#THIS SHOW IS SO IMPORTANT AND I NEED THEM TO START FILMING RIGHT NOW IMMEDIATELY | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

aislinrayne · 2 months

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[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱] [𝔖𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Lockwood wakes up. The pieces of the puzzle start falling into place.

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: M

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Abductions, fear, implied torture, blood, canon typical violence.

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: Okay, so, full disclosure: this is less than half of what was initially supposed to be chapter six. It just kept getting longer, so I made a few small changes to get this posted before the rest of it gains another few thousand words

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 3.21k

⇠ 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

The echo of water dripping onto concrete is the first thing to worm its way into his consciousness. Next comes the throbbing pain through his skull, the relentless pounding that sends sharp waves of agony through his head. Lockwood lets out an involuntary hiss of discomfort, which in turn brings an unfortunate awareness of how dry his mouth is. Each breath feels like sandpaper against his throat. His head hangs forward, and the muscles in his neck ache from the strain. It takes an immense effort to gather the strength to lift his head and look around, and when he finally does, he almost wishes he hadn’t.

The room is a grim tableau of grey, its walls, floor, and ceiling a continuous expanse of cold, unyielding concrete. The only breaks in the monotonous shade are the occasional questionable reddish-brown stains that mar the porous material. Hints of past violence are embedded in the very fibre of this space. To his left, a heavy iron door looms. With its surface pitted and scarred by time, it stands as an ominous sentinel to his dreary prison.

The throbbing between his ears intensifies, making it difficult to piece together the events leading up to this moment. How did he end up here, bound and trapped in a room straight out of a horror film? Lockwood’s memories slowly rise to the surface through the fog of his headache, and with them comes a growing awareness of his predicament. His wrists are bound tightly to the arms of a metal chair, the cold steel biting into his skin.

Something important is still begging to be remembered, some crucial detail just barely out of reach. He struggles to focus, his mind a chaotic swirl of fragmented memories and disjointed thoughts. They should be on a job right now, shouldn't they?

It all comes back to him in a rush.

‘Hughes’, the alley, the fight. The memories crash over him like a wave, and he feels as if he’s finally awake. Where is she? His heart pounds as he wonders about the fate of his companion. Is she somewhere nearby, tied up like him? Or has she met a worse fate? She’s never been one to shy away from confrontation, especially with arrogant men like these. Her sharp tongue often gets her into trouble. Before he can fully lose himself in the depths of his fears, the large metal door swings open with an ominous creak. The echo reverberates through the cold, concrete room, and in walks their would-be client.

Lockwood immediately schools his features, burying his rage and fear for his companion behind a mask of aloof and casual amusement. He takes a deep breath, pushing the worst-case scenarios from his mind.

“Did you sleep well, Mr. Lockwood?” asks the man, his voice dripping with false politeness. He pulls a chair Anthony had previously missed away from the wall, dragging it with a harsh screech across the floor, and sits down directly in front of the bound agent.

“Oh, like a baby,” Lockwood quips, shooting him a crooked smirk. He leans back in his chair, straining against his bindings to maintain a facade of nonchalance. “Woke up every couple of hours crying. You should consider marketing this place as a spa retreat. The concrete walls and the ambiance of dripping water are just so... soothing.”

‘Hughes’ barks a laugh at that, a glimmer of admiration for the young man dancing in his eyes. Lockwood’s heart races, but he doesn’t let it show. He needs to stay sharp, keep this man talking, and find out where he is– and, more importantly, where she is.

“If we’d met under different circumstances, I think I could grow to like you, Mr. Lockwood. I’ve never met a man capable of looking so unbothered whilst bound to a chair. Shame it had to be this way, what a waste of potential.” The heavy implication that Anthony won’t be leaving alive hangs in the air as the man props his elbow on the arm of his metal chair, resting his chin on his hand. He inspects Anthony as if he’s nothing more than a rat caught in a trap.

“It hardly seems fair that you know my name, but I haven’t a clue what yours is.” Anthony risks the challenge, watching his captor’s face closely.

“My man must have a heavier hand than I thought. If he’s addled your brain enough that you’ve forgotten already, maybe I should give him a raise.” The man laughs, waving his hand dismissively.

There just now; the tiniest twitch of a vein on his left temple.

“Surely a man of your intelligence wouldn’t be so foolish as to use his real name to hire a pair of Agents he has no intention of allowing to live. I’d hoped by now you’d have enough respect for me not to assume I’d be thick enough to believe you would.” Of all the reactions Anthony was prepared for, laughter wasn’t anywhere near the top of the list. ‘Hughes’ almost doubles over in his chair, clapping his hands together before wiping tears of merriment from the corners of his eyes.

“Boy, if you didn’t have those bloody morals of yours, I’d recruit you to take over when I retire. Damon Martin, pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He offers Lockwood a hand to shake, then rescinds it with a mock-apologetic shrug as though he’d forgotten he’d bound Anthony’s hands.

Anthony’s mind races, filing away the name, the mannerisms, the arrogance. This is a man used to getting his way, a man who found joy in toying with his prey. But Anthony knows something he doesn’t. There’s still hope, still a chance. He just has to bide his time and keep Damon talking.

“If I didn’t have these ‘bloody morals,’ I might be inclined to accept your generous offer. In another life, perhaps,” He pauses for a moment, weighing his options carefully. The chances he’s garnered enough favour to get away with a question are still slimmer than he’d like, but feigning ignorance might tip the scales his way. “Why did you go through all this effort? Surely there are easier ways to kidnap a few agents, at the very least an easier agency to grab them from. I’m assuming you need our Talent for some nefarious reason or another?”

Damon chuckles at that; it’s an uglier sound than before. It can’t hide the treacherous vein on his brow, oh so eager to betray him.

“Definitely easier agencies, but none that have pissed off as many Relic Hunters – and other unsavoury folks – as the lovely little lilies at Lockwood & Co.” He shakes his finger in time with every alliteration, the obvious enjoyment glittering in his eyes is almost sickening.

“So it’s a matter of revenge, then?” If Mr. Martin is so willing to believe him a fool, he might as well use it to his own advantage. “Not unusual in this field, though not precisely expected either. So, what cruel fate do you have in store for us?”

Damon leans back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. “Revenge. Justice. Call it what you will. Your little agency has made quite a name for itself. Stepping on toes, disrupting operations, making enemies. It was only a matter of time before someone came to collect.”

Anthony’s mind races, trying desperately to fit together the final pieces of the puzzle. The throbbing behind his eyes hasn’t eased, and it isn’t making it any easier. “So, you’re just another wronged party in the long list of those seeking retribution. How original.”

Damon’s smirk widens, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. “Oh, it’s not just about retribution. It’s about sending a message. You and your friends have a habit of poking your noses where they don’t belong. It’s time someone reminded you of the consequences.”

Lockwood’s jaw tightens, his mind whirling with strategies. “And what consequences would those be? An untimely demise in your charming little dungeon?”

“I hate to make it too easy on you, so we’ll leave it at ‘you’ll find out soon enough’ and move on. Surely there’s another question itching away at the back of your mind.” The smile on his face sends a chill down Anthony’s spine, a feeling he imagines to be akin to someone walking across his grave.

“Where is she? What have you done with her?”

“Ah, see? I thought we were getting somewhere, but it seems you still have all the subtlety of an ox.” The other man snorts, shaking his head ruefully. “Your companion is alive and, well… not ‘well’, but alive.”

Anthony is almost certain there are more words following, but he loses the ability to hear through the blood rushing in his ears. If he has harmed her in any way, there will be hell to pay.

“Anything else you’d like to know while you’re still inclined to speak with me?” The delight in Martin’s voice is sickening, but it is essential Anthony maintains his composure. No matter how desperately he wants to hurl insults and threats at this monster, he can’t.

“You say that like you’re certain our time is coming to an end. I do like to consider myself quite tolerant, in the grand scheme. What do you have planned?”

