks of these fun little adventures and odd behavior. You’re dreading the moment they’ll stop. You’re not sure when Logan’s going to deem you properly cheered up, but you’re hoping it’s not anytime soon. 

There have been a few more moments where you think your friendship might turn into something more, and every time you’ve been interrupted. You’re actually starting to feel a little edged. You’ve been considering just grabbing him and planting one on him. But every time you think about it you get sick to your stomach. 

You don’t want to make a move on him and end up getting rejected. You know he’s just being a good friend and taking care of you so you don’t end up spiraling too far in your head. It’s happened before, when you’ve been struggling with your abilities. He’s just keeping you from shutting down again and you don’t want to make him uncomfortable because you’re hopelessly in love. 

When you walk out of your room this morning you’re immediately smacked in the face. “What the fuck, guys?” You yell at the two kids running past your room. Not the best language for someone who's supposed to be a role model. You can’t be bothered though, not when they’re running around throwing pink rolls of streamer at your face. 

“Sorry!” Mary calls over her shoulder, laughing as she pins a heart up onto the wall. You’re sure Charles won’t appreciate the hole in his old ass mahogany wood. It’s only as you watch her run down the stairs that you register just what is going on. 

There is pink and red everywhere. It looks like Dollar Store Cupid has thrown up all over the mansion. You’ve been so caught up in your attraction to Logan that, ironically, you’ve forgotten what month it was. 

You grumble bitterly to yourself as you trudge down the stairs. Another Valentine’s Day alone and single. How lovely. You spot two kids giggling to themselves by the banister, they lean in like they’re going to kiss and you gag. “Hey!” You snap, and they jump apart, eyes wide with fear. “Quit it, get out of here.” They scramble off and you feel just a little bit vindicated. 

“Not a fan of young love, Flux?”

You groan and roll your eyes, turning around to find a very smug Scott watching you bully teenagers. “Shut it, Summers,” you warn. You point an accusing finger at him and he raises his hands in surrender. Faux innocence played across his insufferable smirk. “When you’re in a committed relationship, you don’t get to judge me.”

His brows turn down in confusion, “Wait, but aren’t you and Logan-”

He’s cut off by the sound of a loud crash down the hall. You both turn around just as one of the classroom doors slams open. A bright pink explosion hurtles from the doors and a throng of coughing students follows. 

Jubilee walks out a minute later, a guilty expression on her face. “Sorry, I was just trying to make it more Vanetine-y.” 

You glance over at Scott, grinning widely at him while you pat his shoulder and walk past him, leaving him to clean up the mess. “Enjoy the young love, Summers.”

You actively avoid Logan all day. You’re already facing constant reminders of how lonely you are. You see kids walking around with baskets of bears and chocolates. Or you catch them passing notes in class with scribbled hearts all over the front. 

There’s only so much a girl can take before she loses it. The last thing you need is to be faced with the man you have the worst unrequited crush on in history. But he doesn’t seem to get the hint. He’s everywhere you go, popping up around corners and trying to catch your attention. 

You keep brushing him off and pretending like you have something urgent you’re going to be late for. Eventually, though, he was going to catch up with you. 

It happens in the kitchen. Most of the kids are in their rooms or the library. The noise has died down and you’re alone. You grumble to yourself, ripping down a pink streamer that keeps drifting across the top of your head and pissing you off. You grab a frozen meal from the fridge and are about to microwave it when he speaks. 

“Huh, thought you’d want something a little more romantic than a frozen burrito.” 

You gasp, clutching your chest and whirling around on him while your heart races. “Logan, Jesus, you scared me.” He’s frowning at you, eyes glaring at the frozen package in your hand. “Um,” you toss it back in the freezer but the look on his face isn’t going away. “Yeah, I might just go with cereal instead.”

He looks at you and then glances behind him. You peer around his shoulder but you don’t see anything. Without much warning, he grabs your wrist and pulls you towards the stairs. “Logan?” There’s no point in trying to resist him, he could just toss you up the stairs if he wanted to. Still, the silence is kind of creeping you out. 

You call his name a few more times but give up when he makes it clear he’s not going to be answering you anytime. There’s a rotten feeling in your stomach. You have this awful idea like you’re in trouble for something. Like a little girl who's gotten her hand caught in the cookie jar too many times. 

He stops you in front of his door and nods towards it. “You want me to go inside?” He crosses his arms and glares down at you. You huff and mutter, “Jesus, fine.” What the hell is wrong with him?

You grab the doorknob to his room, glaring at him while you do. You throw the door open dramatically, taking a step inside and surveying the area. “Wow,” you suck your teeth and shake your head. “You have not decorated at all.”

“Shut up, smartass,” he mutters in your ear. Chills prick at your skin from his proximity. A shudder goes down your spine as the low tone of his voice reverberates through you. “Look a little harder.”

You roll your eyes but acquiesce. Another run over the room finally shows you what you missed. You gasp and rush towards his bed, “Holy shit, Bart!” He chuckles behind you as you pick the stuffed pigeon up. 

“Went back for him after we left,” Logan tells you. 

You glare at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How many tries did this take you?” He mouths a smug one and you roll your eyes in irritation. You look back down at the pigeon and smile.

He smells like the inside of a claw machine. His head is sewed on crookedly and you’re pretty sure he’s missing an eye. But he’s absolutely perfect to you. You’re about to thank Logan when you spot something metal wrapped around the stuffie’s neck. “What’s this,” you mumble to yourself. 

You slide your fingers under the chain and tug it off Bart’s neck. Logan’s dog tags dangle off your fingers and you stare at him in shock. A sudden cold dread washes over you and you find yourself immobile. “Logan,” you trail off, an unspoken question following his name. 

He smirks, walking towards you and slipping the tags out of your hand. “I wanted you to have this,” he says, his voice low like this moment is too precious to break, “so you know you’re not alone. You’re always so afraid of what’s going to happen if you lose control out in the field. But you forget, you’re not alone. You have me, you’re always going to have me.” He places the tags over your neck, untucking your hair from the chain. 

You don’t even have words for him. It’s such a deeply personal gift. But this also feels incredibly intimate. There’s no possible way for you to reason this away. This isn’t something “just friends” do. 

He seems to prefer your silence, anyway. One of his hands drifts from your neck and cups your jaw. With the utmost tenderness, he lifts your face to his. “Wanted to do this for a while,” he whispers. You almost ask what he’s talking about, but his lips are already covering yours. 

It’s incredibly soft, this kiss, softer than you’re used to. He’s barely putting any pressure on you and it makes you realize that you’re still not moving. You’re just standing there in shock, eyes wide open while the man you’ve wanted since you’ve known him kisses you. 

You drop Bart to the floor and your arms come up to twine around his neck. You finally close your eyes, let your body melt into his knowing he’ll catch you. The second you reciprocate he really kisses you. Neither of you hold back, each of you pouring all the pent-up desire you’ve felt for each other. 

You’ve spent so long dancing around this, around each other. It’s like a missing puzzle piece is returned to you as Logan holds you. You feel full, complete, warmer than you ever have before. 

You part from him - needing air - painfully slow. You don’t want to spend a second away from him now that you have him. You wish you didn’t have to breathe. Wished you could have kept kissing him and never stopped. 

Logan chuckles, pressing a kiss against your forehead like he can read your thoughts. You can feel the dorky smile that’s about to split your cheeks. You bite your lip, hoping it might suppress it, but you know it’s pointless. 

You look up at him with a cheeky twinkle in your eye. “Are you asking me to be your Valentine, Lo?”

He scoffs and pulls away from you slightly. “Do you have to ask your girlfriend to be your Valentine?”

Your eyes widen and your mouth opens and closes rapidly. “I- Well- I mean,” you take a full step back from him and shake your head. “What?” You finally settle on. “I mean, I’m not objecting, at all, but what?”

Logan tilts his head, a disbelieving look on his face. “What do you think we’ve been doing the past three weeks?”

You shake your head, stuttering and struggling for an answer. “I don’t know. I thought you were being a good friend!”

He smiles, there’s no irritation on his face at your cluelessness. If anything he seems to be more endeared to you. “You think I take all my friends on romantic picnics in the woods?”

You sigh, letting out a long disappointed breath. You can’t believe you’ve been so blind. When you think about it, his behavior lately makes a lot more sense. You’re not sure how you were able to trick yourself for so long. 

“Well,” you start, walking back towards him as he pulls you into a hug, “certainly not Scott.” He huffs and shakes his head. You give him a sheepish smile, brows knitted together. “I can’t believe we’ve been dating this whole time.”

He just presses another kiss to your temple and shrugs. “It’s alright, sweetheart, you can make it up to me by being my Valentine again next year.”

There’s something unspoken in his voice. A promise that he’s planning to be around for a lot longer than a year. You smile at him, silently promising the same. “Only if you’re mine.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

a/n: i’m gonna gag actually. Made myself cringe there at the end. I want a valentine next year so bad, it’s sad. But what’s the point of a valentine if it’s not going to be Logan?

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Wolverine/X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

[allyheart707]

Masterpost | Previous | Next

Hehe annnnd THIS is the end to the first arc of Little Subjects. The next arc will LIKELY be the last and likely be shorter then the first, though that could change depending on how I am feeling as I start writing it.

Also, ever wonder why April was crying the first time we met her? Well, now you guys know- her mom just got hurt in a "gas leak" and she was worried! Haha so technically Splinter was a LITTLE in the future from everyone else. :33

One more thing to post before the anniversary ends; the new and improved masterpost for LS!! :DDD

[ambiguous-avery]

Seen and Heard

Dean Winchester x fem!Reader/You feat. Sam Winchester | WC: 706

Summary: Hunting is a thankless job. And while you don’t do it for the recognition, it would be nice for somebody to acknowledge your efforts every now and again.

Tags/Warnings: Hurt/comfort, fluff, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men

A/N: I’ve been struggling with feeling underappreciated in my work life and wrote this as an outlet and self-soothing piece. This goes out to anyone else who feels like their hard work has been unnoticed! I see you. I appreciate you. Keep going. 💜

The hunt was brutal.

Not just physically with bleeding knuckles and bone-deep bruises. But the emotional kind that took its toll in the lingering after. You had saved an entire town tonight, but no one would ever know it. They never did. The cops would take credit. Or the newspapers would spin it into a gas leak. A bear attack. A tragic accident.

And that was fine. That was the job. You didn’t do it for the headlines.

You scrubbed the blood off your hands in the cheap motel sink, watching it swirl down the drain. All your hard work, washed away without a trace. No proof of anything you had done.

You were used to it. Hell, it was part of the job description. But something about tonight made it hit harder than usual. Maybe it was the way the sheriff had sneered at you, barking at you like you were some useless bystander instead of the hunter that had kept him from bearing the brunt of a ghoul’s wrath. Maybe it was the way the victims had cried in each other’s arms, never even glancing your way.

Or maybe it was the quiet truth that settled in your bones. You could pour out everything you had night after night and still feel like a ghost walking through the world. You could give everyone absolutely every piece of your effort, and they’d never see. You could bend over backwards to keep a kid safe, and a parent would still yell at you that you should’ve kept them from being taken in the first place.

You didn’t hear the door creak open behind you. Didn’t realize that Dean had come in until his reflection appeared next to yours in the cracked mirror.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low and rough with concern. You nodded, taking in a steadying breath.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” you said without thinking. “Doesn’t matter.” Dean’s brow furrowed, and he put an arm over your shoulder, pulling you against him.

“Yeah, it does,” he said quietly. “You did good tonight.”

Sam followed him in, making the already small bathroom feel smaller. But it was comfortably cramped as Sam moved to your other side, his hip bumping you as he gave you a soft smile in the mirror.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” Sam added softly, leaning down and pressing his lips to the top of your head.

“Thanks... I... I promise don’t ne–” you wanted to say ‘the reassurance’, but your breath caught halfway through. You felt the familiar sting of tears, and you looked down at the water still running over your hands.

“You don’t have to say it,” Sam said gently. “We know how it feels. You bust your ass to save people who will never even know they were in danger. And at the end of the day? It’s like you were never there to begin with.”

The words resonated with every exact feeling you had in the moment. It cracked something deep inside you, and you turned off the water and dried your hands solely for the sake of having something to focus on besides the way your throat was tightening up.

“We see it. Every damn thing you do. Every time you put your life on the line. Every time you carry someone else’s burden on your back.” Dean said as he pulled you into a full hug, your face pressed to his chest. He was warm, and his heartbeat was comforting.

“Everything you do matters. Even if the world’s too blind to see it. We see you,” Sam’s voice behind you was somehow even softer.

You let out a shaky breath, and the crack inside of you splintered further until finally, you let the weight of everything catch up to you. You shattered in Dean’s arms, sagging into him with tears slipping free and soaking into his shirt. You didn’t have to pretend you were fine. You didn’t have to fight to keep yourself together. For once, someone understood without you having to explain it. For once, you could let yourself break and not worry about having to pick up the pieces.

And maybe that was enough to keep going just a little while longer.

---

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[neongalaxiie]

Idea

a helium tank leak during a fight turns their voices squeaky

hero can’t stop laughing and joking around while villain tries to stay serious despite the squeakyness