Damon checks his watch, grinning a Cheshire cat smile before looking back at the lad in the chair. “I’m afraid our time is up, Mr. Lockwood. For what it’s worth, I’ve enjoyed this little game of wits.”

Anthony’s mind races as Damon’s words sink in. He has to think quickly, to find some way to delay whatever is coming next. “Well, I’m afraid the feeling isn’t mutual, Damon. I can’t say I’ve enjoyed your hospitality.”

Damon laughs, a dark, hollow sound. “I didn’t expect you to. But, alas, our paths cross for a reason, and I have my own agenda to follow.” He watches Anthony with a predatory glint in his eyes.

Lockwood strains against his bindings, his eyes darting around the room for anything he might be able to use to his advantage. “This isn’t over. You think you have the upper hand, but you don’t know us. You don’t know what we’re capable of.”

Damon’s smile widens, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. “Oh, I’m well aware of what you’re capable of, Mr. Lockwood. That’s why I’ve taken every precaution to ensure you won’t get the chance to show it.”

Anthony’s mind races, formulating plans upon contingency plans. He knows he can’t afford to lose hope. Not now. Not when so much is at stake. The tension in the room is palpable as the two men stare each other down, the silent battle of wills raging on. Anthony knows he has to stay sharp, stay focused. They will find a way out of this.

The scream erupts through the air, sudden and unrelenting, slicing through the stillness like a blade. The sound is raw, visceral, and it sends a jolt of icy terror racing through Anthony’s veins. All the steely resolve he’s been clinging to shatters in an instant, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. His heart pounds like a drum in his chest as he struggles against the metal bindings that confine him. The chair groans and creaks ominously under his frantic movements, the metal biting into his skin as he throws himself forward in a desperate bid for freedom.

“I swear to God, if you don’t let her go I will hunt you to the ends of the earth. There will not be a rock you can hide under that will save you from me,” he vows, his voice a low, dangerous growl filled with a venomous intensity. He spits in Damon’s direction, a tangible manifestation of his fury.

Martin’s only reaction is a dark chuckle, a sound devoid of any real fear or concern. He lounges back in his chair with a nonchalant ease, his smile wide and untroubled. “Bold words from a man strapped to a chair in my basement,” he says with an almost lazy disdain. The words are dripping with mockery as he stands up, pushing himself to his feet. “Do try to keep your strength; it would be a shame to cut the entertainment short this evening.”

With a final smirk, Damon pushes himself from his chair, and strides toward the metal door. His footsteps echo in the cold, sterile room. The door slams shut behind him with a resonating clang, sealing Anthony in darkness. The only sound that remains is the tortured, muffled sobs and anguished cries echoing faintly through the corridors.

Lockwood closes his eyes tightly, trying to shut out the sound that haunts him. His teeth are clenched so hard they ache, and he fights the overpowering urge to rage against his restraints. The sound of his own name falling from her lips had never made him feel sick before.

He whispers silent apologies into the void, each one a fragment of his broken heart as he hears her cries fade to wrecked sobbing in the distance. Tears stream uncontrollably down his cheeks, each one a testament to his helplessness. He forces himself to remember that if he exhausts his strength now, he will have no energy left to save her when the time comes. His mind is a whirlwind of anguish and determination, driven by the urgent need to endure for her sake. If he exhausts himself now, he’ll have no way to help her through the next part of this.

He knows what’s happening here. At the very least, he has some very well founded theories.

He’d begun to piece the clues together on his way back from running errands, the headline of a fresh edition of the paper catching his attention.

‘Missing Bunchurch operatives found ghost-touched three miles from job location.’

George had mentioned something about these disappearances a few days ago. Lockwood had dismissed him without putting much thought into it, infuriating his researcher to the point of him storming out after curfew. Lucy had scolded him senseless about it, and even he’d been forced to admit he’d handled it poorly. George’s Talent might have faded, but his mind is sharp as ever. In the spirit of ‘making an effort’, as Lucy would say, Lockwood paused to buy a copy from the paperboy and stepped under an awning to avoid foot traffic as he leafed through the pages to find the article.

‘“A man approached them when the agency was nearly vacant for the evening, requesting their assistance for a high-profile case that required their immediate attention and discretion. Unfortunately, we didn’t get any details about the suspect before the disappearance of our operatives,”’ a supervisor explained when questioned. The story bore an uncanny resemblance to those reported by other agencies. ‘Who is this mystery man, and why does he seem to be targeting agents?’

Lockwood’s gut twists as he absorbs the implications. Agents go missing or die on jobs more often than anyone is willing to admit. The constant flow of cases had prevented the authorities from connecting the dots until recently. Agents, typically in pairs of two, would leave on last-minute assignments and simply vanish without a trace. When their bodies were discovered – if they were found at all – it was often days later, in locations far removed from where they were supposed to be. The details are vague, but the true intrigue lies in the spaces between the lines, the picture painted by the gaps in the written words.

He ponders the logistics. For a small-scale agency like Bunchurch or his own, it would be easy for one man to watch for an opening. But Fittes or Rotwell... catching a large-scale agency with few occupants requires more than luck. It demands extensive reconnaissance, meticulous notes on routines and schedules, and perfect timing.

This isn't the work of a lone psychopath. This is organised crime, a network with resources and coordination.

Lockwood’s mind races. If the person staking out their targets was consistent, someone in the neighbourhood must have noticed them, even if they didn’t realise it. DEPRAC and Scotland Yard had surely canvassed the area, asking questions. But had they inquired about the weeks leading up to the kidnappings? About any oddities that initially seemed out of place but became so routine they were almost invisible? Inspector Barnes would surely have asked those questions, but Lockwood has his doubts about the competency of the other men under his command. The picture is becoming clearer: a network of criminals, a methodical approach, agents watched and taken with precision. Lockwood folds the newspaper, now fully alert.

Everything in this report suggests a calculated effort to target and eliminate agents under the guise of urgent and confidential assignments. These abductions are not random misfortunes or isolated incidents; they are part of a cruel and systematic scheme to exploit the talents of the agents and dispose of them in the most horrific ways imaginable. Lockwood’s thoughts churn with grim realisation. If one were to calculate the number of missing agents, and compare it to the number of bodies found… The numbers simply don’t add up. The pieces of the puzzle fall into place, and with each one, the urgency to act becomes more pressing. This is not just a matter of solving a mystery, or bringing justice to the fallen; it’s a race against time to save those who might still be trapped in this nightmarish scenario.

He makes a mental note to make time to talk to Barnes, to offer his services as a consultant. Maybe even as bait.

The thought barely has time to form before the pieces finally click into place, each realisation deepening the pit of dread in his stomach.

They couldn’t be bait if they were already targets.

A bolt of ice stabs through his chest as he realises the time. A quick glance at his watch confirms his fear. He is going to be late. Again. He’s been so slow on the uptake—she could already be in danger.

He curses himself under his breath, looking around wildly. Despite every instinct screaming at him to blindly run to her aid, he knows he has to find a way to pass a message to their team. It’s their only hope of surviving the trap he’s unwittingly led them into. His gaze flicks side to side as he forces himself to breathe in, hold, and breathe out for equal counts of four. Combat breathing helps regulate his body’s response to stress. He needs to think clearly and appear calm to pull this off. The faces around him blur together as he moves with purpose in the direction of their rendezvous spot, buying time for himself to come up with a reasonable plan. He knows the enemy could be anywhere. Watching. Waiting. The seconds tick by, each one a reminder of how close he might be to losing everything.

He turns a corner and catches sight of the river, the water glinting in the afternoon light. Amid the crowd, a distinctive outline catches his eye. He can’t help but grin, thanking his lucky stars for the first time in his life that he lives so close to the Thames.