Y'all the same Anon, ain't you 💀

Fine, I guess I'll try...

~~~

Hero glanced warily at the walls of the abandoned warehouse. The corrugated metal walls had long rusted over, and the entire structure creaked with the pounding wind outside.

"This is a terrible place to fight," Hero swallowed. They turned their attention to Villain, who was rooting though a wooden crate, clutching electronic bits and pieces and shoving them under their other arm. Villain straightened up and turned to Hero.

"Who said we need to fight?" they asked. "If I'm gonna be honest, I rather we not do it today, mainly on the account that you're not meant to be here."

A frown flashed across Hero's features. "Of course I'm meant to be here." They folded their arms. "Whatever you're doing is illegal."

Villain hummed and returned to the crate. They picked out another partially stripped wire, inspecting it, and adding it to their growing pile. "Shows how much you know about the law."

"You're stealing."

"The place has been abandoned for years."

"It doesn't matter."

"I'm cleaning out the junk. It's a public service."

"I can get you on proper public service if you come with me quietly."

Villain snorted and set their treasures beside the crate with a clatter. They stood up and faced Hero with clenched teeth. "Leave me alone."

"You need to--"

"I'm not gonna tell you twice, Hero," Villain warned, clenching their fists.

"Oh." Hero narrowed their eyes, and a crackle of electricity played around their tensed hands. "So, you are willing to fight."

Villain scowled, and a ring of crystal shards appeared behind them. Raising their hand, the shards speared themselves through the air, shattering against the concrete where Hero had been a moment before.

"You gotta be faster than that," Hero taunted, sending a barrel of electricity directly for Villain. The other raised a crystal shield, absorbing some the energy. Once the shield cracked, Villain broke it apart at the seams and hurled the pieces toward Hero.

Hero dodged again, using a bolt to splinter a stray projectile into harmless pieces. The other shards flew into the wall and the old machinery against the wall, leaving dents wherever they struck. Hero stopped and poised themselves as the entire building creaked again.

"Uh, Villain?" Hero was getting worried now. "We should stop."

Villain didn't stop. "No, why should we?" They summoned crystal after crystal, targeting Hero, who tried to diminish each one before they struck. "You're the one who wanted a fight. You can't back out of once you lose the upper hand." Another ring of shards surrounded Villain, and they flew toward Hero at unpredictable trajectories.

Hero dove out of the way with a grunt, nicking a shard. The remaining crystals raced into the rusted hardware against the wall, puncturing a fuel engine. A giant explosion blew out the side of the machine, toppling over a large, rusted gas tank beside it.

Hero got up, rubbing their chest as the tank hit the ground, buckling one if its rusted panels and releasing the gas with a hisss. The pair took a few instinctive steps away.

"Well," Hero said after a couple breaths. They planted their hands on their hips. "At least it wasn't flammable." They glanced back to Villain and released another bolt of energy. Villain sidestepped and hurled another javelin-like crystal toward a laughing Hero.

"Hey, Villain," Hero chirped after the crystal shattered behind them. "Is it alright if you don't try to kill me for--" Hero stopped, made eye contact with Villain and doubled over with high-pitched giggles.

"What--?" Villain muttered, and found their own voice had gone squeaky. They frowned at Hero, who had lost all remaining sanity. "It's a bit of helium, settle down."

Hero wiped a tear from their eye. "Y-you're voice, it's--" They erupted into another round of laughter, clutching their stomach. Their knees buckled, and they tumbled to the ground, gasping in between titters. They rolled onto their back to stare up at the bright overheard lights through blurry eyes, until Villain's face filled their vision.

"You know you're hopeless, right?" Villain tsked in disappointment. A few more chuckles escaped Hero. "You should never have destroyed that tank."

"Um, ack-shuh-lly," Hero grinned, raising a finger and pushing a pair of imaginary glasses up their nose. "You were the one that attacked it."

"If you hadn't gotten out of the way, this never would've happened."

Hero smiled, shutting their eyes. "I'd take the alternative any day."

"Whatever." Villain moved away from Hero, gathering their things up from beside the crate. "The fight is over anyway. I hope you have the night you deserve."

Hero lay on the ground for a few minutes more -- or was it a few hours? Whichever it was, when they got up again, the Villain was gone.

[phoenixcatch7]

Kintsukuroi

'What if I put a clock pendulum in my torso' was the sort of question Bruce had come to expect when visiting Oracle.

"Pendulums are dependant on a stable base," he replied, because the last time he'd assumed they were being unserious Tim had tried to fit a chemistry test lab in his mouth and accidentally leaked the fumes through his mask.

"It'd be so aesthetic though," said Barbara, not looking up from the dozen screens she was surrounded by. "Listen. It would look so cool - Spoiler, robbery on fifth and main - Especially if I put a clock face over my heart."

"I thought you were trying to fit a super computer in it?"

"I was, but progress is slow. It's hard to fit it and enough padding to protect it plus leave enough room for ventilation. If I add the pendulum I might at least get inspiration." She gave a heavy sigh and pushed away from the desk, gliding in her chair to where her doll body was resting on a table, the glue separating the two halves of the smashed torso still glistening. Bruce followed, peering over her at the many scanners and wires hooked into it, flashing and beeping.

"Any luck?" he asked, and they both knew he wasn't talking about the computer anymore.

"Nothing."

He squeezed her shoulder, and she leant into it. They stayed there for a long moment.

"I just don't understand!" Barbara finally burst out, hands clenching on her chair arms. "I glued nearly every single piece back together! I made sure every splinter I could find went exactly where it should! I know the contract is still there. She's worked with more missing pieces before. But she's just not responding!"

"It's not you," Bruce soothed. "You've more than enough determination and strength to puppet, and we know the human body's state doesn't affect performance."

"That's the thing!" Barbara threw her hands up angrily, nearly smacking Bruce in the face. There was a chatter over comms, and both reached for their own. "One second," she said tightly, and wheeled back into the glow of the monitors. "Copy. BW, you're nearest? Thanks. Try and avoid the sniper this time. Wing, backup is in five."

She muted again and spun around, pinning Bruce with a heavy stare. "Is there anything, anything you can think of? We've - nothing I've tried has worked."

"Well...." He trailed off, one hand coming up to rub at the chin of his mask - a quiet night meant the opportunity to forgo the practical but muffling gas mask for his favoured plain black.

It was far from the first time a doll had been horrifically damaged. The incident with Bane came to mind - Batman had been in a very similar condition, body shorn clean in two and tossed to opposite corners. It was an awful memory, but the expression on Bane and the audience's faces as his bloodless body fell apart like a rotting tree trunk and then kept moving was a silver lining he'd always treasure.

But he'd been repaired and back on his feet in weeks, if bearing the incandescent fury of the doll for several more. It had been months for Barbara, and still nothing was happening.

"There's something we're missing, and I doubt it's on your side."

"I know THAT-"

"Listen," he demanded, and her jaw clicked shut mutinously. "There's something we're not seeing. Batgirl is in no shape to demand it herself, it seems. So its inaction is something we can't fully rely on."

"You've got the most experience with the dolls of all of us. Can you.. I don't know, sense anything?"

"Nothing more than the usual, with the Patriarch Doll, but we might get more if we return to the doll house -"

"No." Barbara interrupted again, but Bruce did not take offence. "She's not going anywhere. She doesn't want to head back to the cave."

Oh?

"She doesn't want to, or she doesn't care to?"

"I say she doesn't."

Interesting. This was likely a case of the doll exerting its will. The bats were well versed in avoiding the few lines their wooden bodies drew in the sand, treating them with the wary respect one would give a favorite blade or a highly trained attack dog. They could work together, share the highs and lows of life with them, but never get complacent. The dolls were forever a foreign, inhuman presence, and as with all wild creatures they would never be so arrogant as to assume full understanding. For Barbara to so strongly decide for the doll meant she was most likely not the only one deciding.

Which meant the solution would not be found in the cave.

"Perhaps there are upgrades she wishes to have?"

Oracle paused.

"Maybe," she conceded. "But there's practically a limitless amount of things I could do, and I wouldn't know where to start. And I could more easily do them when she's up and walking."

Not that then. If the doll wanted something to change but not receive upgrades or heal, than what?

... Not heal.

Batman hurried to the table. Oracle watched him with hawk eyes, but another call on the comms turned her away with a final warning glance.

Recovering every single splinter from a damaged wooden object and perfectly reattaching it was nigh impossible on a good day, never mind in the dead of night with a moving target. The dolls always returned to the cave to regenerate scratches and nicks they couldn't buff out, or accepted plaster to transmute with whatever supernatural power guided them.

The batgirl on the table, divested of all covering and armour, was still as chipped and scuffed as the day nightwing recovered last splinter.

The pieces fell into place.

"She doesn't want to be perfectly rebuilt," he realised. "She doesn't want the damage to disappear as it normally does... She wants it to remain visible. A different type of repair, then."

Oracle spun in her wheelchair to face him.

"Why?" she asked, something sharp in her eyes. Bruce chose his next words carefully.

"Perhaps she thinks such damage doesn't need to be hidden away," he said, slowly, and didn't comment when she turned away. Though she put on a strong face, and the doctors had recently released her full time, it would be a long time until the young hero was able to truly heal her mind.

"She doesn't need to do that for me. She's just causing me trouble."

"I don't think she is," he tried. "Dolls tend to reflect their puppeteer even after they accept us. You can't deny your trajectory has been changed."

They both sent a significant look to the enormous super computer taking up the wall.

"You've said you almost feel better able to protect Gotham now, with your reach and skills. Do you really feel that way?"

"I - I don't -" her mouth worked silently, and Bruce waited. "I mean I guess... But a part of me always assumed it'd be temporary, you know? Once I fixed batgirl.. It'd all return to normal." Her voice wobbled, and Bruce didn't hesitate to crouch before her, wrapping her in a long armed hug. She buried herself in his chest, regardless of the chilled metal.

"It's okay if you don't," he whispered into her hair, and held her as she shook. "I'm just throwing ideas around."

"I do though," she rasped. "I think I do feel that way. There's so much that can't be solved by violence, and it feels good to be out there but... I think I can help even more people, this way."

"That's good," he praised, "that's good. You can do whatever you set your mind to."

"You stole that from a parenting book verbatim."

"It's applicable to the current situation."

"Fine," she sighed, and pushed him away to roughly scrub at her eyes. "I'll give the doll another chance. Find some glitter glue or something, I don't know."

"Any materials you need will be provided," he promised. "I wouldn't recommend glitter glue or our usual tar."

He moved to pat her on the hair as the emotions of the moment faded, making sure to keep his unsheathed claws out of her hair.

"Once you fix her, though, I would recommend you puppet the doll during night hours still," he told her. "It wouldn't be good to put your body through twenty hour days."

"I've got a good system set up for now, but thank, B-man."

The computer dinged with another alert, and oracle spun to squint at it with a muffled curse, typing furiously. Batman escaped to the other side of the room, where the folders he'd originally come looking for lay. She waved, distracted, as he left, and although the doll could not smile, he could feel it on his face all the same.

@puppetmaster13u I summon thee dear mutual ^^

[oddsandends-dirt-to-dust]

The World Ender

Masterlist - (chapters, link to ao3 post, moodboard, and spotify playlist.)

I’m The World Ender, baby, and I’m comin’ for them

Word Count: 9.5k

Warnings (for part7): bombs, mass murder, hallucinations, descriptions of mental illness, fire

——————————

PART 7 - Those Warring Creatures

You never much thought of God anymore. 

You’d heard his stories, and his words parroted by the faithful. But you’d never heard from him. Never seen him in-between the shadows, or in the cradling light of the sun, or in the reflections of time and memory.  

You weren’t sure you’d ever believed in God. 

Still, they’d spoken of your creator. Your ruler. Your father. 

The merciful, the all-knowing, the savior. 

You thought of him now, as you splayed out on a dusty desk – your back to its ragged surface and face hanging over its edge to watch the city awaken through the windows. The upside-down buildings reached down for the empty air, where the morning pooled with pink and gold. A rare sunrise over a city long stagnant – until you’d arrived to bring rapture. The hospital still writhed with black, leaking its defeat into the clouds. And as your head pooled with blood, you wondered what he thought of his world. What he thought of you. 

He dealt in water – had used waves to cleanse the world of bad. It was the other – the evil – who dwelled in fire. And if water was life, then you thought fire must be death. And if heaven was an ocean, then this place must be hell. 

But fire cleansed too. Because if fire was death, and death was an ending, then it must also be a rebirth. 

God was a lying thing, like most fathers were, and it took you until your head was spinning to realize you didn’t care what he thought. Because you were a person long stagnant until she had dawned on you, and now...  

Ellie had driven back to the office building – you knew the layout and the exits, it was far enough from the hotel, but still had a good view of the streets. She said she needed to check some things in the truck, find gas and a map to plot your escape. 

Her words had been clipped and cold, like her face. And she hadn’t looked at you. She’d taken off to the garage and left you to climb. 

And you had, but not as far up as before – you didn’t pass that tomb again. 

You sat up, felt the blood drain down from your face. But your head didn’t clear, it was still fuzzy and full like it had been all night. 

The room was silent. Too silent. 

You sat on the edge of the desk, twirling your knife, watching the crimson smears on the blade catch the dim light. Your foot tapped out an uneven rhythm against the muffled floor – just something to fill the quiet.  

The adrenaline had already faded, leaving behind that hollow ache in your chest.  

You hated this part. When the chaos settled, and there was nothing left but you and the world. You flipped the knife again, harder this time, let it clatter onto the desk. The sound echoed. Still too quiet.  

You stood, pacing, tried to summon the storm back into your head, but it didn’t come. Just the faint whisper of laughter skittering across your mind like a splinter.  

“I did try to warn you.”  

His voice was smooth and heavy like oil.  

He was always there – in the empty moments, his words winding through your mind like smoke, choking out your resolve. Giving you everything and taking you apart at the same time. 

You shook your head, scrubbing at your temples. 

“I don’t need you.” You muttered. “Don’t need anyone.” 

The ghost of his voice lingered anyway. 

“You know that’s not true anymore, don’t you?” 

You paused. Something sickly prickled up your spine, knotted your stomach. 

“Maybe... that’s not so bad. Maybe it’s time for a change.” You said, fighting the buzzing wracking your skin. “And she’s good, she’s important.” 

“She doesn’t understand you. She won’t.” 

You laughed even as your throat tightened. 

“Yeah, well, who does?” 

“I do.” 

Your mouth soured. You continued your pacing, let your boots carve prints into the carpet. 

“It’s too late.” You spat. 

You shook your head, that writhing blur clawing at every inch of you, threatening to pull you apart – pull you under. You hummed an old tune, focused on your song as his parting words rattled against your bones. 

“You’ll see. You’ll see.” 

You heard footsteps then, thudding up the distant staircase. You pulled your gun into your palm, eyes on the doorway. Eventually Ellie came into view – decorated with dried blood and some inky substance you assumed was oil. Her face was blank as she made her way to you. 

She slapped a map onto the buckling desk ahead of you. 

“Got gas. Pick a route and we’ll go.” She said, slumping into a torn office chair. Her gaze was trained on the floor. 

You bristled, retrieving the map and letting your eyes dance over the streets. Your pulse pounded heavy in your ears in the silence. You moved your eyes to Ellie. Her face was shallow but her eyes weren’t. Her arms draped lazily over the arms of the chair; her feet planted apart firmly on the floor.  

She’d hate you now, you fucked up again. What were you supposed to say?  

Her gaze flicked to you, firm and vast. Her lips pressed together, face hardening, before she spoke. 

“Yeah,” she tilted her head. “I’m pissed at you again.” 

You trailed back to the other desk, leaned against it. 

“I didn’t leave you.” 

“No?” She raised her brows.  

You shook your head. 

The chair squeaked as she stood, started to pace behind it with a huff. 

“Ellie, obviously I was coming back-” 

“Why the fuck did you leave in the first place?” 

Your guts twisted painfully. 

“I...” 

Her verdant eyes scorched into you, unrelenting. So intense and so endless you shrank. Her gaze was like a brand, trained on you like she could see the things lurking beneath your skull. 

“Go ahead, I’m waiting for another one of your bullshit spiels about how you were protecting me. Explain.” Ellie said, throwing a hand your way. “Fucking explain.” 

You curled your fingers onto the edge of the desk. She scoffed at your silence. 

“You know, you give me so much shit when I try to take care of you. Take a look in the mirror, y/n.” 