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢ ℭ𝔬𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔬𝔬𝔫…

taglist (if your name is in bold, it wouldn't let me tag you!):

❁ @shakespearseclipse ❁ @tessas4 ❁ @chloejaniceeee ❁ @ettadear ❁

❁ @kassandra1000 ❁ @stardust611 ❁ @ell0ra-br3kk3r ❁

❁ @hellojameshowyadoin ❁ @Sarahhelpimsinking ❁ @soapshipper ❁

❁ @myownpainintheass ❁ @furblrwurblr ❁ @sleep-i-ness ❁

❁ @uku-lelevillain ❁ @autisticbiologistmess ❁ @xyaxyn ❁

❁ @forget-me-not-my-dear ❁

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢]

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nadiajustbe · 4 months

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One of the most important problems with Miyazaki's film is not even the absence of Wales, the absence of about a dozen characters, or the rather fatfobic way the Witch of the Waste is animated, but the way Sophie's character is written. More specifically, her coping mechanisms and the way she sees and interacts with the world. Because if you remove those little details from Sophie Hatter's story, she just stops being, well, Sophie Hatter.

One of the most telling moments of this change for me is probably the scene of Sophie's reaction to Howl's tantrum in the movie. More specifically, she starts a whole monologue about how she never thought she was beautiful. And she cries.

And don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with crying as a way of releasing emotions. I am a very tearful person myself. But this is just NOT what Sophie Hatter would do.

Her reaction to certain events has a lot to do with her lifestyle and her past. Being the oldest child in a family that went through a lot of changes in a short period of time, she was a child with a certain burden of conformity on her shoulders. It's not uncommon for older children in a family to hold a certain role, a certain burden, simply because they have someone to look out for. (Megan, by the way, probably has this same problem, but more on that later. I can't deal with the character who has two lines right now). In such a role, one usually has to push one's own emotions aside in order to deal with the emotions of the younger children who need to be calmed. Fanny herself said that Sophie was great at helping her sisters when they were having tantrums, and Sophie recalled how she looked after them. It's not a maternal role, that word would be too strong, but it's definitely a role of a responsible adult.

That is why her first reaction to Howl's tantrum is to calm him down. Exploiting the problem, exploring it, telling him he's just acting out, and immediately starting to clean up the mess right after the tantrum: these are all things she learned the hard way. BUT not to cry. Because crying would be pointless here.

There's even a moments when she wants to cry but doesn't do it. Because she's in the middle of dialogue with Martha, because she wants her to believe everything is good and because that's not the actual way her true self, not the tired girl Fanny was making, is expressing her emotions.

Digging further into this hole, instead of crying, Sophie's most common reaction to a stimulus is usually anger. Harsh responses to customers in the store, constant negotiations with Howl, cutting up his suits. assertiveness, and frequent impulsiveness. Those parts of her character that she had to keep inside for so long because of her role as the "oldest" and finally, having gained freedom because of her "old age", she was able to show. She's obviously not always angry, no, she can be pretty nice and calm, but it doesn't means she can't be angry, serious or mischievous in her own way If she wants to.

If I had suddenly realized that I had fallen in love with the worst wizard in the world at the worst possible time, I would have burst into tears. But Sophie? Sophie chooses to burn half the garden with a bucket of weed killer and then throw the same weed killer at the same man.

And most importantly: NO ONE, absolutely no one, blames her for it. No one tells her to shut up, stops her from throwing the herbicide, or condemns her. On the contrary, Howl instantly starts a habitual quarrel and says something about the color of the curtains. Just because that's how she expresses herself. There is nothing wrong with crying, yes, but there is nothing wrong with being angry either.

And don't get me started on how a complex, interesting line about seeing ourselves and how the future we envision for ourselves can hold us back is turned into a simple story about a "beauty complex." Sophie Hatter's problem was never that she wasn't beautiful. Her problem was always how she saw herself and her destiny, feeling trapped in a framework that she could so easily break. Not related to her appearance, but to her destiny, her life path, her disbelief that something interesting could happen to her, that she could become someone IMPORTANT. And she breaks this belief herself. Yes, Howl's words are the final point of the end of her idea, but she doesn't need a classic romantic man to tell her that "she is beautiful". She already knows it. She is proving to herself first and foremost that she is capable of better things, even when she doesn't fully recognize it.

And by simply making her cry, you remove in one fell swoop the aspects of her character that built it.

#howl's moving castle #sophie hatter #howl pendragon #howell jenkins #hmc #howl's moving castle book #hmc book #analysis #listen I like the movie and its visuals and stuff and Ik that DWJ like it and Ik WHY #but I just can't help but dislike the downgrade of both Sophie and Howl's characters #will add some tags later I'm just tired now (

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samd1o1 · 2 months

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Hey I don’t want to comment for real bc I’m sick of arguing with people on tumblr

I just wanted to say that in that post about deadpool and wolverine’s queerness, you are like 1000% in the right. Normally I don’t feel this strongly about stuff but anyone who thinks that Disney seriously and earnestly “delivered” on deadpool (and wolverine?) being queer is delusional

I mean, I love the movie. I’ve seen it twice and giggled my way through it both times. Obviously I enjoy the queer aspect of their relationship. But what you said about being able to be critical of your favorite media is important. The fact that people are arguing that there are no issues with the gay jokes in d&w but ACTUALLY it’s all indicative of a genuinely made film about two queer men is like actually SO crazy

Thank you, yes! The movie is absolutely amazing in the fact it's funny and well written. And yes I like the gay jokes, they're cheeky and enjoyable. But I think they'd be more enjoyable if any amount of Wade's (and also Logan's) queerness was taken seriously. Even just a little seriously.

I think the part that annoyed me about the movie most was Wade breaking up with Vanessa. Yeah it works for the movie and his character development. But at the same time I can't help but assume the reasoning for it was so queer people could go "hey they're both single, maybe just maybe Deadpool and Wolverine will get together?" No they won't this is Disney. He'll probably be back together with Vanessa eventually (even if it's not immediately).

Like I said on the comments of the post you're referring to; saying this is good queer rep is just an excuse so Disney (and Marvel) doesn't have to actually try to make good representation. The MCU has had many issues like this before. The single Loki bisexual conversation only for them to chicken out on the mlm ship they were hinting at in S2 promotions. Loki also being labeled as genderfluid in promo stuff just for him to be referred to as a male Loki and such. Characters who are canonically bisexual in the comics like Starlord showing absolutely zero hints to their queerness. Eternals is the only real representation I can think of, but it felt very one note and boring. Like that whole movie.

In conclusion Deadpool is a great movie but my biggest gripe is just that the queer aspect is not taking seriously. As much as I love the Honda Odyssey scene, it would be cool if it wasn't just a weird mix of coding/bait. Queer coding is still a great writing tool. Using metaphors for queerness in fantasy can be fun. But the reason queer coding existed in the first place is because you weren't allowed to show any queer people on screen. But times have changed! You can show it, but Disney are cowards. The movie is also queerbaity as they set up things like Vanessa's break up only to start them almost back up again with Logan himself telling Wade to go for the girl. Not to mention all the promotional posters like Deadpool and Wolverine as Beauty And The Beast. Disneyland Deadpool is also being VERY heavy on the gay jokes, which makes me feel like they KNOW who their main target audience was gonna be with this movie, but they still need to cater to the movie dudebros as well. Maybe one day guys, maybe.

It's important to be critical of even your favorite media. If you weren't then it could never improve. Let your voices be heard! And to the people who think movies don't deserve such debate; why do you think that? So many people say that so they don't have to discuss representation in media but then turn around and rant about the comic accuracy. Also what do you think happens in a writers room? Criticism is important in media even to professionals. A movie is a group effort, many people had different ideas that eventually came together and made Deadpool 3. They also probably had many ideas that were shut down and not put in Deadpool 3 for various reasons. Some most likely being criticisms.

Ok I'm done ranting now. Deadpool 3, great movie, one of my favorites. But it would have benefited not only itself by being true to Wade and Logan letting them be their authentic queer selves; But it also would have benefited the queer community.