You still couldn’t find words in the mess – couldn't decide what you should let slip and what should stay unsaid. 

You let out a trembling breath. 

She pressed her lips together, took a step forward. 

“You don’t need to run off on your own, I’m right here. I need you to start trusting me because I’m starting to think I made a mistake following you out here.” Ellie shook her head, brows furrowing in frustration. 

“I had it.” You said, finally. 

“You’ve been fucked up since yesterday - since whatever that room reminded you of.” She bit out, ignoring your attempt to feign. 

The words in your throat were still wrong, still shadowed. Your body shook with weakness, it built up in your chest like a shivering whirlpool, begging for escape.   

“I was fine until you got there. You distracted me.” You told her, your focus stolen by the icy hands roving up to your shoulders, pressing down hard. 

You stood, loosed a breath. Ellie just stared for a minute; you felt her gaze in your peripheral as your eyes locked onto the broken desk ahead. It’s painted edges splintered; it’s legs giving way under the weight of time. 

“Yeah, well, that’s all I’m good for, right?” Her voice came drained now, a droning of defeat. 

The thing in your chest tugged, clawed at your ribs and up your throat. You turned back to your own desk, put your hands on its steady surface and leaned onto them. You heard Ellie turn to leave.  

“My dad… died.”  

Your tone was quiet, a fragile outpouring of truth from the deepest ends of your conscious. The things you’d never spoken, never laid bare for the world to see. It hurt. 

“What?” 

You stared down at your ruined hands, your hands that ruined, your hands still covered in blood. 

“My dad died… in a fire. When the community I grew up in fell.” You admitted, feeling yourself slipping away from the room – like these words weren’t yours, this story wasn’t yours to tell. 

Ellie took in your truth for a moment. The silence didn’t help the quiet sinking of you. But then she walked over, leaned against the desk beside you. You felt her warmth from here, the blood that beat in her body, the breath that changed the air – filled the dust with the remnants of life – as she sighed lowly.  

“Okay, it’s kind of getting harder to be mad at you.” Her words were smooth, the kind of tone you knew was a bid to lighten, and a confirmation she was listening. She was here; she was ready for you.  

You turned, mirrored her actions to rest on the desk with her. You weren’t sure if you were ready for her to see you – you'd never thought about it. You’d never thought this day would come, or this person. You’d dragged yourself so far from humanity your body was still trying to run now, still trying to disappear, numbing out your skin and the thoughts that floated through your hazy mind. 

“I thought I was fine. But I had a bad dream and… I guess I lost control.”  

Her eye twitched into a squint.  

Your tongue fought for purchase, fought for understanding of the spinning hours gone by. 

“I just…” You sighed. “I freaked out. My brain was stuck there, I couldn’t think. And I thought they were going to hurt you. Like the- the bodies, up there. Like him.” Your words came out jumbled and spasmodic. 

But your heart was beating in your ears again, and you could feel the breath soothing your lungs. You looked to Ellie. 

She licked her lips, teeth snagging on her bottom one. She sighed through her nose, turning her face up. Her eyes latched onto the ceiling, and you couldn’t figure out if it was an action of exasperation - or if she was thinking of those blackened, mangled bodies that lay floors above.  

“I can’t keep doing this.” She said, softer now.  

Your stomach clenched.  

“You…” 

She dropped her face back to you. 

“I can’t keep doing this.” She crossed her arms. “So, you get one more chance. You leave me behind again, we’re done. You don’t factor me into decision-making, we’re done.”  

Relief bloomed in your chest. It made you sick.  

“Okay.” You agreed. 

You would try, you would learn, you’d get used to having a... partner. Ellie had cleared the whole parking lot; she’d saved your ass more than once by now. And her presence was comforting. It terrified you, but you were too far gone to flee now. 

“Okay?” She raised her brows. 

You nodded.  

“You can take care of yourself, I got it.” 

You stood, made to walk but she grabbed your hand, pulled you to sit again. 

Her thumb tapped your fingers, her eyes locked on her movements. She seemed hesitant, fighting with the words on her tongue.  

“The community… you grew up in?” Her words were testing. 

Your teeth buzzed. You ground them together, jaw clenching.  

Memories fled behind your eyes. Buildings more robust than what you’d found in Jackson – reinforced with metal – metal that had turned the houses to cloistering furnaces in the fire. Great bridges and walkways made from dark wood that made the whole place smell like trees. The giant fences surrounding the settlement were the same wood, reinforced with the same metal, and stuck with hefty guns. The men that manned the guns were big too, stone-faced and rough-looking but... welcoming.  

You could still feel the heat at your back from long nights settled in front of the fireplace. Your mind tangled in a book, those hands stroking your head. Cold, those hands were always cold but your head was warm from the flames and the warmth leaked into his fingers eventually.  

Your mouth was always sweet with chocolate, or cookies – things hard to come by, but he always found them for you. And his own mouth would glow white with a smile at your joy. 

You remembered pain too. Pain everywhere, your hands and your face and your legs. From exhaustion, and injuries you’d won while training in the wide, circular building made of glass. The pain that faded away when replaced with the burning of his pride.   

Ellie’s eyes flicked up to you, tender.  

You dropped your gaze to your legs, where you rubbed your free hand against your thigh. You grappled with the unbearable electricity roiling in your gut, took a breath, started easy.  

“The Order of Mercy.”  

She hummed like she was impressed by the name, squeezed your fingers. You resisted the urge to frown.  

“It was meant to be a place of hope. A place of safety and protection.” You paused, chose your next words carefully. “That bit him in the ass… in the end. No one got out of there. The place was a wreck.” 

“But you did?”  

You paused, shifted to combat the tension in your tightening muscles. 

“Yeah, I did.” Your lips quirked. “I got lucky.”  

Her face tightened. She tilted her head. 

“What happened?”  

“The fire drew infected, the guards started shooting. They couldn’t see who were people and who weren’t in the smoke. I ran.” Your voice grew shaky as you tried to fight those memories. The memories of the end.  

“Infected go for people, screaming people, people in groups. I was kind of a loner, and I was small - so I managed to slip out.” Your words grew clipped and rough as you finished, unable to fight the way your shoulders stiffened as the grating feelings surged through you. Your nails bit into her fingers.  

“A loner, huh?” She said, sarcasm dripping from her tone.  

You shrugged, unable to find humor in her teasing. 

“The others were nice but…” You shook your head. “Sometimes it felt like it was just me and my dad.”  

Maybe because that was what he’d always said. That he was the only one you should trust, because he was yours and you were his. Those ties meant something, they weren’t a thing bred in useless promise. They were marked in blood.  

He was right in what he’d taught you – don't trust frilly words or innocent faces. Find actions, find movement – and you’ll find truth.  

“What, you were the weirdos who lived on the edge of town - never spoke to anyone?” Ellie asked, thumb soothing your taut hand.  

A smile broke the tension of your face.  

“No, we lived in the middle of town, in the big house. People didn’t think we were weird. I thought they were… weary of us. But he said it was respect.”  

Her brow arched.  

“Your dad was the leader?”  

You hummed.  

“He was a high-ranking official in the executive branch - before things went to shit. He knew how to run things.” 

Yes, he knew where to find important supplies, knew how to bring order. He knew the best defensive strategies, and how to let in the people who needed a home – he knew how to sort the greedy and the cruel from the decent.  

Your stomach turned. He was a warring thing, your father. A thing half-there.  

“Executive branch?” Ellie shuffled closer, pressed her shoulder to yours. 

“The assholes who worked under the President, made up bullshit laws and enforced them.” You explained with practiced efficiency, and only the smallest amount of resentment. Your skin prickled.  

“Shit.” She breathed. “That explains a lot.”  

You looked to her finally, narrowed your eyes. She smiled amusedly, but there was something deeper beneath her easy expression. Acceptance, maybe. It made your heart quiver.�� 

“It wasn’t like a military zone. He wanted it to be a refuge.” You continued. “Still, he trained us- me, like a solider. Told me stories of the world before, the order, the right and wrongs…” You trailed off, brain latching onto an old memory.  

Most ghosts of your past were fuzzy. But this one… you remembered the colours, and the thrill. The journey you’d taken to that bigger house he’d spoken of, the things you’d found inside… Something galvanic opened a bleary eye in the pit of your chest.  

Ellie’s eyes flickered over your face.  

“I’m sorry. About your dad... and your town.” She said, softly. 

You sucked in a breath, shook your head. You didn’t bother speaking the words that swarmed your brain, she’d heard enough. 

“Coward.” 

You bit your cheek, considered your plan. 

“Actually, I... it reminded me of something.” You began, shifting yourself her way. “I think I know how to stop the rest from coming after us.” 

“Like, another one of your bombs, or something?” She asked. 

You quirked your head, unable to stop the heady smile twisting your lips. 

“Yeah, I guess. I just need a minute to get it ready.”  

She blinked, paused to consider your words. Eventually she nodded, a quiet relief smoothing her face. 

“Okay, sure. I wouldn’t mind leaving those fuckers a parting gift.” 

Your smile grew at Ellie’s approval. Your plan clicked into place as you tied its ends together in your mind. There’d be a generator on the roof of a building like this – right next to the withered disk that hung over the edge. Shining bright in the sun like the beacon it was, high-powered and long-range to support the workings of the clever people who’d inhabited this place.  

Life brought opportunities like this right to you, like you’d always been meant to find them, always been meant to enact them.  

“I just need a little gas.” You told Ellie as you stood, dropping her hand.  

She stood with you, fingers moving up to tangle with her backpack strap. 

“Sure, I’ll bring some up. And I’ll plot a route while you... work.” She said, tilting her head. 

She took off then – back to the truck, while you scoured the room for a computer. The desks held many, most smashed and bent. But there was one in the corner, its screen dark and waiting. 

You caught your face in its reflection as you approached, looking more yourself than you ever had, and still grinning. 

- 

You shuffled into the truck, dropped your bag to into the footwell. The door shut smoothly; a sleek click so different to the vehicles you’d fixed up around Jackson. The doors on those rusted things had rattled and boomed – their sharp edges would probably take off a few fingers if you weren’t careful with your hands. But this truck, it reminded you of the ones from the place you’d grown up in. Dark and elegant, their engines humming effortlessly – didn’t choke or sputter.  

You didn’t like it. Things like this truck, and its true owners, lacked character. No battle scars won, no gentle reminders of age. 

“We’ll go south.” Ellie said, breaking your line of thought. She leaned over the map she’d spread across the console, two fingers tracing a thin line through the mass of green. “There’s a country road cutting through the forest back there.”  

“What if it’s grown-over?” 

She shook her head, tapping the paper. 

“I found this map in the glovebox; they marked the roads that are too fucked to drive down.” She explained, before throwing the map onto your lap. 

You picked it up, the paper crinkling under your fingers as you looked it over again and grimaced. 

“What?” 

“They marked the rooms.” You ground out. “The bodies.” 

The noise she made in response mirrored the disgust rippling through you. 

You dug into your bag, brushing past scraps and junk until you found what you were looking for – a paint pen. It was pink. You shoved a boot onto the dash ahead, rested the map on your knee as you ripped the cap off with your teeth. 

“So, what’s the plan if we run into any trouble?” Ellie asked, her tone dripping with faux optimism. 

“Kill ‘em.” You mumbled, putting your pen to the paper and relishing in the glossy lines it left in its wake.  

“That’s comforting, thank you.” Ellie said snidely. 

“The lazy pricks probably aren’t even awake yet.” You replied. “And their patrols are garbage. Just drive fast.”  

You finished up your additions to the map, holding it out to admire your art. Ellie leaned in to take a look, her brows furrowing. 

You’d drawn a cartoonish heart around the hospital, accompanied by some diamond-shaped sparks, and a skull and cross bones over the hotel. 

“X marks the spot.” You trilled. 

Ellie’s lips quirked into a smirk. 

“You’re weird.”  

“I’m just completing their map.” You shrugged, passing it back to her. 

“Guessing your gift’s ready, then?” She prompted, taking the map and draping it over her thighs. 

“Almost.”  

You reached into your bag again at her puzzled expression, pulled out the little black device you’d coded and the radio you didn’t remember swiping from Mike’s belt. You plopped them in the cup-holder to your left.  

“Detonator?” 

You quirked your head. 

“Kinda.” You didn’t elaborate, instead drumming your hands on your thighs. “Let’s move, time’s a-wastin’.” 

Ellie puffed out an amused breath, twisting the key in the ignition. The leather seat beneath you hummed as the truck started up gracefully. She peeled out of the underground lot, guiding the truck through the exit she’d propped open. 

The street beyond was clear – aside from the stray grass and plant – but the bigger roads had been cleared of broken-down cars and other large debris. Ellie took a right, her hands sliding against the gleaming steering wheel as it spun beneath her grip. 

“So, you know I grew up in a military boarding school?” She broke out, gaze fixed on the road ahead. 

You nodded. She’d mentioned her upbringing a few times with enough quiet resentment for you to grasp how shitily she regarded the place she’d been raised in. What she referred to it as varied, sometimes a school, sometimes an orphanage, sometimes a cage.  

“I thought they were bad. I can’t imagine living under one of the dudes who created their stuffy-ass rules.” 

You sighed, gliding a finger over the edge of the window beside you. 

“Yeah, but I guess it was little different for me – he was my dad; they’re meant to order you around, right?” 

Ellie shot you a sideways glance. 

“You don’t strike me as the obedient type.” 

The truck jerked as it ambled over a crack. The buildings lining the streets beyond the window were just as ridden with age and devastation as the rest of the world, but there was a gentleness to their disaster. The moss and dust covered them like blankets and you couldn’t help but feel like they were resting.  

“I said he ordered me around, I didn’t say I obeyed.” You smiled. “We’re not soldiers, you and me.” 

“You got that right.” Ellie chuckled. “You should’a seen the shit I got into in Boston.” 

You hummed, flicking your gaze to her. You’d been all over the place, but never Boston. You tried to stay away from militant zones, they were far more trouble than they were worth. 

“I bet it sucked. There are hardly any QZ’s left anymore, their regime must’ve been strict for them to stay standing so long.” You said. 

“Yeah... but I guess it wasn’t all bad.” She licked her lips, eyes growing softer. “I had a friend there, you remind me of her sometimes.” 

“Really?” You leered. 

“Yeah, sometimes.” Ellie’s brows flicked up. “She was hard-headed, badass,” she shook her head, “and annoyed the shit outta me.” 

You scoffed a laugh, trying not to squirm at the quiet tenderness that wreathed her voice despite her combative words. 

“So, you think we would’ve gotten along – me and your friend?” 

“Hell no.” She grinned. 

You smiled, turning back to the window. The words didn’t sting – you didn’t get along with most people. You weren’t sure you’d ever had a friend, a true friend. Apart from Ellie... and maybe... 

Your heart ached as your mind was, again, pulled to the past. Conversations rang through your thoughts, formed a lump in your throat. 

“What do you think it looks like outside?” 

“My dad says there’s nothing out there. It’s all ruins, hardly any people left at all.” 

“Really?” 

“He finds things, people’s belongings. They’re like ghosts.” 

“My mom says there are monsters.”  

“They’re not monsters, Jezzie. They were people once.” 

“What happened to them?” 

“My dad says I can’t tell you. I’m not supposed to tell anyone, you can’t handle it.” 

“Because they’re scary?” 

“Not as scary as the people that are left. They’re sicker than the sick. They’re crueller than the earth. But my dad protects us from them.”  

“I bet there’s trees as big as the statue of liberty. And cities full of oceans.” 

“No, my dad says there’s nothing. God cleared it all to nothing, and left us behind to rebuild – take down the evil that’s left.” 

“Well... I guess that makes us the lucky ones.”  

The truck lurched up, caused you to thump back down onto the seat with a huff. 

You blinked, rubbed a hand down your arm.  

There wasn’t nothing outside the windows. There was soft, fluttering green, and powder-blue skies. There were buildings, remnants of life everywhere you turned. Things that inspired roving dreams of old days. Days spent trailing around bustling streets, sitting on outside-chairs and eating a meal cooked just for you, walking through a park and seeing dozens of strangers you’d never know – never see again. Not a fleeting thing, no, strangers would be everywhere – and only sometimes would you find someone who would become more. 

Days spent with family – some families so large they couldn’t all fit in one home. Days spent with little animals you claimed and lived with and took time to print pictures of to frame. Days spent buying things with printed strips of glorified paper, and so many clothes you could wear a different item each day. 

And there were scary people in this world, but there were good people too. People trying to regain some semblance of those old days – but only the nice parts. Only the parts that focused community, care, joy. None of the inequality, or privileges, or injustice. 

Good people, like the girl sitting beside you. 

You swallowed thickly, hoped your voice wouldn’t waver, as you spoke. 