#I can't stress enough how much I love the Honda scene but that scene is still possible in a canonically queer light.#Because obviously they wouldn't show what it's a metaphor for on screen #That intensely at least #Be like Hannibal season 2 #They have homoerotic stabbing while being canonically queer.#Deadpool & Wolverine #Deadpool and Wolverine #Deadpool #Wolverine #Poolverine

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mvltisstuff · 1 year

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i got you babe - j.h.k

summary: y/n worked the hardest she ever has on this new project, and she thinks jonah can’t make it to her premiere.

jonah hauer king x reader

a/n: I DID IT GUYS TAKE IT AND GO.

this movie had been the best, and also the most exhausting film y/n has ever acted in. she was working with one of the most important directors in a thriller movie. she knew the filming would take a toll, it required her to almost turn into her character, also carrying disturbing plot moments. she also knew this movie was the movie for her. the promotion was booming across the countries for her and it would likely be nominated for several awards due to the script and production.

she had invited everyone to the premiere. her best friends, her family, her boyfriends family, even her boyfriends cast mates. jonah was the most important person in her life. his career was finally starting to skyrocket. he filmed the little mermaid while y/n was also filming, and both of them were at a complete peak in their career. jonah had held her hand at every red carpet, and she held jonah’s on his. everything the other one did was only brought up with praise from the other.

the couple was laying in their bed on their sides, their legs tangled together as they admired the others features. y/n ran her hand through jonah’s soft hair, and his finger was gliding across her cheekbones. “you feeling ok about the premiere tomorrow?”

“i’m just gonna get it over with. i really wish you could be there,” y/n speaks softly in response.

“i know, darling,” he replies, sadly. “i would give anything to be there with you. you put blood, sweat, and tears into this movie and i so badly want to be there holding your hand. i’m so, so sorry love.”

“it’s alright, jonah,” y/n smiles to hopefully release some of his pity. “when it’s over, i’m coming right back home to you.”

she leaves a quick kiss on his lips, and jonah is unsatisfied. so, he leans in, deepening the kiss and rolling her on top of him. “i like the sound of that,” he says, his sweet accent swimming through his words.

y/n stepped onto the red carpet and was confronted with camera flashes and yells for her name. she could barely see a foot in front of her, immediately getting overwhelmed by the bright white lights poisoning her eyes. the release of the movie had already been stressful enough, she didn’t need more people screaming to get her attention.

the only person she wanted was jonah. he knew every single way to calm her down and whatever she needed to feel better. she knew the same for him, and she just wished he was here to help her. she just wants to feel his presence, his touch. however, jonah wasn’t there this time, and she had to help herself. so, she forced herself through to the end of the carpet, showing off her dress and putting on a fake beam for the photos that she’d probably see on twitter later.

she hid behind the large wall that concealed her from the photographers. she ran her hand over her hair, trying not to mess it up but desperately needing some pressure off of her. she figured she could have at least a minute alone with her thoughts, but her assistant had walked over to her again. “y/n! there’s someone here to see you, they’re being sent in now. they’ve requested for you.”

y/n sighs. it’s just more press or another interviewer to ask the same questions. she doesn’t want to sound ungrateful. the life she’s been given is beyond fulfilling, and she would never want to take it for granted. but right now, she just wants the arms of her boyfriend to hold her.

she walks around the carpet with blurry vision, trying to contain her tears to maintain her perfect makeup. she fans her eyes, dropping the fake smile and following her assistant to the person who suggested a meeting with her. the second she sees the tall man in front of her, she just wants to fly into his arms. so, she walks over to jonah faster and he starts walking too. he meets her halfway, letting her lean into him and allowing him to take some of the pressure.

“it’s ok, you’re alright,” he reassures, placing his hand on the back of her head as her face is buried into his chest. “i’m here, love.”

“how did you get here?” y/n asks, confused but relieved.

“i managed to move some things around. the producer told me you weren’t yourself, so i knew i had to be here. you’re forever my priority, y/n.”

“i love you so much,” she speaks, pulling away from him and kissing his cheek. “thank you, truly.”

“i wouldn’t chose to be anywhere but with you.”

“y/n!” the voice of her manager rolled in. “let’s start getting back out there.”

“can you come with me?” y/n asks, hoping jonah can hold her hand on the carpet.

“of course, darling,” he says, and they walk out together as y/n’s worries start to disintegrate with his touch.

#i need him so bad #MY MANNNNNN #jonah hauer king #jonah hauer king x reader #jonah hauer king x y/n #jonah hauer king fluff #prince eric fic #prince eric #halle bailey #the little mermaid #the little mermaid 2023 #a dogs way home #the little mermaid live action #ariel x eric #jonah hauer king x you #jonah hauer king marry me please #have my babies

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machinesonix · 6 months

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Okay so chewing my way through Dune for the first time as an adult and there’s this chapter that’s got me wilding out so hard I’m basically just gonna paraphrase it here. Obviously concessions need to be made when switching mediums and I think the films have done a splendid job, but I think they sorta took the teeth out of this one.

When the Atredies first touch down on Dune, Lady Jessica is introduced to their groundskeeper, an elderly Fremen woman called ‘the Shadout Mapes.’ Now Mapes is extremely excited to meet a member of the Bene Gesserit, from which Jessica correctly concludes the ministoria protectiva has been here seeding the local mythology with favorable propaganda. Like a good third of the new movie is screaming about how fucked up all that is, so I will curb my enthusiasm to explain what the funny words mean in exhaustive detail, but suffice to say the Space Mom Cult secretly shapes cultures all across the universe to recognize them as cool people that everybody ought to listen to when they show up. So Jessica immediately code switches into Ominous Witch Mode and shows off some of her preternatural powers of observation by calling out the Shadout Mapes for having a weapon on her. In the movie the knife is a gift. The book has a little more nuance that has me absolutely salivating.

Mapes flips out and shows her the knife, which later we’re gonna learn is made from a worm tooth. She explains that Jessica might be the One, and if she is, the knife belongs to her. If she isn’t then she’s gonna kill Jessica with it because now she already knows too much. And to put her to the test she asks her what the knife is. Jessica hopes to establish her credibility by being well versed in ancient tongues, and intends to call it the ‘maker of death’ because in the language that the word ‘Shadout’ is derived from that’s the idiomatic translation of ‘knife.’

Instead Mapes starts screaming in religious fervor as soon as she hears the word ‘Maker.’ Because the worms make the spice, see. Jessica absolutely triples down on this, and this is what drives me wild. Immediately after narrowly escaping murder by a lucky stroke of linguistics she’s like FUCK YOU, WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE NOT THINKING I WOULD RECOGNIZE THE MAKER. IN FACT, I’M GONNA STAB YOU NOW. Like okay, what she actually does is go ‘Mapes, now that the blade’s been drawn who’s blood is it gonna taste?’ And here I just have to say hats off to the Bene Gesserit for their training in genre awareness. Jessica has absolutely no idea of any of the customs surrounding a crysknife and risks blowing her cover here to flex even harder. She’s right, of course, and lets the Shadout Mapes off with just a scratch. It turns out Fremen have hypercoagulant blood which is not terribly important but still kinda cool.

So to put a bow on all of this, the Shadout Mapes ends up saying something along the lines of ‘She is the One, she will free us.’ This shocks Jessica. She recognizes this line from the ministoria protectiva, and knows that only the super fucked up horrible places wind up with the ‘we will save you from your oppressors’ prophecies. And I just love it because here we've got a microcosm of what this is all about. The ministoria protectiva did exactly what it was supposed to do and saved a Bene Gesserit life because Mapes heard her own religion in what's basically a cold read con. This exploitative power is so intense that Mapes is willing to give Jessica her life; there's no reason for a Fremen to expect somebody is going to show mercy with a crysknife. And then when she's feeling at her highest and mightiest she gets a wake up call. These people have context.

The Fremen don't have their finger on the pulse of galactic politics. They know there is a limited amount of moisture in their atmosphere and that the off-worlders in the palaces are going to take enough of it to keep themselves comfortable. As far as they're concerned, the Atredies are basically Harkonnens with better personal hygiene. The freedom the Shadout Mapes is talking about is freedom from Jessica's family. The ministoria protectiva doesn't exist in a vacuum. The Fremen's history of oppression has become inseparable from what was meant to be a means to control them.

#dune #dune meta #ministoria protectiva #lady jessica

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nemmet · 1 year

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What are some of your favorite Fred and Daphne moments? Romantic or platonic

AAAH thank you for giving me the opportunity to ramble about them!! always so so appreciated. and for specifying romantic or platonic too!! while a lot of their significant moments together from the 90s onwards have been somewhat romantically charged, i love them even when they're just a goofy pair of friends with no immediate romantic implications.

because (mini fraphne history side tangent), they weren't always intended as love interests! the "fred chooses to search for clues with daphne because he fancies her" reading of the original show technically isn't true — they were just paired off because the writers found them boring and wanted an excuse to get them out of the picture for a few scenes. which makes the fact that they've since grown to become an iconic duo in their own right all the more inspiring!

so without further ado, here are some of my favourite moments of theirs!! 💙💜

(begins under the cut!)

the best birthday present ever — zombie island

if i could count their general existence in this movie as a single moment i would. i am so weak to the fact that even after the gang splits ways, fred and daphne stick together, and fred plays such a crucial supporting role in daphne's dreams/career/life. and their relationship hasn't descended into being just boring coworkers — daphne has been so busy with work that she forgot her own birthday, but fred is sure to make it special by doing no less than getting the whole gang back together. the way he teases her before revealing them, too!!! and the hug she gives him when he explains. i get such cosy, "known each other since forever" vibes from them in this movie, like they're just so comfortable and silly with each other and (sobs into my hands)

my hero — scooby doo and krypto too

the way this movie has already given us so many fraphne moments for the books. the Literal Kiss aside, this scene just made me smile from ear to ear. i'm not always so hot on the jealousy subplots these two often get, but i appreciated how this film had a more light-hearted take on it, and how fred was simply confused rather than upset. additionally, his attempts to impress daph are just so funny and sweet, you get the sense that he's just hamming it up to make her laugh and doesn't care if that's all he ends up doing. of course then he gets so into it that he doesn't register the monster right behind him, and jumps into daphne's arms just like the rest of the gang always do with him. the way he clings to her!! and how she says "oh come on". they are disasters and they need each other in this essay i will.

you're never going to lose me, fred — mystery incorporated

following their relationship in this show sure is a journey... and not always the best one. while i understand that they're teenagers going through a lot, it's sad to so often see their inherent chemistry as a duo lost in miscommunication and arguments. which makes the moments where they connect and come out stronger as a couple all the more rewarding!! this is hands down my favourite scene of theirs — while the conflict that leads up to it is uncomfortable (fred tightly scheduling their activities together), i like how daphne addresses it quickly rather than keeping her feelings hidden and simply expecting fred to pick up on them. by now she understands that fred needs direct communication (autism!!!), and that's ok!! meanwhile, fred has grown too; he actively opens up to daphne about his fears of losing his loved ones, something i don't think he could or would have done at the start of the show. he's come to understand his own emotions and the importance of expressing them. both of them learn from each other, and are able to move forward because of that. it's a wonderful little moment that really showcases the best of them!!

i love you — stage fright

THE fraphne scene. god. where do i begin. the fact that daphne wrote lyrics about her feelings for fred to the music he composed, and was terrified of ever showing them to him. but then she decides to break the condition she established to velma (only confessing to him after the contest), throws caution to the wind, and just,,,,, confesses her love to him live on stage in front of thousands of people!!!! and how fred looks so happy and content playing along to these lyrics that i'm sure he knows are about him, and when it comes to daphne singing "i love you", he says i love you back with ZERO HESITATION!!! like he was waiting to say it too!! because they're mutually pining dumbasses who will cry if they make eye contact in a remotely romantic context!!! god!!!!!!! also the nose boop before daph goes in for the kiss. adorable.

the engine / the driver — curse of the 13th ghost

this scene is another that has a lot to say about their relationship in a general sense, and it's so special to me!! i'm not crazy about this movie as a whole, but i love the running theme of fred and daphne's differing leadership qualities, and how they balance each other out. fred just wants to keep things the same as they've always been (autism!!!), but that often leads him to coming off as controlling or dismissive when he's in Planning Mode. he doesn't mean it, because he genuinely believes the best in the gang and their individual skills, so it's no wonder that he grows insecure when his place is questioned. but by the end of the film he accepts that daphne is the engine, the glue that fundamentally holds the gang together and keeps them running as a unit — they would be nowhere without her constant energy and willingness to take action. however, daphne reassures him that he'll always have his place as the driver, the man with the plan, the one to put things in motion and support everyone with all his heart along the way. and the tender way they look at each other to cap it all off!!!!!!!

knight in shining armour — sword and the scoob

i saved the (probably) best for last. less serious analysis here and more just me gushing because i spin this moment around my microwave brain on a daily basis. continuing the theme of "fred embraces his role as team cheerleader", he's not even upset when daphne has to fight in his place — he planned this and is wholeheartedly supporting her, to the point where it makes her flustered (she’s HIS knight in shining armour)!! and him giving her his ascot as a good luck charm!!!! nem found dead on the floor. not to mention "sir daphne/sir fred" and how they continue to call each other that. i swoon every time. they are so romantic in their own very silly and very teenager-y way and i love moments where they're just so unapologetic about that!!

i really hope you enjoyed and that this was what you were looking for!! fellow fred & daph fans, please feel free to comment and/or reblog with some of your own favourite moments!! i always love to see them. :D

#man this was so fun to write #i still want to keep this blog mostly art focused but i do miss making big rambly posts like this back on i-can-bench-220 #local fraphne guy feels emotions about fraphne while slightly loopy on flu medication #scooby doo #fred jones #daphne blake #fraphne #scooby doo on zombie island #scooby doo and krypto too #scooby doo mystery incorporated #scooby doo stage fright #scooby doo curse of the 13th ghost #scooby doo the sword and the scoob #nem misc posts :]

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moralesmilesanhour · 8 months

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AND ANOTHER THING! Going off of my tags on my previous post, outside of me just thinking they're cute I also feel like flowerbyte works better for me purely on a narrative level. One of my biggest pet peeves esp for action movies is when the romantic subplot takes over like half the story without proper development. It doesn't matter WHO it is or how much I like the characters individually I will literally fast forward through every romantic scene if it feels shoehorned in. It makes it so tedious you don't even understand. (Haterism ahead. Well not really 'hate' just mild irritation really. this is looong):

So let's look at Gwen and Miles' relationsip. We start ITSV with Miles basically having a one-sided crush on Gwen. By the end of the film they had just agreed to be friends and have known each other for maybe like a week tops, and *maybe* Gwen reciprocates but it's not extremely clear. Whatever occurs between them in between ITSV and ATSV, we don't see (it's implied that they haven't even seen each other at all for obvious reasons so. oof).

But then we jump into ATSV, and suddenly they're swinging into the sunset talking about how they're "the same"...? Besties. Friends. Niece and nephew. Neither of you know each other dfghjkl

Then the wholeee rest of their scenes together is just the film trying desperately convince us through the music, framing, and even other characters' dialogue that there is romantic (notice how i specify ROMANTIC) tension between these two kids that is just so thick you could cut through it with a butter knife. I'm sorry, but is this tension in the room with us right now...? But okay movie.

Now, compare that to the scene in ATSV where Miles and Margo first bump into each other. They're able to establish romantic chemistry almost IMMEDIATELY! One look and a 'hey'. That's all it fuckin' took! They *both* like each other and it's clear as day.