“I had a...” You shook your head, the words catching like barbs in your throat. You didn't deserve to call her a friend, anymore. “She wasn’t like you.” 

“I thought you were a loner.” Ellie’s chided, her voice tinged with curiosity. 

“I was. But I spoke to her, sometimes. Only her.” The hint of a smile started on your lips. “I’d sneak into her room to do it.”  

Ellie puffed out a strange-sounding breath, a thing caught half-between humor and disbelief. 

“Man, you really are like Riley.” She mumbled, so quiet you almost didn’t catch it. 

You turned to her once you could trust your face again. She had an elbow resting on the window frame, her hand curled on her chin. Her other arm shot straight out, fingers tight on the wheel to ease the truck around cracks and corners. 

“What was she like, then? Like you?” Ellie asked, glancing at you briefly. 

“No.” You shook your head. “She was fragile. Too soft, too kind. I tried to toughen her up but,” your face found that smile then, “it never stuck.” 

She hummed, her thumb tapping the wheel. The air within the truck began to heat as the morning sun soaked through the windshield. 

“I couldn’t spend time with her around town, or at training.” You added. “But in her room, we were... something.” 

Ellie smiled, the same bittersweet glint clouding her eyes as you felt in yours. 

She paused, before a question passed her lips. 

“How old were you – when the shit hit the fan?” 

“I was,” you tried to force the memory forward; dragging out the answer like a half-buried relic. “I was almost fourteen, I think.” 

Shock slathered her features at that. 

“Shit.” She breathed, her gaze flicking over to you. “And you survived out here alone?” 

You pressed your lips together, ignoring the uncomfortable tug in your gut. 

“I hid. I’d lurk around the edges of communities, steal what I could – but I never went inside. Never let them see me.” You explained. “Took me a while to realize I was strong enough to fight for myself.” 

And cruel enough.  

When the voices had grown too loud to ignore, you’d let the death rip from you like a tsunami of dark. It came too easy, the injuries you’d earn only spurring you on. One ending eddying into one beautiful beginning. 

Though... the beauty you found in death was beginning to wane in the wake of Ellie. Her presence, her words, her face that was swimming with the smelted, amber light of the fresh morning – like even the sun was admiring her. She made you ache. 

“That’s... pretty fucking impressive.” She raised her brows, hand falling from her chin to perch on the steering wheel lazily. 

You weren’t sure impressive was the word, but couldn’t find it in you to argue as your gaze roved from her glistening, beryl eyes to her pouty lips that looked as plush as a peach. 

Then her face changed – first scrunching up before her eyes widened and those lips parted invitingly. 

“Fuck.” She breathed. 

You tore your eyes from her face reluctantly, following her own to find the thing concerning her. 

A dark truck, turning onto the street far ahead. 

“Just keep driving, don’t stop.” You told her. “Take the next left – we're in one of their trucks, they might not notice we aren’t with them.” 

Silence stretched as tension sewed itself deep into the air, wrenching your muscles taut and your breaths shallow. 

That truck roamed closer as Ellie nudged the wheel left. You began to turn into the side-street, sinking in your seat a little as your window paralleled with their dark windshield. 

You palmed your gun as the wheels bounced over scattered rocks – debris from the half-collapsed building on the corner. You made it into the cover of the next street and out of view, the other truck didn’t speed or honk. 

But then, a jerking crackle spat through the air. The noise sounded like it wished to be a fire, but was cold and disingenuous – not alive or burning like a fire, no, the thing was robotic. 

“Yo, juliett-nine-bravo-echo-five. You winged?” 

The voice was low and warbled. The had man listed the start of the license plate nailed to your rear-bumper, and you flicked your gaze to the wingmirror to find the truck inching onto the street behind you. 

You ground your teeth as screaming annoyance shoved itself into every inch of your bones. You reached into your bag. 

“Winged?” Ellie whispered. 

You shrugged, screwing your silencer onto the pistol in your grip. 

“Think the hospital’s emblem was angel wings.” You sat up, rolled your window down. “Fucking losers.” You huffed, twisting your upper half out of the window and snapping your wrists up. 

The bullet you summoned hissed from the lengthened barrel and into the driver too fast for him to swerve. You knew you’d hit him by the way the truck jerked and sped. You couldn’t see through the smashed windshield, but the truck began to weave back and forth before it crashed into a building beside the street – the passenger had tried to wrangle it and failed. 

The collision hadn’t been loud, which meant it hadn’t been hard enough to prove fatal. You sent more lead for the window the crash had offered up, steading your aim when the truck beneath you wobbled against a crack. You allowed yourself four shots, knowing you’d get the job done with at least a couple of them. Then you sank back into your seat, righted the window. 

Ellie’s eyes glanced from the mirrors back to the road ahead, which ambled up slightly as it carved a path through buildings. Trees beckoned on the far end, but more connected streets than comfortable jetted off the sides of the one you climbed. 

“Well, that solves that.” She mumbled. 

“I had to get rid of them before they called us in. Speed up, if there are others we might lose them in the trees.” You said, hand reaching back to tangle with your seatbelt.  

You paused, gaze trailing to Ellie. You leaned over to her, opting to push your face into the side of her head instead of blocking her view of the road as your fingers searched for her seatbelt.  

Her hair was soft beneath your nose, and she didn’t balk from your closeness. You heard her breath puffing in and out, felt the warmth of her body leaking onto yours. You almost didn’t want to, but eventually found the slippery thing. You tugged it out and held it there for her to thread her left arm through. She did, shifting her hips a little as you brought it down and over her, clicked it into the socket. 

“Thanks.” 

You nodded, returning for yours and fastening it. It snapped against you, rubbing uncomfortably at your neck.  

“Don’t let it restrict you.” You reminded her. “Keep an eye out, remember to pull it loose if you’re ducking or aiming.” 

“Yes, mom.” She droned, turning her head to peer down a side-street as you passed it. It was clear. 

You tutted, cradling your gun in your palms again and latching your eyes back onto the street. 

-- 

“That was easy.” Ellie muttered; her voice low as she eyed the thinning edge of the city. 

The truck rumbled through the forest, the road beneath its tires had shifted from cracked concrete to loose, uneven dirt. Trees framed the path, their tall, leafy canopies blotting out some of the sunlight and casting shadows over Ellie’s face. But even here, the city lingered – its jagged, crumbling peaks visible over the left-hand treetops. 

“Told you. Shitty patrol-men.” You said. “Men like them are all brute and brashness.” 

Ellie hummed. 

“Can you pullover here?” You asked, nodding toward a spot where the road widened slightly and the trees cleared up. The perfect little gap to nestle the truck in. 

She slowed the truck to a crawl and pulled in. You took the two devices from the cupholder, clutched them in your hands. 

Ellie snapped the truck off and you stepped out, your boots crunching softly against gravel and dirt. You walked around the front and perched against the other side of it. Ellie popped her door open beside you, shifted to stick her feet out and rest them in the dirt. 

The faint scent of damp earth and pine wafted into your nose. A few distant birds chirped somewhere in the canopies above. 

The hill the truck had climbed offered a breath-taking view of the land ahead. Rolling green hills dipped into the golden fields that wreathed the city, dotted here and there with clusters of trees and the occasional skeletal remains of buildings. Farther out, a jagged mountain range rose to meet the horizon, their peaks piercing the blue sky like forgotten gods. The city loomed to the left of them, smaller now but no less haunting, like a poor attempt to imitate their beauty. 

You gave the button of the radio a sharp hits, lifted it to your mouth. 

“Any of you little pigeons hear me?” You asked, mocking lilt twisted into your tone. 

The crackle of static was your only response at first, until finally, an answer.  

“Been waiting to hear from you.” The voice said, scratchy and gruff. 

“You’ve heard from me plenty.” You shot back. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you.” 

“Suppose that’s right.” The voice was taunting. He chuckled darkly, the sound fizzing through the speaker like insects buzzing in your ear. 

“Those guys in the mall, they were the first of my men you slaughtered.” There was a loud confidence in the man’s tone – an easy, authoritative sway that caught your attention as he continued. “You left one living, he got out by the skin of his teeth. He saw those pretty tats you got on your arm. One of my men saw them again yesterday, called it in before you ripped them to shreds in that hospital. How many of my men you think I’m gonna let you get away with takin’, girly?” He asked. 

You considered his spiel, rested a hand on your hip. 

“I’ve been through a ‘lotta places, ‘lotta men. Don’t be flattered, sweet-cheeks.”  

“That so?” He ground out another unsettling, graveled laugh. The radio spat with static. 

“Oh, yeah. Most of the states. My favorites were rainy ones.” You told him. “Found plenty of monsters like you out there. Plenty of other things too...” 

“I don’t have time to get to know ‘ya, darlin’. I’m a busy man, got plenty of groups to order around, plenty of bullets to organize. Wonder which’ll be the lucky one that gets to cleave that clever head of yours apart – after I’ve had my fun with ya’, that is.” He spoke to you smoothly, like a lover. 

You tilted your head. 

“Don’t you wanna know what I found?” 

Ellie leaned forward, her arms pressing onto her knees. 

“You don’t got time for talkin’ neither. We’re gettin’ ready here. I’m comin’ for you.” He said. 

“No.” You crooned. “You definitely wanna know.” 

No reply came – you’d piqued his interest, and you took the opportunity to give him a spiel of your own. 

“I found stars here, in Montana.” You told him, pulling the little black device from your pocket. You rubbed a finger over the button in its center. 

“Raging oceans in Oregon.” You looked back up to the city, eyes straining for the buildings raised in the distance. Your stomach danced. 

The radio crackled. 

“I visited the White House in Washington, always wanted to see the inside. My dad was big on order. He served this mighty country, under that house, the man who lived inside. The prospect intrigued me, how one man could hold so much power. Rule a whole country, decide the fates of so many. Decide the deaths of so many more.” 

You paused, eyes narrowing. 

“Don’t much care for your life story. I’m more focused on its end. You can try to run, darlin’, but I’ll find ya’. I got your scent now.” He promised. 

“You know what I found? In that man’s house?” You asked, kicking at the dirt beneath your feet, fighting a smile. “I found his birdies.” 

Ellie stiffened. You felt the heat of her gaze on you. 

“You know, the missiles don’t need much tinkering to be launched. This country was selfish. Wanted to make sure they had the last blow, no matter what happened. They sent the big ones out when something did happen, but that’s okay. The few left are still big enough for your little house.” 

You waited for his words to bite through the stuttering radio, mind spinning. 

“You’re a liar, girl. And you can’t get to Washington before I get to you, I promise you that.” 

“I don’t need to be in Washington.” You simpered. “I just need the codes. An itty bit of power to reach the pointy things. I’m pretty incredible with that stuff, you know.” 

“You’re lyin’.” He tried again, but you heard that confidence cracking like brittle glass. 

The device in your palm buzzed, flittering a weak green light above that carnal, little button. Sparks rumbled through you. Anticipation and glee settled onto your shoulders like a warm blanket. 

You lifted the radio to your lips.  

“You can’t even try to run.” 

The sky above seemed to still as your thumb pressed down on the button and your heart flipped and swayed. The forest held its breath for a single, weightless moment. 

Ellie stood, edged closer to you. Her warmth breathed into your side. 

“Dude, are you kidding?” 

You dragged your eyes from the open. 

“Why would I be kidding?” 

A shrieking cleaved the earth – a shrill, whistling sound that tore through the green like a living thing. Violent, raw, unstoppable. Fire streaked across the sky to the left, slinging for the city, brilliant and blazing, leaving a thick trail of smoke in its wake. It curled and twisted like black veins against the blue, the blaze it leaked from glowing brighter than the sun. The sky itself seemed to shatter under its wrath, the world rumbling, leaves shaking from the trees like they were weeping. 

Your shooting star hit its mark – a crashing, resounding boom you couldn’t see but could feel. Deep and visceral, the earth clenched and shuddered beneath its force, sending loose pebbles and dirt skittering down the hill. The noise consumed everything, reverberating through the steeps around and echoing back in endless waves. It filled your body to the brim, and you felt like you were exploding too as flaming exhilaration surged up your throat and filled your brain with color. 

Laughter burst from your lips, loud and bright.  

Then came the whoosh – the hot wind sweeping through the forest. The dying breath of your bomb bent branches of the trees and tore at the loose fabric of your clothes. It hit your face, warm, carrying the acrid scent of burning – but you didn’t balk. It was a cry of freedom, a roar of triumph – ashes back to ashes, dirt turned to dust.  

You could almost feel the fire's sputtering form from here, almost hear it crackling and churning and cleansing. Devouring the ghosts of the murky souls you’d claimed, devouring their evil and their sins with a relentless hunger. And the smoke rose high in the air, bright, blazing blue like a flame so hot it was cold. Blue like raging ocean waves, like the deep, electric sky of twilight. Blue like your father’s eyes. 

A grin split your face as pride swelled within you. 

You’d had to do a little tweaking when you stumbled upon the things, had to leave your signature. And your color wove itself into the sky above the trees and the buildings, smattering the world with the most beautiful gravestone – fit for those vile creatures who tortured and maimed and stole. 

A long, shaky breath broke through your haze of atonement. 

You turned your head, your glee dimming a little as reality bled back into the moment. 

Ellie’s face was pale. Pale like the whites of her wide eyes. She wasn’t smiling like you. She wasn’t admiring. She looked quite horrified, actually, much to your chagrin.  

Her lips were parted, trembling faintly as her chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. Her gaze was stuck on the calamity in the distance, her body frozen like she still hadn’t regained the ability to move, speak, react. 

Your smile dropped, your eyes narrowing as apprehension simmered in your bones, unease coiled in your chest – the exhilaration ebbed, replaced by the cold knot of realization. 

Shit. 

You thought you’d given her enough warning. You’d told her you’d stop them, it was a bomb, and it was big. 

What the hell was she expecting? 

You bit your lip, shifting on your feet. Your boots scuffed a restless pattern into the ground.  

“We gotta move. Infected will’ve heard that for miles around.” You said, voice hard – trying to cut through her stupor. “Stick to the scenic routes, we shouldn’t run into too many in the country.” 

Ellie’s mouth clamped shut. Her eyes snapped to you. She looked sick. No, she looked at you like you were sick. Her face was bewildered, appalled – looking so unlike herself you felt jarred. Her mouth popped open again, then closed. She blinked. 

Finally, she shook her head, her lips curling into a round shape as she blew out a sharp breath. 

And then she turned, walked rigidly to her open door. She dropped into the seat within before slamming it closed, the truck rattling into your back harshly. 

You clenched your teeth, a low groan rumbling in your throat.  

The taste of smoke lingered on your tongue as you pushed off the truck and rounded to your side. You slid into the passenger seat. Ellie’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, her eyes locked piercingly on the road ahead. 

What the hell were you expecting? 

-- 

You liked to think the imperfect, dirt road below you lead to nowhere. You couldn’t see the end of it, as it wove its way through the amazingly tall, verdant trees - a path of harsh, russet reality cutting through the lush fog of green. You liked to think it would never end. You and the girl beside you would chase its turns forever, side by side, as the days and nights rolled around you, and your whole world just stayed all serpentine and chestnut. 

You ignored the part of you whispering that everything had an ending. You ignored the part of you that bristled in the coated silence wreathing the truck. You ignored the thoughts curling into the edge of your mind, listing every stiff move Ellie made, listing each twitch of her features and the firm set of her jaw, her eyebrows, her mouth. 

You brought your attention back to the road, and its turns, and the way your stomach tingled and hollowed out as the truck ambled down a short, steep hill. Ellie normally took less care while driving. She’d normally speed around corners, sometimes so quickly the opposite wheels would lift and then bounce back down against the ground. She’d lurch over bumps and cracks, would have to screech to a sharp stop when debris would arise ahead. But now, she slowed gracefully for rocks and fallen branches half-in the road. She took turns carefully, she didn’t speed. Like she was putting a lot of effort into keeping her thoughts on the road too, keeping her thoughts on controlling the vehicle beneath her.  

You rolled your lips, shifted your legs to lean your knees onto the door beside you. 

Trees made Ellie smile. Trees, and birds, and pretty skies. Stars made her smile, so did the moon – and shooting stars made her beam. They weren’t really stars; stars didn’t fall, they collapsed. It was space-junk, but you didn’t ever correct her because of the glee in her voice when she’d exclaim it. And music made Ellie smile. Gentle, earthy songs with hearty, resonant voices.  

You found yourself achingly jealous of those soft things. Things that were natural, moveable, changing but still constant. You wondered what it was like, to be moved. To belong. You were jealous of the things that lived, blew in the breeze, belonged to the earth. Belonged to her. Made her smile.  

You wished you could make her smile. 

Sometimes it seemed like all you did was make her stiffen and sigh. 

Being this dark and dreary thing was starting to wear on your conscious. You wished you were an easy thing to love, like the trees, and the sky, and the gentle collision of voices and instrument. Like her. 

And... you were supposed to be focusing on the road.  

The road that was winding and bumpy, and disappeared again around a curve – tangled in pillar-like trunks and graceful greenery. The road you hoped would never end, because if it did Ellie might tell you that she was done, and she was leaving to find her own way home. 

The truck found that curve, arced around it, and ahead, the russet ground stretched so long and far it fled right into the horizon. The forest stayed cradling it all the way forward, and those slaty mountains arose again in the distance. A great wall of stony promise, a jagged taunt of future surroundings. 

Who would you be when you reached those mountains? Because you were a changing thing, but not constant. Not soft, not natural. You were hardened and rough and ragged, you were pointed and sharp and leached of colour. 

Did Ellie like mountains? Did they make her smile? 

You shifted in your seat again, turned your face to the window embedded in the cold door you leaned into. A tangle of branch, trunk, and leaf promised beyond it. So serpentine and so chestnut it made your chest ache and stomach burn. Your eyesight warped, gaze honing in on the reflection in the glass. Your face all hollow, not-living – and her behind you. Stiff like rigor-mortis, like you were leeching the living from her too. 

The radio crackled in the cup holder. 

“Little killer. Where have you got to, coward? Killed us from the trees, couldn’t even look me in the eyes as you ripped us apart. Where can you run to, coward?”  

The words sputtered out, scratchy and forgotten. Your gaze dropped to the side-mirror outside the window. It angled up tauntingly, gave you the perfect view of that towering, blue plume of smoke way in the past. Taller than the happy trees, darker than the peaceful sky around it. 

The smoke seeped from a tomb near the beginning of your never-ending road. Sometimes it would disappear as you rounded a curve, or ambled down a hill. Until it would return to the mirror, like a storm cloud, or a tornado, or a...  

No, all those things were natural – belonging. The mark of your assault hung in the air, a pariah, a path of swirling, smoky reality cutting through the easy, untamed sky. 

“There’s nowhere for you to go, no place you can hide from us. Little killer.”  

Your head felt heavy. You pressed it into the head-rest, tried not to writhe in your seat as it fizzled and burred. 

fight fire with fire. bad knows bad, wrong knows wrong. this is what you’re made for 

You regretted leaving your CDs in the factory. You’d thought you wouldn’t need them. 

As your heartbeat began to pick up, and something icy like dread clamped down on your guts, an echoic sound drifted through the truck. Ellie was tapping her thumb on the wheel. 

Your eyes squinted, your face forced itself into a grimace, and it became glaringly apparent to you that you could no longer lose yourself in the road and the forest. Your hands tangled together on your lap, squeezed as you tried to steady yourself. 

“Fucked up again that quick, huh?” The words slipped out, quieter than intended. You heard the pain in them more than you felt it. 

You couldn’t feel much of anything right now – just the familiar hissing blur that buried.  

A sigh answered you, low and stiff, cutting through the heavy air between you. As you'd expected. 

“You dropped a bomb on them.” 

You quirked your head. 

“I use them all the-” 

“A missile?” Ellie interrupted. 

You drew in a slow breath before turning to face her. 

Ellie didn’t look angry. Her posture was sharp, her shoulders tight, but her expression lacked the fire you’d expected. Taut and prickled, but not burning – not trembling with heat.  

“All that talk about the old world, how much you hate it.” She mused; her voice steady, almost monotone. “And then you use their weapons to take out an entire group?”  

You didn’t bother reminding her that that group were the same kind of monsters as the ones who made those weapons. They were murderers. They were egomaniacal fucks who thought themselves gods. Instead, you settled on something simpler.  

“I avenged more innocent lives than the bad ones I took.” You said, your tone clipped. 

Ellie’s eyes flicked to you, her brow furrowing. 

“That’s how you're choosing to justify it?” She asked, and her tone was genuine – not biting, not scathing. A genuine question, though rough around the edges. 

It sparked something sharp in your veins. 

“What do you want from me? You chased me out here after I put a bullet in the back of a guy’s skull.” You splayed your hands. “I kill. Surprise.” 

Her lips pressed together as she blinked heavily, hands tightening on the wheel. 

“It’s not about them.” She murmured. “It’s just... the way you do things. So fast, so brutal. It’s an annihilation.” 

Your eyes narrowed. 

“I make it quick, which is more than they deserve.” You spoke. “Would you rather I snuck in, ended them all with my own hands?” 

“You’re not some grim reaper - you don’t need to chase them down, exterminate them the way you do.” Ellie said, shaking her head softly. “I thought you were giving them a warning.” 

“A warning?” You scoffed; the sound bitter. “You don’t get it.” 

Warnings were nothing to things like those men. You’d walked into one of their rooms smothered in blood and they’d laughed. You’d blown the roof off one of their compounds and their leader had promised to chase you to the ends of the earth. 

They didn’t see warnings – they saw challenge. 

“I travelled across the country, I saw bad.” She protested. “I ran into fuckers like them.” 

Her words dragged claws down your chest. The way her voice grew thick and ghostly made your throat tighten. Fuckers like them – you knew what she was saying. And it brought such a blazing rage to your chest you almost choked.  

Any apprehension fled from your mind. You were glad to have freed the world from the grip of those festering, consuming, depraved, slanted men. Your spine steeled.  

“Yeah, and how did you escape them?” 

“By killing the threat in front of us, not doubling back to kill more.” Ellie replied. 

Her words felt like they were circling you, refusing to land. You couldn’t find her angle – couldn’t understand her problem. 

It’s not about them, she’d said.  

It’s about you. 

The way you do things, she'd said.  

Efficient. Practical. Brutal yes, but so were the things you ended. 

Fire with fire, bad with bad. Killers with killing. 

“Well, if you had, maybe we wouldn’t be running into so many of the fuckers right now.” You told her, voice icy. “Cause they would’ve been wiped off the map already.” 

The truck jerked beneath you. You wrapped your fingers around your seatbelt, pulled it away from your neck a little. Your gaze drifted over the console ahead, the frilly buttons and ports. Had people really thought they needed all that?  

“Listen, I get it, okay?” Ellie tapped the wheel, mindlessly. “I get it. I just think you enjoy it too much.” 

The accusation sank into your chest like a blade. 

There it was. Her problem. 

You swallowed thickly. 

Something was wearing her face. Some sickened, weary thing was wearing Ellie’s face as she looked at you – looked through you. You felt too light, like you could fall through the seat at any moment, through the world. Your body buzzed. 

“More shame, sweetheart? Hmm.” 

Enjoyed it? No, you... you liked cleansing the world of bad because it made you feel safer. It made you feel proud; it made you- 

Did you enjoy it? 

you're sick like them, you caught it. a murderer, a killer, and you like it. you know who- 

“Don’t you think they enjoyed it when they tortured a whole city full of stragglers and infected?” You snapped, cutting through the static in your head. 

Ellie licked her lips, her gaze hardening. But she didn’t argue, she knew you were right, she knew they deserved it.  

“You know why they say to fight fire with fire?” You continued, pinning her with your stare. “Because things can’t burn to the ground twice.” 

She nodded, tilted her head. 

“Fire spreads.” Ellie said, simply. 

You grit your teeth, felt your brows upturn as you let out an exasperated laugh. 

“I never claimed to be the bigger person.” You muttered. 

Her face softened at that, her shoulders loosening. She leaned back into her seat, swayed her head. 

“No," she took a breath, eyes shuttering as she seemed to gather herself. “I get it, y/n. I guess... I’m just not used to being so loud.” 

“I know. You’re used to having to creep through the world like a mouse because of things like them.” You spoke. “But I don’t fear them, I don’t feel any obligation to do things fairly, and I don’t hide.” 

Something shifted in her expression, something you swore almost bordered on respect, threading through the weariness of her features as your words sank in. 

“Can’t argue with that.” She said, finally, her voice gentler now. 

The tension in the cab waned, the air growing lighter around. But your mind refused to settle. 

You bit your cheek, tried not to give into your brains begging questions. What did she think of you now? What did this mean? How was she feeling? Why was she so confusing – why were the things she made you think and feel so confusing? 

You sucked in a deep breath. 

“Is this gonna be a problem?” You managed. 

Ellie leaned her head back against the head-rest, stretching her neck. Then her chin dipped again, her eyes found you. 

“No.” She said, simply. “Different strokes for different folks, right?” 

You squinted. It was an absurd thing to say in response to your behemoth question – and the tumbling void of your actions which dragged along behind the truck like cans tied to the bumper. Though maybe she hadn’t caught the agony beneath your words. You quirked a brow. 

A small laugh rumbled from her lips in return. 

“I told you – I understand, alright? I was just kinda blindsided, that’s all.” Ellie said, lifting a hand to her face, swiping at her nose. “Still kinda am, that was pretty fucking surreal.” 

You sighed, throwing your hands up. 

“Sorry.” 

She shook her head, laughing again.  

The sound made you smile. 

You fell into silence again after that, went to find the end of your road. 

[architeuthis3]

this is the heart of our world. peals of laughter surround the cripple wheelchair bound as the frame cooks into his skin and where to begin when the time for saving has been wasted in the dusty little village when he was 15 he rapped his 5 year old cousin, steve the closet queen now beats his petite husband and the inbred hicks who loved him keep huffing gas and denying his father started fucking him when he was two years old. then beat the brat into a mold alcohol fueled hate lasts until your old and the liver turns to stone only after a heart gone dead and cold like your eyes. watching the flickering firelight. on the television as another crowd of children is hit with a missile and the pig fuck retarded mutants whistle at the girls jiggling their tits on the beer commercial… they were paid. idiot. they aren't your date. a date in time in space marks the pain when six million or so died the same way. torched to dust and ash in the name of saving… what. this is the heart of our world. she never even bothered to tell her love to fuck off, she just took another shot of bourbon and drove off to suck down a cock from a coke dealer who traded her a rock for the trouble. wobbling down the hall she didn't even bother to turn her head when he passed her going into the library. heartbroken and still very weary and sleep deprived up all night wondering what must have happened inside of that girl to turn her world into a hell unfurled draped in lace curtains stitched with veins still pulsing and alive with the fluid displaced hugging the curves of the landscape a form vague and now nothing but what's missed to be saved and as gravity shifts to and the weight in her stomach claims all the height above it and the summit is inverted splinters of rock unlearned what concerns the plummeting as they plumet to the ground when all the sounds around accuse the clown of a painted smile over a frown - and say hey, well be here now… for what. this is the heart of our world. as hopeful as daffodil springs. from the shit the alchemist sings and bring a light. as the stars sail across the night as the smile leaks from an eye through a sigh and there are two kinds of sighs, exhaustion and awe. one leads to another and then back again. when the song raises the hair to its end electricity a liquid illuminated with prayer. each synapse a syntactical whim of the spiral within which we spin and spin until we're too dizzy to pretend we have a place to stand. when each grain of sand poured through the hand as an hourglass given as a gift delivered to a land bereft of time. poverty burns to the bone and phosphorous rains are chat group orders given by a demon shit hoarder counting his wives and selecting which daughter to rape that evening. from this ignorance and hate begins seeding its antidote. sigh of exhaustion a sigh of hope and what's born from rot leads to the growth of a solution. clarity from the pollution. the disease a teacher. the malicious beast in each an absence of self. the grand tide swells to recede. revealing a need… for what. this is the heart of our world. cut open alone and with nothing to lose. exposed and the truth grows from telephones. fertilized by the nightsoil and the laughter of trolls. tempered as steel and the even voice tomes, the world might vanish the fish might migrate from the seas, but this place is our home. we will not leave.

the blue one

[pumpkinsy0]

I feel like Curly's first driving lesson with Tim would go like this:

Curly tells Angela 'bro I'm about to fr be driving GOD'. When she points out that he's literally never driven before Curly responds 'that's CAP' jumps, hits the top of the doorway and slams the door behind himself after calling her a hater

2. Curly gets into the car before Tim is ready to leave and immediately revs the engine. Tim runs to the window and gives him a death glare while putting his shoes on

3. Tim gets into the car and things seem to be going surprisingly well as Curly carefully starts backing out of the driveway. Angela looks away from the window

4. Curly mistakes the break for the accelerator drives directly into the porch stairs and the splinter while also severely denting the care and getting a bunch of splitered wood stuck deep into the front. Coolant is leaking, Tim is losing his mind, angela is laughing hysterically

5. The car needs to be towed.

Brought to you by my little brother who did this very thing yesterday :)

family bonding guys dont u love to see it, <333

tim trying to teach curly how to drive is like ms puff trying to teach spongebob how to drive, tim tells curly to slow it down and curly just accidentally presses the gas button

“dont worry i got this” and he did NOT get it AT all, he isnt behing the wheel the WHEEL is behind HIM

[grxvebcnes]

𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔩𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯.

📍 the ranch.  🌲  jude/roux. ft. — @saintlcss

Dawn cracked the desaturated sky in half by the time Roux stood by the fence, her body leant against a supporting wooden post, hiding behind what little coverage it provided between herself and one of the few remaining upright structures she stared at. The barn and its adjacent living quarters, if one could still call it that. Rusted patches of tin roof mixed with snow, brown rivulets dripping into small puddles of unappetising slush in reaction to the angled sun’s whispered promise of warm. The crushed segment of the buildings hung like a broken limb, whilst the rest stood strong. Roux avidly scanned the windows and doorways for signs of movement. Jude. It would only be Jude she stayed for. Could only be — the sight of anyone else would send her back into town at a sprinting pace. The Ranch. Roux did not lurk about the property often, far preferring to take her chances with a machete than with animal husbandry. However, there were occasional dry spells — the buffer of weeks needed to replenish reliable herbal patches; to give privacy to inviable litters of cubs, kits, or piglets to fatten into meaty contenders — wherein Roux would sooner fend off hunger directly form the farm than attend a setting as formal as the diner. She rarely ventured beyond muted exchanges with its primary caretaker, who was mercifully similar in her reservations to fill silence with useless sounds. An egg here, a pail of milk there, fallen fruit. Inconsequential interruptions to routine. A mutually respected agreement, minimally invasive. Later, Roux sometimes left prized commodities on Jude’s doorstep in trade.

Roux’s fingers toyed with the clumps of cow hair snagged on nail heads, unevenly imbedded along intersecting sections of wire mesh and splintering wood panels. Each texture brought with it a soothing quality, something tangible and purposeful she could focus on the shapes and divots of. Distracting trains of observant thought, safe in their immediacy and tangibility. Real. Can you be so sure this isn’t another dream? The cold bit at her bare skin; her arms, hands, neck, and face all on display. A t-shirt, jeans, and boots were insufficient barriers to the weather’s continued drop in temperature, but she had only managed to dress herself half-sensibly that morning in her haste to accompany first light and, with it, Jude’s rounds. Without the protective shield of proper layers, visible bruises cuffed each of her wrists and forearms in several thick bands. The outlines may have appeared reminiscent of chains from afar, then more akin to the imprints left behind by the overbearing pressure from a large set of hands, close up. Some lay atop her skin, raw pink, others sat below the surface, darkening to the maroons and midnights of a more distant encounter. The cold was no longer her most affronting adversary. What had once been intolerable now barely registered, the numbness dulling her nerves to most pains.

The inner world was a harder beast to tame. Voices, shadows, whispers, memories — hellish reminders with capricious intentions, inexplicably more prominent this week; leeching her attention span and depriving her peace.

This bores me. Roux’s voice lamented, the voice disembodied from her own yet her unique possession all the same, coming from nowhere and everywhere all a once. A part of the atmosphere itself, snaking behind her eardrums, leaking between brain tissue and cranium like a swirling noxious gas. Intrusive thoughts and ceilings stains had kept her company for the past stretch of hours, the incurable nature of both making an incredible sleep repellent. She had spent the better part of the night awake, bolt upright, watching Suki breathe. A fortress. A church. A girl, deserving of far better than the world could give. If Roux squinted in the dimness, the head of blonde was interchangeable. A familiar. A wound. Another girl, deserving of far better than the world could ever give. She’d had plenty of time to squint. The torturous dreams were maps she traversed in reverse, destination unclear yet the instructions abundant and leading somewhere. Her outlook towards the unsought challenge ebbed between annoyed and furious, in no mood to play mind games or any other. Evidently, her blatant lack of cooperation meant only her ego would exist unharmed.