Then right after, Margo is given a quick implied backstory that instantly gives her and Miles a reason to relate to each other that isn't (necessarily) just about them both being Spider-Man (because, in Margo's words, they're ALL Spider-Man and this means you need more than that to form a genuine connection). Neither of them feel like they can be themselves because their environment at home doesn't allow for it, even without the secret identity. Bada-bing bada-boom instant connection in under 5 minutes and I am still awake by the end of it.

Then, finally, we get a scene that shows that they can, to some extent, trust each other. Margo only just met this dude a few scenes ago, but she immediately goes against Miguel's wishes knowing the consequences and attempts to send him back home because her convictions are stronger than her loyalty to Spider Society. Just that act alone makes her a better ally to Miles than like, half the cast at this point.

...And that creates a bit of a dilemma if Gwiles is meant to be endgame.

As literally everyone and their mother have pointed out by now, Gwen is objectively a bad friend to Miles in this film. But...I would also argue that there are very few instances outside of combat in either film where she's even a *good* friend. And that's sort of the point, isn't it? Gwen has been terrible at friendship for the majority of the time we spend with her because she's traumatized from literally murdering the last good friend she had. Then her dad tried to shoot her. Then Miguel-- you know how it goes. She clearly has a long way to go before even a healthy *friendship* with Miles can start to develop. So that leaves me with a few questions:

A) Why did we wait until the last scene of the SECOND FILM for her to finally decide to be a good friend

B) Why didn't they just give Miles and Gwen more scenes together where they actually get to know each other if their relationship is now so important to the story, and:

C) If Gwen's whole journey is about her inability to maintain strong friendships...Why the FUCK is she the love interest then???

Either we all just got baited, or we are now going to have to spend a decent portion of BTSV watching Gwen try to salvage a friendship that was barely even that developed to begin with, convince the guy whose trust she just lost that she would ALSO make a good girlfriend i guess, and all the while there is now another potential love interest that is clearly, *according to the movie itself*, the better option (or so it seems for now). So like...Where do we go from here?? It just feels like a clumsy narrative decision. And if they do the misogynistic ass 'cat-fight' between two female characters over the main guy I will literally commit a felony. So yeah that's where my head is at right now thank you for reading all the way through my tangent over pixels on a screen sorry everybody

#blabbering #u can disagree but keep it cute #these are just things that don't make sense to ME in MY brain #and again we are only talking about narrative for the most part ship who you want i dont care #.

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fiddlepickdouglas · 1 year

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Disclaimer: This post is an interpretation of some of the Barbie movie's themes and messages, particularly struggles men are faced with. That's its focus. It is not exhaustive of all possible takes or understandings of the film, either mine or others. If talking about men as equal human beings is a problem for you, feel free to ignore this post and then block me. Otherwise, carry on.

One of my favorite parts of Barbie is when Gloria is doing Barbie's makeup toward the end and they're talking about overturning everything that the Kens have done to Barbieland, where Barbie expresses how she just didn't expect her Ken to act out so drastically. Gloria tells her it's because he has feelings for her, hinting that creating Kendom is how he tried to express those feelings and his upset with the constant rejection he's gotten. And when Barbie starts to say she's afraid of hurting him by going behind his back Gloria stops her.

I could praise that moment alone for showing how women need to stop apologizing for the feelings of others, but this is really key: Gloria doesn't trash talk Ken. She states the bad things he did but she never equates those actions with who Ken is, because they're not. I feel like any other film would've gone the route of "He's an asshole/You don't need him/Dump the douchebag/Why do you care about him when he's treated you like this?" (and to be fair I have a huge tendency to go that way myself)

Gloria doesn't even know Ken! But she was right not to immediately act like he was garbage. I don't know if she got that understanding from Barbie herself or just from being a long-term Barbie doll lover and employee at Mattel, but it stands out to me. We even see proof that none of the Kens are truly bad! In the beginning of the film they're just dudes (Just Kens, lol, I set myself up for that)! Dudes that don't even know what they don't know and can't be blamed for it.

Because the truth is that men are not inherently trash and their actions do not come from an innately evil place. Unfortunately for men, especially in the west, society has come up short in teaching them how to deal with and properly express how they feel in favor of power and saving face. Emotions hold bigger weight than they even know, but the modes they've been allowed are generally aggression, romantic passion, and cool. Nothing outside the lines. Imagine trying to sort a giant ball of complex emotions into one of those three things and stay normal.

Gloria understands that the lack of emotional maturity and regulation is where Ken's dramatic tantrum stems from. While she has experience with the patriarchy and knows how to deal with it because of the situation in the real world, I find it fascinating that her character is the one to understand both sides because she also has experience as a matriarch. (I could be wrong, but it seems like she's the breadwinner of the household. The role of her husband I have no commentary on other than que Dios lo bendice, el pobre no se puede hablar español).

So while Barbieland agrees to barely give the Kens back any power (an extremely accurate reflection of what women get in the real world), the film and its characters ultimately don't villainize or punish them further for their wrongs. Punishment isn't always the right action when someone is wrong (insert commentary on Barbie and Ken constantly getting put in jail in the real world vs. no such thing happening in their own). Sometimes it's simply helping them understand what they're dealing with and guiding them through the ordeal step by step.

Painting the Kens as all bad would've ignored what a Ken is. He is a doll just like Barbie. Ken's issue is that he's unloved and the only form of love he has been given to accept is romantic love. What he and all the other Kens begin to discover at the end of the film is self love, which is just as important, if not more.

Now I'm going to rephrase that last paragraph.

Painting men as all bad ignores what a man is. They are humans just like women are. Most men's issue is that they are unloved and the only form of love they've been given to accept is romantic love. What the men of this world need to discover is self love, which is just as important, if not more.

#barbie #barbie meta #gloria barbie #america ferrera #god i have such a crush on that woman #barbie spoilers

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magnorious · 8 months

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Review: ‘We Take a Zebra to Vegas’, Percy Jackson Episode 6

***Spoilers Ahead for all books and show. TL;DR at the bottom***

After episode 5 I was starting to wonder if episode 3 was a fluke. Here we have the potential for the only non-book reference I wanted in the entire show: Would Nico cameo in the Lotus Casino?

Small, I know, but book fans were robbed of ever seeing him on screen once already when Titan’s Curse was never adapted and with his massive popularity, I was almost certain he’d be here. The closer we got to the Lotus Casino, however, the more I wanted to be wrong. Almost none of the characters look like they’re supposed to, many of them with inconsistent personalities to match. I went from hoping for a blink-and-you’ll miss it reference with a little scruffy 10-year-old that book fans would be able to tell is Nico by his appearance alone to hoping they’d not touch the matter with a 10-foot pole.

After the absurdly dramatic and angsty episode 5 that was supposed to be semi-dangerous and funny, there was a chance to have both the whimsy and wonder of the Lotus Casino, and the rather chilling escape. Before that, the conversation about conservation in the back of the zoo trafficking truck. There was a lot of opportunity for more quiet character moments as well as the adventure and absolutely no need for more nonsense filler.

Onto the episode and given that Hermes is in the thumbnail, are we all in agreement that he only exists here because he’s played by Lin Manuel Miranda? That’s the reason, right? He barely exists in the first book otherwise.

We start right off the bat with more interesting changes. Instead of IM-ing Luke in some random car wash, they do so in the zoo truck. The scene in the book was funnier, because it existed in the place that it did to be funny and the pay-to-pump water gave a clear time limit. But more importantly – they decided to scapegoat Clarisse… for reasons.