Cold. Another pointed comment, its snide syllables hammering five nails into her mind’s coffin, a pulsing headache favouring the softness of her temples: You’re getting colder. Swallowing the venom, assimilating the asinine feedback into her own words ( like father like daughter ), Roux bit back: “Kill yourself, then.” You first. Upon waking after their very first encounter, Roux had refused to give it something as credible as a name nor look directly at it. When it stood in front of her, as it did now, this was a more difficult rule to adhere to. They can’t help you. “Move.” She can’t help you. Keeping her gaze fixed, level on the residence’s front door, the spectre’s features were reduced of definition, until it resembled no more than a blurry silhouette against the prominent blank canvas of the field. He represented a life long gone, of otherness, of pity, of pain — formless and unimportant, the age old story remained even in his afterlife: he did not matter as much as he thought he did. His presence, inflated by how much he loved listening to his own voice spiel and ridicule. Shaw’s dying, Charlie’s lost her mind, Suki’s not far behind — you really think a hobby farmer has any answers? Misery loves company. Jude’s bleeding out, too. Affection has impaired them all. Their weakness will be your fatality, too. The commentary’s attempted acid had the impact of tepid water upon Roux’s focus, though part of her preemptively ached at the knowledge her present mental fortitude would likely fuel a less ignorable infliction in the next nightmarish instalment. Stupid girl. Starving off sleep could only extend for so long before this immense appetite for rest collapsed.

Why would you want her help? — Why would anyone want yours? Unless, ah… or is it that you are here to put an end to their petty suffering? When did you become so kind? "I said move.” Gritting her teeth, Roux drove her boot into the figure, slicing through without resistance and squaring off with the fencepost instead, accomplishing nothing but displacing chunks of ice and very likely bruising her toes. Alas, it was enough to dissolve the shadowy apparition. A finite reprieve Roux bathed in. Still, traces of the manifestation remained in all its broken record glory. I grow until the day I die. You’ve seen me once, if you don’t see me now you won’t survive. Indeed, with no valid response in mind, she was getting colder to quieting the garbled nonsense with even a modicum of desired attention.

A widening leak of sunlight fell upon the snowed-in earth, piercing Roux’s vision as it illuminated the frozen world below. She stared unblinkingly ahead, lurking in plain sight, in wait — not hopeful, but resigned. Taking the first step forwards felt impossible, obstructed by only her own hesitance to breach a boundary unexplored in depth before.

[harrowharks-iliac-crest]

43: One night before the Emperor's Murder

Are we back to present-time, current-timeline yet?

Ninth skull - with a grin, the Ninth scrubbed out, and Gideon's sunglasses. Cleaved in two.

There was a blur of faces, of movement. Harrow found that she was not shocked, after all. She was consumed. She was the kindling for the arson taking place in her heart, her brain dry wadding for the flames, her soul so much incandescent gas. She could not do this. She absolutely and fundamentally could not do this. “Harrow?” said someone close by—someone familiar; her vision swam. “If I forget you, let my right hand be forgotten,” her mouth was saying. “Add more also, if aught but death part me and thee.” And, unsteadily: “Griddle.”

Griddle!!!!

Is she remembering?

If so - why is Magnus there???

Is this another splintered timeline????

Harrow was too amazed by her body’s expanding capacity for despair. It was as though her feeling doubled even as she looked at it, unfolding, like falling down an endless flight of stairs. She dug her hands into the mattress and she cried for Gideon Nav.

Oh baby. Oh baby Harrow. Oh Harrow.

Is she remembering?

and felt the grief that had multiplied into a universe.

Hello????

-oh - we seem to be in the timeline from Gideon the Ninth - somehow -

Is Harrow dreaming? Is she in the River? How is she talking to Abigail?

“You died,” said Harrowhark. “Septimus killed you. The Lyctor masquerading as Septimus.” “Yes,” said the Fifth adept. “It was unpleasant. Look, I hate to ask, but did you—get her? None of us are sure.” “Nav and I drove a sword through her breastbone,” said Harrow, and swallowed against a wad of saliva burning in her throat.

That doesn't quite answer the question. You thought you killed her - but.

The cold did not worry Harrow until, as habit, she tried to warm her core from within, and found that she could not. She was somehow not a Lyctor here. Pushing her blood cells around made her feel that old, hungry pang for thanergy that she had not felt for the better part of a year.

She must be in the River, then.

“Reverend Daughter,” she said, “I’ve been accused of many things, but this is the first time I’ve been assumed to be a delusion.” “But you are—” “A ghost,” said the woman smilingly. “A revenant, more precisely.”

She must be in the River, then.

It was easier to answer questions mechanically. “In the first days. I knew she would be absorbed. I understood that I would inadvertently destroy her soul—the process was already underway. But it hadn’t finished. I had time. I decided to remove my ability to so incorporate her … by removing my ability to comprehend her.”

... this was Harrow... trying to save Gideon's soul??

“I think we are talking over each other,” said the Fifth adept, rubbing her mittened hands together. “I’m not asking about the preserved soul that made you a Lyctor, Reverend Daughter … though that’s also filled in some of the pieces. Harrowhark, I am referring to the invasive soul.”

Harrow being haunted. Another soul???

“This is my creation.” “Yes. You set the parameters,” said Abigail. “We realized through process of elimination, as we each recalled ourselves in the end. You didn’t. Ortus was convinced it was your creation from the start—I’m sorry that I disbelieved him.” That was for later mental delectation. “I made a bubble in the River, just like Sextus did. But unconsciously, shoddily…”

Oh.... that's.... Okay wow.

“This isn’t a picture you’re drawing, Harrow,” said Pent. “It’s a play you’re directing. You set up a stage in the River, you pulled in ghosts as your actors, and you enforced certain rules to keep your cast on-script. But now another director is trying to hijack the play, and the struggle for control backstage is leaking over into the action out front. You’re being ousted.”

It makes sense, then, why the Sixth had to die so early in this version, as well as Coronabeth, and Judith Deuteros. Ianthe was never much of a feature in this at all either.

So the soul haunting Harrow - is - the Sleeper?

“Leave your body to your body, Reverend Daughter,” said Abigail, rising shakily to stand, her teeth chattering. “If you were dead on the other side, we’d all be gone by now. If you die in here, your soul is gone forever. Right now, in this moment, you are alive—let us ensure that if your body survives, you will remain at the helm.” Harrow fought to be heard over the screams of the wind. “But I was stabbed through the stomach! What’s happening out there?”

What indeed???

Well, finally, some answers! Some goddamn answers!!

More questions as I've been promised, but finally some goddamn answers!!!!!

Her soul remembers Gideon - so there is hope yet -

I wonder if Gideon is the sleeper, haunting Harrow out of spite? Or someone else entirely, but who???

I need a minute.

[positivelyghastly]

Quick sketches of Aurelia out of her glamour. I had more but I’ve scrapped them for now because they aren’t quite there yet.

The scary thing about Aurelia’s true form is exactly what people love her for in her glamour, her strength. Strangers will see a pillar of smoke and assume it is harmless, but somehow that smoke has a physical form. It can grab you from the shadows and knock the air right out of you. Sometimes she likes to solidify parts of herself to better intimidate. Pale, soft hands that fade into deep black at the wrists. Dangerously sharp teeth that glint among the wisps of smoke like long splinters of glass. All while those unblinking white eyes stare you down. The glow of them so bright it’s like looking into twin suns that have been shrunken down and trapped within this ever shifting fog. It’s difficult to contain her true form once she gets out. It slips through the cracks of the Clergy’s magic like a gas leak. Aurelia doesn’t like scaring people much in this world, she’s learned how to care about others and now she feels guilty, a pathetically human thing to do. But in the pit where it’s her job, she flourishes. Terror comes naturally to her there, flattening against the ground and drifting towards lost souls to seize their ankles and drag them into their eternal torment. Feeding on their nightmares until someone new comes along.

[whisperthatruns]

The Long Labors

My grandmother said it was going to be long—as long as you can hold your lineage—depending on how long you can hold your tongue—as long as your tongue can wrap around the pit—of some stolen stone fruit—as long as you can hide your pitter-patter face—glued in sun-split splinters—lengthening shadows as long as your face—longing to be mirrored back—back to your daughter your mother your grandmother—freckle by freckle—furnished forever across—the long loaming haul—                     Collapsed in a pool of spit—my mouth over papers—raccoon doctorate—luxurious loser with thin branch fingers—no meat in the palm—no muscle in the bending—the farmer in me is atrophying—the cook the factory seamstress the clerk the mother in me is pooling out—all that I come from—all that I owe to them—what is left of me—what is—me: professorial rat—book-leavened and maddened in meetings—chewing at my desk on a frozen anything—microwave spun and splattered on lessons—wondering who packaged this—who spooned this glacial sauce into this plastic hull—whose hands whose daughter does she look like me does she like dancing in the gloaming—funneled into my greedy mouth—I: daughter of long labors—I: knock-off half-price guilt—I: impossible imposter big words big words��trying to prove what—and to whom—I wait to be seated at a restaurant—a white person enters and orders from me—“I want sweet and sour chicken but without bell peppers and brown rice”—and I almost take it down—                     In the twelfth hour of night-shift overtime—my mother gobbles the air of the facility—mouth opening a cavern or a bowhead whale or a sinkhole—gobbling up its oxygen its nitrogen its argon its skin its hair dust its swirling smog—collecting time collecting benefits—her eyes so baggy they carry a leaking pack of chicken breasts—she had planned to cook tonight for us—but look at the break room clock she is out of time and now—they will surely go bad—what a waste at $1.50 a pound—she returns to her station rubs tiger balm and lavender oil along her wrists and hands—chews dried ginger to keep awake—the root of herself sharpening salivating—reapplies pink lipstick swivels the tube upward—rituals of resilience—feeds letters to machines churning intestinal noise—electricity bills and love letters and baby photos and magazines ladies who lunch will take to the salon and credit card limited-time offers and reminders from the dentist and supermarket weeklies and postcards from Oahu—“you wouldn’t believe how blue the water how restful how peaceful bring the whole family next time”—ginger chew ginger chew—                     Who made this for you—do you know the song that reminds them of home—do you know to play the radio as loud as you can and roll down the windows and smack your cheeks ten times in order to stay awake for the drive—do you know who sewed on this button—do you know the murmuring leg ache from standing all day a tree for whom—do you know who processed the letter you received today—fed it into a machine with paper cuts as wide as a river you could float in—do you know how long you can hold your urine until your 15-minute break—the roiling pressure in the abdomen the tick-tap of the feet the hands—how much to tip the gas station attendant in Jersey how the smell sticks behind both earlobes—the temperature when flipping a wok the oil burns the white paper hat measuring salt at the brim—how your impatient face resembles a slowly rotting peach—worms in the snarl—do you know the name of  your fishmonger the name of  my uncle—the times he snuck in a call to say he will be late picking up his daughter fish scales glittered to his elbows like opera gloves—do you know cuticles peeling white like flecks of cod after washing dishes—do you know the smell of nail polish remover stinging bees in your nostrils—do you know the back—how the back curls how the back bridges how the back puckers and crunches—like packed snow no one else but you will shovel out—I look up how labor is used in a sentence—“the obvious labor”—“immigrants provided a source of cheap labor”—“negotiations between labor and management”—“wants the vote of labor in the elections”—“the flood destroyed the labor of years”—“industry needs labor for production”—anthropocene capitalism gentrification—what do these words mean—and to whom—helping my mother over the sink—I snip the ends of long beans 豆角 with kitchen shears—the ends rolling away—green lizard tails—I cut away each word like a long bean—gentrificat—gentrif—gen—ge—g—glugging the g—down the drain—                     If only lying on a beach—limbs loosened like an old garden hose—if only watching the movements of our stomachs—rising and falling like baby jellyfish—our thighs waxing and waning—in bristle-rough sand if only—reading a book the pages—wrinkled and curled like a snail shell—from falling asleep against our faces—if only devouring a cloud—full of no rain no metallic muscle if—only softness if only we—went off in the softness—into the downy relaxing abyss—what is this word—vacation—my grandmother asks me chili hitting the wok like delicious dying stars—                     My grandmother said it was going to be long—going out the door always late for work—shirt inside out—said go on and bounce a howling baby (my mother/me/et al)—while skimming oxtail broth—the fat sheen of look how well we eat in this country—lest you forget it was worth it—lest you forget—the dilation of the cervix going the contractions going the grip the placenta the shit the vernix the garbled life going the soft flashlight eyes the milk the teeth the nails the hand on heart the soup coagulating on the stove—you must go—for what gleams in the dark turns to look at you—remember this—                     The work and the afterwork and the work of being perceived as not doing enough work though you are working well over enough—will this ever be enough—when is enough enough—the chorus now: not until the knots of fat—melt in this wok—not until you have nothing left but this suet—this smear of high-heat lineage—gleaming in the gloaming—and it is yours and it is mine and it is your dream daughter’s and it will last longer than you will ever believe—believe us—

Jane Wong, How to Not Be Afraid of Everything (Alice James Books, 2021)

[sn0paw]

Colors of Night Chapter 1

Morriston florida. North from the humid lower lands and bog. Lush orchards gave a bleak feeling of isolation as spots of amenities were few and far between. When you were standing in any one spot all you saw was a deep void of lush green vegetation that choked your cries, and held you in a living grip separate from the rest of the world. In October the air was crisp and managed to mask the pungent scent of carrion rotting in its soil. Or maybe it was the natural gas alone, leaking from sodden fissures seemingly invisible in the earth. Morriston however was more known for its fertile land rather than fossil fuels. Nestled like spots of diamonds in black stone, which were the surrounding messy rows of low trees; were large houses. Not made from modern cement or drywall, these houses were plated with large wooden planks, colored in pristine vintage greens or blues. They hadn't been touched in a long time. Although refurbished every few years, they still maintained an aura of an old world.

It was easy to find yourself alone at night. Something that was hard to cope with already, but made even worse when help was probably the last thing you'd find out here.

Over the landscape there was miles of lush greenery, surrounding small properties and farm houses. A neighbor was as close as the sun on the horizon.

Sometimes it was hard to tell orchard from wild land. The trees did not spire like great pines, but had more of a woodland attitude. Florida was known to be swamp, and bog. Up north is where you'd find any forest, branches shoulder to shoulder, and the ground at least solid. The sodden bark from these impressive bushes, were dark from the nutrient rich soil.

At night, it was almost pitch black, and every now and then a fog would roll in from the humid lower lands. The stars remained mostly untapped when the sky wasn't cloudy. The amount of flora vastly outweighed most air pollution. From its own county, at least. The moon however, always seemed blinding and bright if you could find it. When you were out in the open roads it was easy. But when you stuck to the cover of the land, it was a little harder.

This particular county seemed other worldly. Haunted, almost. Trapped in a forgotten timeline, while the rest of the world carried on. When things became a little more old fashioned, you really became aware of your place in this world. Of your place in society.

Among the vast oarchards, off to the north of the small town, at the base of the rolling hills, houses pale in the moonlight glowed like stars in an ocean. However, deep into the groves, in about the third range of land which disappeared behind the horizon, the sea of leaves was disturbed. A patch, so barely noticeable it seemed as if you hallucinated it at first. That your eyes just marred, and a blur merely tricked you into thinking it was just your head. In the rows of grapefruit trees that occupied this land, was a spot. A smudge. A disturbance that only disappeared again as the shrubbery circled around it.

It was a small clearing, overgrown with grass and moss. Bushes which at some point might've been part of the landscaping, were nestled against the trees, and occupying every cranny along the gravel driveway. In the middle, a wooden shack. Perhaps a farmhouse used to shelter laborers in the past. The rickety bungalow was made with splintered and greying planks, the fact there was insulation at all, barely apparent. The window panes were sun bleached, dusty and yellow, their panels divided by wooden sills. A deck up front was littered with old planters, jugs of gasoline, and a steel basin which was dry. A partially broken lawn chair was resting near the door. In the driveway, a grey Volvo 240 was parked, slanted onto its side with its tires deflated. It's windows and windshield were shattered, cobwebs and dust caking the once fabric seats, leather accents peeling.

Shoddy and abandoned, the house still stood nonetheless. After all... the traces left inside held stories buried by time to the world. The house still stood, as if knowing the lonely soul it once sheltered was direly dependent on its shelter. For what it was, the house still stood. The man might've been gone, but his memory was far from faded.

In the dead of the night, in the silence where not even a breeze shook the leaves and sent a hush through the mangroves, a shadow blacker than oblivion suddenly overtook the edge of the clearing. There was the sound of igniting flames, oh so quiet amongst the solitude.

A tall figure seemed to melt from the shadows, spawned from a plume of ash that sent glowing embers spiraling aimlessly up his long leather coat. It was faded and tattered at the ends which met his ankles, protected by the sleeves of black combat boots. They were laced up tightly, and tucked in the ends of his flexible cargo pants, also black. Strapped to his right thigh, which was mostly covered by his coat, was a knife sheath that carried a seven inch blade. Wrapped tightly around his waist were two nylon cinch straps, that held closed either side of his coat. Two more twin straps ran across either side of his chest, from underneath his leather cowl, which had a buckle at his left shoulder. The thick hood that covered his head and the top of his white mask, had three more sporty leather stripes that ran to the center between his padded shoulders. His mask was the classic sorrowful scream design. When he originally grabbed it, it had just been for simple anonymity. However, since he had disappeared from the face of the earth for what seemed like years ago, its makeup had changed. It was no longer the usual stock plastic or rubber. It had new weight. New volume. It was slightly yellowed, bearing small scratches here and there, with a grain similar to bone...

Upon apparating out of thin air, the figure suddenly collapsed with a ragged gasp. Falling to a knee, he breathed heavily. There were leather straps, attached under the ends to the mans shoulder pads, and one on the back of the cowl. The other however was missing. Instead, the battered tether was tied around his right arm. Once released from the fog, they dropped in altitude, not from the gust of wind that accompanied the ash, but from their user struggling under their wake. In a mortal world, in a tangible world, remained the presence of a much darker manifestation in this man. The straps did not fall limply to the earth, as physics demanded. Instead, they floated. They floated idly, drooping slightly but still floating, snaking and arching like strands of smoke around the man who was regaining his composure.

On his knees he shook slightly, deep breaths hissing from the slit in the mask which barely allowed much ventilation. Clambering forward, the pebble driveway clattered from under his boots, rocks skipping from underneath him as he desperately began to inch toward the house. The floating straps whipped the air with his disoriented swinging, arms waving in front fog him and grabbing whatever he could to help him forward, while his legs kept pushing frantically like a deer on ice. His body did little to support him, but by now he wasn’t going to wait. Perhaps it was instinct alone... Seeing this house many times before in the past, the wood planks peering through the trees after the long hike home. Nervous, glancing over his shoulders, hurrying inside to avoid witnesses.

His hands slammed against the hood of the broken down car, heaving his body up and finally gaining some level above crawling. The world was blackening, not from the night, or the mask, but from the feeling of exhaustion as he stared up at the silvery planks being softly illuminated by the moonlight. The brief picture gave the ghost mixed feelings, before he had to push along once more. Stumbling off of the stone drive, he threw himself forward to grab the railing to the porch steps next. His breaths wheezed and caused sweat to run down his face, though that was far from his mind, briefly taking note of the pile of decrepit papers at the door, before shouldering it open.

The house was dark. Oh so wonderfully dark, outlines barely distinguished by the moon across the living room and kitchen. It’s was dusty, and he swore he heard the scratching of mice as they ran across the floor, but no matter. Firmly pulling the door shut from behind him, the effects of that... transfer, were starting to wear off. But that didn’t stop him from striding unsteadily, as fast as possible, to the bedroom he knew was his, engrained by memories oh so long ago...

From the side of the kitchen, at the corner of the house was a small hallway. Three doors, only one ajar. Eyes so keen In the dark, he effortlessly found the glistening bronze handle, and threw the door open. White and grey sheets greeted him, ghostly in the bluish silver light, from the night outside, pouring from the window that was wide open. Didn’t he have curtains for that?

It was the last thought he had, before collapsing face first into the bed. Not bothering to take off his shoes at all, he did pull off his mask, throwing it aside and burying is face into the dingy pillow.

Sleep... ...

Oh did it feel so good...

Rest...

Warm, relaxed... embracing this darkness which he almost feared as a stranger. Sinking deeper until laying in its depth.

This void was different than that of the entity... the restlessness that came with an ambient sense of time. Of a disembodied conscious struggling to claw its way somewhere. No thoughts or memories passing by.

It was pure, deep, sleep.

And for a split second he could've sworn he caught himself revealing, in how material everything was here. Of how tangible. Even in sleep he could still feel for a minute the pressure of his body.

In the realm of the entity he really had felt like a ghost. Nothing but fog and embers inside. weightlessness in his mind, and in shallow breaths.

Even in the infinite forest, when he would climb a tree to avoid wandering survivors, or grumpy hunters, for a god given moment of rest. When the branches around him grew and became gnarled into long black claws, pulsing with a warm fire and closing around his body. Even then, when for once he felt the entity's protectiveness, he never slept easy, if at all. There was fear deep inside of him. Paranoia that had always been a part of him. Of what if's? Or just downright inability. His mind could never sleep, even if it was empty, and his body remained coiled. No matter how tired he became, he could never fall into this void, this peaceful one at least, for his consciousness to become blank.

Despite the fact that it felt so good... finally to be unconscious, safe, and warm, he had to open his eyes eventually.

From the emptiness he returned, slowly. He felt the slight dampness of his sheets. Felt light on his face. Heard for the first time since he could remember, twittering, of little songbirds. Blinding bright light leaked into his eyes, as the weight of his own body hit him full force. When was the last time he'd seen or felt sunlight?...

Despite its magical and overwhelming happiness, Danny groaned quietly as he heaved his shoulders upwards, and turned over in bed. Now it was a little better... the light wasn't shining in his face.

There was a sharp burning pain in his stomach as he rolled onto it, and stared at the greying wood being warmed by late afternoon light. He took a deep breath of fresh air... so many smells, he opened his mouth too, halfway through the breath. Of luscious green leaves... of orange blossoms, and cold weather from the mountains. For a moment he blanked entirely, absorbing with sound and smell the life of the surrounding area. Like he had just come back to earth, after years on Mars. Bees buzzing... the breeze rustling broad leaves, and birds swooping in their gutters. A beetle or two scuttling across the cool wet soil. Of life.... of earth... of sun.

You could never appreciate the night the same without the day...

The ghost face opened his eyes again, after embracing the morning. Or... afternoon. His alarm clock didn't look like it worked anymore... Perhaps a storm had come and shorted its circuits. That would explain why his bed was wet...

His stomach growled again, more violently this time, and after a moment, Danny took another deep breath as he finally sat up in the sheets. His shoulders were in pain too... sore, and maybe still cut up from the sacrifices. He cricked his neck both ways, then twisted his chest as far as it would go, before turning the other way; to loosen out his stiffness after a nap, that felt like it had lasted a century. His joints popped loudly, and after he was finished, he shook himself out and yawned again. Boy was he hungry...

'You're always hungry!' He almost heard Evan bark at him, from times he had visited his shack, where others sometimes gathered.

Part of him almost missed it... and Danny could almost feel the entity's caress, at the thought that nothing in the world could satisfy him as much as being with the others. Whether he could afford to play, or had to put in his max effort. Whether he had been the top dog, or kept his head bowed. Whether he was In a good mood, and idly twirling his knife, or in a bad one. Hungry, tired, cold, beaten, bleeding... It was better than having to live among domestic humans for a lifetime. Any physical pain was miles better than being mentally boxed in. Most of earths population was slow and stupid... worried about all the wrong things. What a waste of life...

He was getting himself in a bad mood just thinking about it. Seemed like he really did need some food, or else someone would be victim to an unlucky break.

Continuing with his stretches, he arched backwards, twisting his arms from behind him. Several of his bones cracked as he did so, and he groaned slightly, trying to get the rest of his spine could loosen out. Sitting on his coat made movement a little difficult, but nothing that hindered the satisfaction of finally being able to relax after so long. He knew he had to go back to the entities realm... sooner rather than later. But at least he wasn't under the threat of immediate oblivion. He didn't know why... despite the fact the entity still had possession of every atom in his body, he felt as if he was safer now...

Well... for the moment he had a list of things to do, before he actually got down to business. He did Not want to cook after that trip, and for the past week or so, he'd been craving the buttery cinnamon cakes of french toast. First thing was first, he was going into town for some breakfast. He wondered if that blonde haired girl still worked there... She had always been so kind to him, even when he was having a bad morning.. He almost felt guilty for disappearing without a word. 

Second, itd do him good to do some grocery shopping. Basic supplies to get him through a day or two, while he looked into a road trip he'd most likely have to take to find his target.Third... maybe he could get away with some pampering after nightfall. His shoulders were killing him... And a trip to the bar would definitely put him in the right spot. New faces, tipsy people; either it'd be a strong reminder of why he didn't necessarily like being back, or a chance to spread his wings before going off the grid. The alcohol and blur of noise gave him a world of his own to think in, and contemplate. When reality seemed to melt into watercolour, and he could stare at the dark wood of the counter, planning his movements step by step.

His growling stomach prevented him from diving into that trance just yet. A plan felt more solid when he didn't have anything else to do for the day. Gingerly swinging his legs off the bed, Danny stood up slowly, shaking himself out and starting to undo the clasp of his mantle. His clothes had taken a lot of the brunt, but he didn't exactly have the time to bathe before. Already when he caught his reflection in the small TV at the corner of the desk, he was covered with dirt and old blood. Among other things he didn't even know what... When the strange flowers had spawned once again in the realm, and their putrid nectar had soaked the ground. The sacrifices had named it an infection. Although their new comrade Talbolt had found a better use for the goo. In simple terms, he looked like roadkill. And perhaps people wouldn't take so kindly to a stranger who looked so bedraggled. First impressions were everything around new faces.

Sighing, he threw the cowl onto the bed, before undoing the two straps that crossed the front of his waist. His torn coat came loose as they too were tossed aside, and soon, he shrugged the coat off as well. The tethers that were tied around the sleeves, and to the back of his mantle, were no longer floating. A fact Danny wasn't surprised about, but still had only just noticed now. This world was physical. It had age, and physics. Laws of nature. Or at least... the nature that applied to planet earth. Sitting down again, he began to unlace his boots, and was so tempted just to lay back down and sleep some more. Hunger and the rewarding thought of french toast kept him from doing so.

Pulling out the cargo pants which had been tucked into the ankles, he roughly twisted off his heavy black boots, which actually had started showing some wear. He'd gotten these quite some time ago... a lighter pair would be nice in making his steps faster, and quieter. An investment he'd make for a later date. Date... What was the date anyways? The ghost face was a little suspicious, that after every classic sci-fi movie, being in the realm of the entity would make time feel longer, or shorter. How long had he been gone? The last year he had remembered was 1993 it was a little after his 21st birthday, which had been celebrated with the flawlessly executed Pennsylvania slaughter.

He didn't feel any older... and judging by his reflection, he didn't look any older either. I mean... Bill just couldn't seem to stay dead; and apparently hes been a rather difficult sacrifice since even Evan could remember. Ohh... ohhohoh.. and then there was Nea... stealthy and spry. He loved to play their little cat and mouse games..

But she was nearly the same age as him, and hadn't ever changed a bit. She'd been a sacrifice just as long as Phillip. And Phillip had come soon after Evan. Evan had changed plenty from his days on earth of course, but his reflexes suggested enough he hadn't really aged... And now, Danny wasn't so sure he even wanted to know the date... Staying updated with the times had been direly important for his little 'late night escapades'. Admittedly, it made him just the slightest bit uneasy about being back at all...

Staring at himself with new solemness in the mirror, he pulled his journals, cameras, and papers from against his body, tossing them on the bed before he unbuckled his duty belt. Time... The one ghost that haunted him. An everlasting and adept sense of time, that made him nothing but anxious. A face of time was staring him down with cold unwelcoming eyes, as he took in the momento wall behind the mirror.

It was a set of new wallpaper, on the wall opposite from the window. A rather... unorthodox one. They were articles from newspapers, pinned and taped all across the wall. It had completely covered the space from corner to corner, and were layered with even more cutouts that fluttered slightly from the faint breeze. Black and white pictures of bodies, bold words of murder and blood on the faded paper. There were photos right next to some of the article's headlines. A common occurrence of white and colour. Of blood spattered across his ghost mask, and soaking into the leather of his cloaked arms. His selfies. Posing merrily next to the dead bodies of his victims. The photos supplied in the newspaper were eerily similar. He’d taken them at the same time after all, supplying the newspaper with just the victims, while keeping his own cameos for himself.

He would’ve grinned, being filled with excitement and amusement at the fond memories. Leaving all those hints, dangling the truth in front of their faces and no one had a clue... But Danny found himself staring at this wall with... grief...

The Polaroids were blotched, dissolved to the point they were barely recognizable. The news cutouts were brittle and browning, the words washed away. Only years of weathering could’ve done that... and an open window. Had that blown open, or did someone break in? The feeling of loss was fleeting, his mind becoming blank once more as he turned from the room.

The living room was an even more dismal sight... He remembered this house when it was clean... ish. The paint tastefully faded, the furniture clean. But staring down at the floorboards, there was a thin layer of dirt, as if the ground was swallowing the place over time. Weeds grew through the cracks, and the windows he had boarded himself, were falling apart. Gaps of sunlight streamed into the abandon home, made visible in the stagnant dust that hung in the air. The floral wallpaper had long since peeled, the wood showing scars from the times he was bored or in a fit, and got to work with his knives. Webs hung in corners, wether cob or actual spiders he couldn’t tell.

The oven and the fridge in the kitchen were rusted, and with the state of everything else in the room, he didn’t dare try opening them. On the island, just a small ways in front of the gas stove, we’re tokens that struck his memory with notes of relief.

His coffee cup, whet stones, tabloids that connected him with the rest of the world, while keeping a comfortable distance. These items were less mangled by the wether. In fact he remembered the very page he’d left off on, about talcum powder causing cancer or something.

Danny took a deep breath in the polluted air, as if trying to ensure he was awake, but only succeeding in entering a coughing fit. The fog of the entity’s realm didn’t cause his lungs to sting like this... Even when he found himself before a pile of carrion. Fleshy leftovers perhaps discarded by the entity. The sour smell of death, old blood, and other unsightly organs he tended to shy away from when carving up his game.

Aside from that, the air was sickly. Depended where you were really. Not having a niche in the realm, or any place he had rightful ground of, he wandered. Snuck in buildings, or climbed up trees. Someplace where he didn’t have to fight off a giant Russian lady, or an alien, whenever he hunted down fresh food.

The swamp, sour. The steel mills, sharp. The pine forests, spicy. Ormond, bleak. Haddo- oh?

He had mail...

During his minds wandering, the ghosts drifting eyes caught the familiar yellow and white on envelopes at the foot of the door. Must’ve been pushed through the flap. There was about five right off the bat. Way too much for someone who was supposed to be invisible and lived in the middle of nowhere... I mean, he had a mailbox! Really must’ve been a while if he had mail of this magnitude.