Why? Just why? In the book they spend 99% of their quest accusing the wrong person, Hades, and don’t realize they’re wrong until it’s too late. Everyone in the book was like “it’s Hades, it’s gotta be, his kids were Nazis” (a detail I still can’t believe exists, wow). Chiron said it was Hades, everyone said it was Hades, based on ancient biases that Hades spends the entire series proving wrong. He is the best godly parent by a country mile by the end of Book 5 and all of that groundwork started here, when Hades was just as much a victim of the Master Bolt nonsense as everyone else.

Clarisse is neither here nor there, because the writers didn’t have the foresight to script or film any scenes at camp of this random arrest that’s supposed to be important now. The jump cut from ‘the animals have a plan’ to them stopping traffic on the Vegas strip was funny, but it robbed the scene of the seriousness it should have had. More powers Percy doesn’t get: His ability to talk to horses and horse-adjacent animals.

Once they make it to the Lotus Casino, the script does this incredibly irritating thing where it removes the tension of the unknown from every hurdle they meet. Percy’s trapped alone against a mysterious monster in the book and has no idea how to beat it? Nope, Annabeth exposits all over it. They enter a seemingly-abandoned, mortal waterpark and only get suspicious once it’s too late? Nope, Annabeth figures out immediately that it’s a godly amusement park and they must be careful. Two twelve year olds and a satyr are immediately charmed by the glitz and glam of the lotus casino and get trapped for almost the rest of their time limit for the quest? Nope, Grover exposits all over that, too, ruining the mystery and any danger or threat.

Why?

The show also does the irritating thing where it creates problems just to solve them later and before you go “that’s the point of conflict” I mean it creates meaningless problems through meaningless contrivances, like every horror movie cliche that forces its characters to make illogical choices so they don’t just run away from the horror.

And another irritating thing! Spoiling bigger mysteries before their time: We didn’t learn about May Castellan until book 5. Why is this here? What purpose does this serve? Percy realizing he didn’t even know Luke’s last name for five whole years meant something to him. Seeing Luke’s tragic, mortal mother, after hating him for five years *means something* to Percy and to the readers. The gods damned Lotus Casino was absolutely not the place to discover any of this. Why did they do this?

Also, who tf is Augustus? He’s fine. Grover’s random side quest is fine. Every consecutive episode leaves me more and more annoyed with him, but it’s *fine*.

They do actually forget their purpose in the casino, thank the gods. Or, Grover does. Annabeth continues to give away May Castellan exposition like Halloween candy, smack-talking Hermes in a way that she’d never dare at 12 years old. Hermes is still only here because he’s played by Mr. Miranda. He’s fine, he’s just not Hermes. His “woe is me, loving mortals is so damn hard” speech exists. The sentiment is four books early, but it exists.

I understand why it’s here. They’re trying desperately to capture Percy’s internal conflict over whether or not the gods and his dad care about him, if he should let himself be disappointed presuming that they don’t. Problem is– in the book, Poseidon didn’t send a naiad to give him false promises of a clandestine meeting. In the book, the naiad told Percy there’d be a vague “gift” in Santa Monica, and Percy was never naive enough to think that gift would be his dad.

The entire season so far has tried to give nuance to both sides of the “do the gods care and should they be expected to” argument and it’s just not a very well written attempt. Why? Because it had five entire books to give both sides, and they’re shoving as much of it as they can here like they’re afraid they won’t get renewed for season 2. In doing so, they’ve made a tonal mess.

Once Hermes is gone and done randomly and spitefully sabotaging their quest, Percy, unseen, figures out that they’ve lost time and lost Grover. Also, Annabeth pick-pocketed the God of Thieves? Funny, but no. The script has its weird Mitichlorian moment sciencing lore by adding in the detail that lotus nectar or whatever is pumped in through the air, a question no one had and a plot hole that didn’t exist.

They do manage to keep the fear and unsettling realization that they’ve lost time, but their amnesia is inconsistent and confusing, considering that they overexplained how the casino works. Then they’re gone using a God of Thieves’ Car gimmick.

No Nico, thank the gods, unless he was one of the VR kids in the background. It would have been wonderful to see him in a better script.

In the book, they get instantly dazzled by the food, the video games, the nice clothes, nice suite, all things Percy could never dream about growing up poor. There is no Hermes and he only figures out something’s wrong when he meets other kids displaced from time and has to shake Annabeth and Grover from the illusion. They use their casino cash cards with infinite money to hail a cab all the way to LA and it’s funny.

They create more problems that didn’t need to exist by forcing Percy to drive a taxi and okay, that was genuinely funny. I am shocked, though, that Annabeth’s pride let him drive.

The episode comes to an end with them supposedly by the Santa Monica Pier… in a thunderstorm. In southern California. Odd choice, but okay. I'd say the storm exists because Poseidon's pissed but I really think it's there beacuse "dark and stormy night" fit their new vibe better than bright sunlight.

Maybe in live action it was tricky trying to make him both dry underwater and still plausibly underwater and not just rotoscoped in with a hazy green filter. For all their love of exposition, they never actually told non-book watchers about that, or that he can breathe underwater and control some currents. It’s also supposed to be night time, and yet he’s lit as if it’s high noon far above on the surface – they could have just written the beach scene at noon.

Then the naiad he was supposed to talk to in St Louis drops the bomb that the Summer Solstice deadline already passed, Poseidon got too impatient to wait for Percy after the casino delay, and the gods are now at war.

What the fu…..?

Percy resolves to keep going despite armageddon already happening apparently. She gives him exactly the right amount of pearls that he needs, not three, which would force him to choose, and then cut to black.

—

How is the best part of this episode Annabeth’s completely deadpan and exasperated Dude when Percy asks her not to make fun of him? That, and Percy driving the taxi.

Once again, to all the set designers and VFX artists and costumes and makeup and foley and music and score and everyone in between – you’re amazing, keep up the great work. To the actors, you were given a bad script and bad direction and you did the best you could.

Having just come off watching Game of Thrones for the first time and seeing little Arya, Bran, and Rickon Stark’s actors doing donuts around these three just goes to show that it’s not that child actors’ lack of experience that’s the problem. Heck even Baby Percy is better than these three. It’s how much or how little help they get in conveying what they’re supposed to. These kids were thrown to the wolves.

I don’t watch the teasers and I stay away from all marketing for the show. I don’t know who’s been cast to play any characters we haven’t already seen so what Hades and Poseidon look like are a complete mystery that I do hope pays off.

With two episodes to go they have the following left from the book to adapt: Crusty’s water beds, the DOA studios, the entire trip to the underworld and Cerberus and Hades that took two hefty chapters, the Ares fight, Percy’s trip to Olympus, Luke's betrayal and reveal, and the return home to find Hades had paid his debt.

Suddenly the mini series with an episode to burn in St Louis has to sprint to the finish line.

Maybe if they hadn’t spent ten minutes expositing with Hermes they could have at least crammed in Crusty and the DOA, but it looks like armageddon is already upon us so who knows? They might’ve just tossed out the rest of the book to write their own ending.

TL;DR This show is a mess and this episode actually has me nostalgic for the brevity of the horrible movie because they didn’t even try and it’s fun to make fun of. This is just disappointment stretched out across seven hours instead of speedrun in 90 minutes. The skeleton of the book (mostly) remains intact and to all those who keep saying “at least it’s not the movie,” you’re right. Enjoy.

#pjo series #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson #review #pjo

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sequinsmile-x · 1 year

Text

All the Bad Dreams You Hide, Show Me Yours and I’ll Show You Mine

She tried to convince herself that it was better this way, that friendship was enough, because she couldn’t lose Aaron. Not again.

A close call, a nightmare and a 3 a.m. phone call change everything between Emily and Aaron.

-x-

Hi friends!

Here's a getting together fic for you this Sunday night! I think it's important to note I was listening to Phoebe Bridger's entire discussion whilst writing this, and as @ssa-sparks once told me, I probably shouldn't be allowed to listen to her music hahaha

I hope you like it, and please do let me know what you think <3

-x-

Words: 3.8k

Warnings: lots of feelings

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

It had been a close call. Too close.