Walking over to the small pile, Danny carefully picked them up, aligning the stack and skimming the addresses.

Water bill, someone from Montana... the owners of the house...

‘To Danny Johnson, From Jena and Bo’

Seeing their names, albeit faded, scrawled in a beautiful and professional cursive with pen... He’d taken to the land owners in a way closer than he’d like to accept...

They were an elderly couple, with four kids all flown from the nest. They owned this orchard of grapefruit, supplying much bigger produce companies. With the money they had, it was no wonder they let him get away with missing the rent... Although he could’ve sworn they had other properties, surprisingly enough he never had any agents or collectors knocking at the door. They always visited him in person... perhaps took pity on him, being fresh out of college with no home and so young... And they’d greet him warmly, and ask how his work was going, or his health. And he’d charm his way out of a charge by leaning against the rail and lilting his voice. But mostly he made up for it in labor. Primarily helping the couple around the house.

The only useful thing his dad ever really taught him...

Jena and Bo were at that age they couldn’t bend their knees, and their laughs had a ghastly wheeze. But they were happy... and from what he dug up, from the first time he snuck in, to sorting their mail, they were good people. A little rough back in the day, but it was survival then... They found eachother, climbed the ladder, and would live the rest of their days in comfort. Most of the times when he couldn’t make the rent, he’d clean the house. The crevices they couldn’t reach, or things they couldn’t lift. Installing random things, from their breathing pumps, to a new computer. Fixing what was broken. Whatever they needed, they came to him. And despite most of the work being boring, or sometimes leaving him sore, he never exactly hated it. Or them... they’d stick around to keep him company, tell him stories while he worked. Actually that was probably why it took so long... But the house was warm. Yes it had air conditioning, something he didn’t, but the house felt warm... whole. Complete.

Danny remembered other times, when he snuck into a home and could feel a broken family. A ghoul, who couldn’t find love. A woman facing her own tragedy. Photos, letters, sometimes diaries... Learning about the prey he chose to reap. How more often than not, humans suffered anyways, and it would’ve been their own fault. Or in some cases, a genuine martyr. Those rare instances, about three to be precise, when he stared into their fading eyes and saw relief...

And allot of the times he found as he lectured himself on keeping his distance, that the only reason he didn’t kill Jena and Bo was because they were the land owners. And you don’t bite the hand that feeds you.

But he never hated them... never disliked them. Sure he got a little antsy during some of their aimless stories or commentary. But he still enjoyed seeing them.

After his work, or just on a whim, they sometimes invited him to stay the night, or at least for dinner. And they’d have fun in the kitchen.. helping them cook, and playing with the ingredients. Like drawing pictures on a cutting board coated with flour. He got to know their family, when they came over for the holidays. Annoying people but... he tolerated it for the sake of them.

Danny knew they liked him so much, because they valued him as a son they never had... and that was the worst part... The guilt in him.. shame.. insecurity, that they were parents he never had... and that small part of him which still wanted to believe in love, thrived off of that. And it was disgusting... How he became so complacent, if not needy for their attention. How that small taste of love could make him forget who he really was..

And he was happy with who he was. He was independent, self sufficient, strong, nimble, had many talents and trades, smart as a devil, pretty good looking, and not afraid to break the walls of morality, if it meant he could die happy... He could do things most other people couldn’t. He survived through what most people couldn’t, and had turned out pretty okay. Physical and mental strength he prided himself on, lost at the sense of a family, or a home...

And that’s why every night when he walked back to his true home, his true reality of solitude and restlessness, he had to reprimand himself for getting too comfortable. Promise himself he’d detach and only put up an act as what was normal. He never really followed through with that promise.

‘Dear Danny... We hope you’re okay. We kept trying to reach you at the house, but every time we knocked, there was nobody home. At first we suspected you were off on your ghost writing trips. Eventually however, we could no longer visit ourselves. Whenever Camrey or Caleb were in town, we sent them to check if you had ever come back. We were worried about your sudden disappearance. But we understand you are an ambitious individual, and maybe you had struck that moment, where your career finally opened up for you. Whatever may be the case, know that we consider you as a part of the Rhodinhoer family; and if things don’t work out, you are always welcome home. We hope, in such an event, your weary heart may find this letter and rest easy upon stepping through the door. We wish you the best of luck, and pray that the world will benefit from your talents.

Sincerely and with much love, Bo and Jena Rhodinhoer. 10/3/2001’

The last letter was from a funeral service...

3/7/2008

[pissmd]

As inputs to ACHTUNG got faster, often he’d show up in time to help the search crews—following restless-muscled RAF dogs into the plaster smell, the gas leaking, the leaning long splinters and sagging mesh, the prone and noseless caryatids, rust already at nails and naked threadsurfaces, the powdery wipe of Nothing’s hand across wallpaper awhisper with peacocks spreading their fans down deep lawns to Georgian houses long ago, to safe groves of holm oak… among the calls for silence following to where some exposed hand or brightness of skin waited them, survivor or casualty. When he couldn’t help he stayed clear, praying, at first, conventionally to God, first time since the other Blitz, for life to win out. But too many were dying, and presently, seeing no point, he stopped.

— Thomas Pynchon, Gravity's Rainbow

[love-killed-the-superstar]

After watching Bad Day my thoughts are:

I want to see a TMNT episode similar to Bad Day in its overall theme but on a way less lethal scale - turtles and splinter are hearing strange noises, losing hours at a time, disoriented and confused and having to piece together context clues to figure out what enemy is plaguing them through idk video diaries or something...

...and then it turns out the enemy they're trying to fight is in fact carbon monoxide because the lair has a gas leak

[is-it-art-tho]

Summary: After a sudden explosion leaves Tim seriously injured, he’s forced to rely on his brothers to get him out of the jam.

The first thing Tim became aware of was the sound of someone screaming. No, not screaming, he realized. It only felt that way because the voice was so close. This person was panting, saying the same thing over and over, anxious and hurried. Tim struggled to make sense of the words, but his thoughts came and went like confetti on a breeze, quick and fleeting and impossible to hang on to.

The next things he became aware of were hands and arms around him, holding him, and a rhythmic jostling sensation. Someone must’ve been carrying him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been carried anywhere. For some reason the thought almost made him laugh. He was seventeen, after all. Practically a man.

“He’s smiling,” a young voice snapped. The first words Tim had been able to hear clearly. “Why is he smiling?”

“Calm down.” The second voice was older, more steady, but the words seemed to come through clenched teeth.

Finally the world around him faded into view. Tim was staring blearily up at Dick’s jaw as they hurried… somewhere. He couldn’t remember. Dick was sweating and covered in scrapes and bruises. A nasty gash at his hairline was bleeding heavily, forcing him to run with one eye closed.

“You’re… bleeding…” Tim croaked.

Dick looked down at him, shocked. A moment later, Damian popped into view. Half of Damian’s mask was missing; one arm was folded protectively into his chest. They both looked terrible. Tim tried to put the pieces together, to remember how they’d gotten like this, but the confetti in his mind swirled impossibly fast, offering only fragments. An abandoned office building. A hostage. Tim running towards something…

“Just relax,” Dick said firmly, apparently reading the growing frustration and anxiety on Tim’s face. “You’re gonna be okay.”

You’re gonna be okay. That’s what Tim had been hearing earlier – the phrase he’d kept hearing over and over again. But it wasn’t himself that he was worried about.

“Wait,” Damian said suddenly, stopping with his finger to his ear. “What do you mean we can’t…” He paused. Tim realized he was talking to Oracle. “Well then we’ll just move it!” Damian shouted. Then another pause as he listened before,

“Fine!”

When Damian didn’t immediately offer an explanation, Dick asked “What is it?”

“We can’t go out this way,” he said, indicating the stairwell they were standing at. Tim noticed that Damian was determinedly looking away from them. His exposed eye glistened with frustrated tears as his hand curled into a fist at his side. For all his posturing and combat experience, he was still just a child. Tim decided to try remember that more often.

“Why not?” Dick pressed.

“It’s blocked.”

“Okay.” Dick took a steadying breath. “Then we’ll just have to find another way. What did Oracle say?”

Damian ground his teeth. “Nothing useful,” he spat.

“Damian–”

“She said to wait, Grayson! Is that what you wanted hear? She told us to ‘stand by.’” Damian never used their real names in the field. He caught himself a moment later, recanting. “I mean Nightwing,” he murmured.

“Did you tell her about…?”

Damian just nodded. Dick cursed under his breath.

“What’s… the big deal,” Tim asked. His voice sounded odd. It was weak and thin. He tried to clear his throat. “You guys got dates or something?”

Dick and Damian just stared at him, horrified and anxious. It took Tim a little longer than it should have to realize that they weren’t upset because they had to wait. They were worried about him. 

“I’m fine,” he added hoarsely. “Really. You don’t have to keep carrying me.”

Tim started to climb out of Dick’s grasp, but Dick held tighter. “Tim, don’t–” he began and in that moment, Tim saw it. The reason Damian and Dick had been so stressed. The reason neither of them could stand the idea of waiting even a second longer to get out. The reason Tim had found himself wavering on the edge of consciousness since the moment he’d woken up. The reason, he assumed, he’d passed out in the first place.

“Tim…” Dick said slowly, carefully. Like an officer trying to talk someone down. “It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

Damian just stared, wide eyed.

And Tim realized they were both waiting for him to react, probably to freak out. But really as he stared down at himself, he just felt utterly confused. What he was looking at didn’t make any sense. The confetti of his thoughts kicked up again, sending images flashing through his mind.

A hostage.

A gas leak.

Tim running towards the kidnapper.

A gun he hadn’t noticed before.

A single shot.

An explosion.

An explosion, he thought. It was starting to make sense now. He looked at their surroundings as if for the first time. The entire floor looked like a warzone. Rubble everywhere, the ceiling missing, exposing the entirety of the floor above them.

“I fell…” Tim whispered. He remembered the explosion, the floor giving out beneath him. So suddenly he didn’t have time to think, to try to slow his decent.

Dick just nodded.

Tim returned his gaze to the wood fragment protruding from his abdomen, realizing for the first time how cold and feverish he felt, how the smell of blood mingled with the dust and smoke on the air to create a sickening perfume. How no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t slow his breathing. “I fell,” he whispered again between gasps.

“He’s going into shock,” Damian said.

“I know.”

Their voices began to swirl together and morph, like a song being played backwards in slow motion. The world rolled nauseatingly around him and, without warning, Tim threw his head to the side and vomited an alarming mixture of blood and saliva. And finally, Tim felt it.

The pain.

He had experienced a lot of injuries in his short life, ranging in severity. Broken bones, gun shots, even nearly lost a finger once in an unfortunate skiing incident. But the thing about pain is that after a while, memories of pain never quite do it justice. Sure you can remember that something hurt, but you’re never quite going to remember exactly how bad it really was.

So now, if you’d asked Tim if he’d ever felt anything like this before, he would’ve said no. Whether or not that was entirely true would be uncertain, but as fire bloomed out from the center of his stomach and raced through his veins, as his body convulsed and writhed involuntarily, as his head snapped back and a scream raked itself free from his throat, he couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

Dick cursed again. “He’s bleeding too much.”

“I thought you stitched him up!”

“I did the best I could with what we have,” Dick explained as Tim’s screams gave way to gritted cries. He tried to muffle the sounds in Dick’s chest.

“I know, buddy.” Dick’s voice was tight. Tim felt himself being lowered gently to the floor. He could barely see through his tears, but he saw Dick lean into view, holding something that looked like a pen. “Tim. I need you to take a deep breath, all right? This is gonna get a little rough, but we’re gonna have to cauterize it to stop the bleeding.”

Damian shoved something into Tim’s mouth, saying, “Bite down on this.” Then he disappeared from view again, and Tim felt his wrists being bound and tied to something above his head so that he couldn’t move his arms.

As his uniform was cut away to expose the wound, Tim tried to protest.

I’m all right! he tried to scream. I’m all right! Please don’t!

But his cries were muffled by the makeshift bite guard. Dick just looked at him apologetically then aimed the pen at his wound. A small beam of light appeared from the tip and the next thing Tim felt was white hot pain, centered on a single point in his abdomen, as if the entire sun hand shrunk down to size of a pinprick and lodged itself in his body.

Tim screamed against the object in his mouth, crying and thrashing, but his arms remained immobile, tied to whatever was above him. Meanwhile Damian struggled to keep his legs pinned with only one good arm.

“Damian,” Dick muttered, his eye focused on his work. The other was still occluded with blood.

“I’m trying!” Damian shot back. As time passed, the smell of burning flesh filled the space.

Tim’s flesh.

The thought sent another wave of nausea rolling through him.

“There,” Dick said at last, sitting back with a sigh. “That should keep your guts in at least until we can get you home. You did good, Tim.”

Tim tried to nod, tried to respond at all, but suddenly his head felt incredibly heavy. It bobbled as he tried to hold it up, tried to keep his eyes open and focused as everything in him seemed to be telling him to let go.

“Tim?” Dick asked, getting closer. “Tim, you gotta keep your eyes open.”

I am, Tim said. Or at least, that’s what he meant to say before everything went dark.

****

Tim dreamt of plane rides and gauze. He felt hands all around him, smelled the sharp tang of antibiotics and disinfectants. Every once in a while he’d hear a familiar voice or two, asking him to do something, to swallow some pill or bitter medicine. He always obliged, or at least he thought he did. He couldn’t be sure. Everything was a blur of moments and faces.

Occasionally he’d dream of fire and blood. Of pain so intense he thought he might die. In those dreams, hands always came to hold him down, he’d feel a prick in his arm, then sink again into blissful emptiness.

****

When Tim finally awoke, he found himself in his room at Wayne Manor. Morning light filtered through the curtains, a breeze blew through, filling the room with the smell of flowers and freshly mowed grass from the grounds. Tim tried to get his bearings, to parse through his dreams and memories. It wasn’t until he tossed aside the covers and saw the bandages across his abdomen that he realized that much of what he remembered had been real.

He stared at his bandages for quite some time, unable to shake the image of the shard of wood sprouting from his body like a ghastly bone. Finally, he eased his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up gingerly. The movement sent jolts of pain through him, forcing him to gasp and wince as he managed to get himself upright. He was sitting on the edge of the bed catching his breath when Damian appeared, his arm in a sling.

“Trying to escape again?” Damian asked.

“A…again?” Tim breathed. Had he tried to get up before? He couldn’t remember that at all.

“Yes, again. Granted, you never made it very far the other times.” Damian entered and leaned against the wall.

“Huh.” Tim could vaguely remember the feeling of the carpet on his face. Had he collapsed before? Judging by the expression on Damian’s face, equal parts amused and concerned, Tim didn’t think that was too far off. “How’s your arm?”

Damian rolled his eyes and scoffed, apparently exasperated by the question. Tim could imagine what he was thinking: Who the hell cares about my arm? He crossed to a corner of the room where there was a walker. “Father wanted me to make sure you didn’t go anywhere for a while without this.” He placed it front and center.

Tim blanched. The idea of using a walker to get around made him physically ill.

Reading his expression, Damian scoffed and sent it clattering across the room. “I told him it was absurd. Why would you need that thing if I’m here?” He said it spitefully, refusing to look directly at Tim all the while.

Tim grinned in spite of himself. “My thoughts exactly.”

The faintest color came into Damian’s cheeks as he joined Tim at the edge of the bed and slipped under one of his arms. With a pained grunt, Tim pushed himself onto his feet, leaning heavily on Damian’s small frame. They eased out into the hall where they found Dick, a few stitches peeking out below his hair.

“Look who’s back amongst the living,” Dick laughed, ducking under Tim’s other arm without hesitation.

Now leaning mostly on his brothers, walking wasn’t so hard. But he couldn’t help but feel somewhat guilty. “You know you guys don’t have to–”

“I swear to God, Drake,” Damian said, silencing him instantly. Tim smirked. Fair enough.

“So uh,” he said, still grinning. “Which one of you is gonna help me use the bathroom?”