From the very start of the case, from the moment Penelope presented the team with photos of victims who looked a little too much like Emily, Aaron had a bad feeling about it. Fear had immediately crawled under his skin, taking residence in his bloodstream, making his stomach churn whenever he looked at the woman who had somewhere along the way become his best friend. She took it in her stride as she always did, her only acknowledgement of the resemblance she had with four dead women a brief widening of her eyes and a clearing of her throat before she moved on. A fake smile on her face as she asked questions whilst Penelope presented the case.

He hadn’t been able to shake it off so quickly, his eyes fixed on the pictures in front of him until Emily had laid a hand on his shoulder. Her touch had brought him back to himself, forcing him to turn to look at her where she was sitting next to him. She’d offered him a half smile, a tiny moment between the two of them that had passed the others by. A quiet reassurance that she was fine, that she was right there with him, that nothing was going to happen to her. All he’d been able to do is nod sharply before he pushed forward, forcing his fear back down into his stomach, letting it settle there so he could do his job. He’d always admired her ability to compartmentalise, something that made much more sense once he learnt of her past with Interpol, but there were times like this when it scared him.

She’d always been stronger than him, he just hoped one day it wouldn’t get her killed again. He didn’t have to imagine what it would be like to bury her, how it felt to try and live without her.

It was only after he’d signed off on her fake death, only after he made that decision for her that he realised he was in love with her. Months and years worth of moments that had passed him by as they happened playing on a loop in his head, a grim film reel his subconscious wouldn’t give him reprieve from. A reminder of what he could have had if he’d been braver, if he’d realised something was wrong and saved her before he had to bury her to keep her alive. He told himself if he ever got her back he’d tell her, he’d admit what he wishes he’d been brave enough to admit to himself back when everything was a little bit simpler. When they weren’t both recovering from being torn open by their monsters, broken and left in pieces on the ground, forced to pull themselves back together in solitude.

When she did come back she was different. A shell of the person she once was. It was a feeling he was familiar with. The desire to fit back into a life that no longer felt like yours and the exhaustion that came with it. The need to be recognised as who you were now, that going back was impossible. Instead of burdening her with anything else he was simply her friend. The person she came to on her bad days. Coffee before work that turns into wine and dinner afterwards. Nights spent at his apartment with Jack that brought out her real smile, the one that made Aaron’s world stop. It was time he cherished, a part of his life he couldn’t imagine being without, so he’d decided to not tell her how he felt, to lock it away. He’d rather have her in his life like this than not at all.

Even if that meant one day he’d probably have to watch her love someone else. He wonders if that was his penance for not being able to save her from Ian. A cruel punishment that he’d been handed down by a God he wasn’t sure he believed in.

Overall, the case goes as so many of them do. They work the profile, help the locals speak to victims families and they do their jobs well. It’s typical, until the unsub corners Emily during the takedown.

It’s fast and he knows she’s never in any actual danger, but those few seconds when she had a gun pointed at her head, angry vitriol being spat at her by a man who hated her purely because she looked like his ex, were haunting Aaron. Following him like a phantom around his apartment, tapping him on the shoulder and whispering all the ways he’d failed into his ear until he forces himself to go to bed.

He knows Emily is worried about him, a thought that feels absurd given she’d been the one who could have been hurt, but he’d shrugged her off before they left the jet. A smile he knew she didn’t buy plastered on his face as he insisted he was fine before he sent everyone home for the day.

He’d be okay. He always was. He’d get past this like he had everything else because he didn’t have a choice.

He believes it. Right up until the moment he wakes up, her name an echoing scream around his bedroom.

___

Emily grumbles as she wakes up, briefly burying her face in her pillow as she’s torn from sleep. She looks at the clock on her nightstand and growls, furrowing her brow when she sees it’s 3 am, wondering why on earth her alarm was set so damn early. It takes a second for her to realise the sound is her phone ringing and she sighs as she sits up.

“If this is Pen with a case I swear I’m kidnapping all those trolls in her office,” she says gruffly to herself, turning her phone over and blinking harshly against the bright light.

Her breath catches in her chest when she sees Aaron’s name on the screen accompanied by a picture she’d taken of him and Jack last time they went to the park. Any remaining desire to go back to sleep disappears, replaced by concern for her friend.

For the man she loves.

When they first met she didn’t like him and she didn’t hide it. His own disdain for her enough to fuel the fire of it. She’d slowly started to like him, finding him funny in a way she hadn’t anticipated when he chastised her for asking after a politician in her first few weeks on the team. She likes to think that they’d worn each other down, that their sharp edges had lined up perfectly, slotting together like pieces of a puzzle she’d never expected to piece together. She realised she was in love with him after Foyet had attacked him, but the timing had never been right.

A part of her had wished she’d jumped him the very first time she’d felt attracted to him, sure that they would have been entirely incapable of simply having a physical relationship and that it would have lead to them being together. She wished she could have been there for him throughout the ordeal with Foyet, that she could have held him the way she’d itched to when Haley died - wanting nothing more than to provide the comfort she knew he’d never ask for.

Despite that, she knew it was good they weren’t together, that whatever fantasy she had of a normal life with him had died with her. She was glad he hadn’t been drawn into the situation with Ian, something Aaron absolutely wouldn’t have let her face alone if they were together. She’d never have been able to forgive herself if something had happened to him or Jack, the sound of their names coming from Ian’s lips, the way he pronounced them, still liable to echo around her mind in the middle of the night.

She tried to convince herself that it was better this way, that friendship was enough, because she couldn’t lose Aaron. Not again.

She answers the phone quickly, “Aaron?” She asks, her voice rough from sleep. She doesn’t hear a response, just ragged breathing, something that only makes her panic more, “Aaron? Are you okay?” There’s another pause, another second that feels like it lasts a lifetime, and she sighs, already throwing off the sheets covering her lap and going in search of some pants to wear with the t-shirt she’d been sleeping in, “Aaron, I need you to-”

“I’m okay,” he says, sounding anything but as he cuts across her, and it does nothing to reassure her, “I’m okay.”

“You’ve called me at 3 a.m.,” she says, pressing the phone between her ear and her shoulder to hold it in place as she pulls on some sweatpants, “You sound…” she trails off, hesitant to embarrass him, “You sound like you’ve been crying.”

“Sorry-”

“No, Aaron, honey that’s not-”

“Go back to sleep, Em. I’m fine. I’m sorry for calling I shouldn’t….I’m sorry.”

He hangs up, the line going dead and she sighs as she closes her eyes, her palm against her forehead as she tries not to go through all the worst-case scenarios she’s suddenly overwhelmed by. She tries to call him back but it doesn’t go through, the line ringing out until his voicemail, and she shakes her head as she exits her bedroom, grabbing her gun from the safe as she goes. She pulls on some shoes and grabs her car keys, ignoring the shake of her hands as she locks her apartment door behind her.

If she was ever asked about the drive to his apartment she wouldn’t be able to recall a second of it. She’s on autopilot the entire time, gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles go white, skin drawn so tightly across bone it almost hurts.

The car is barely parked by the time she’s out of it, and she remembers to lock it - not even looking back as she presses the button on her keys, pointing them in the general direction of her car as she walks away from it.

She has a key to his place. He gave it to her a few weeks ago when she looked after Jack by herself one night after school. She’d kept it, left it right next to the key for her place on her keychain, and she’d never been more grateful that she had. She slides the key into the lock and blows out a breath before she turns it, knocking on the door as she opens it.

“Aaron? It’s Emily.”

For a moment, it’s three years ago. The fear that licks at her insides, sending a shiver down her back, familiar as she pops her head around his door, her hand hovering over her gun in the waistband of her sweatpants. Instead of finding a blood stain on the floor, the shape of it still visible to her if she stared at the carpet too long, she finds him sitting on the couch. He’s leaning forward, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, and she’s not even sure he’s heard her. She remembers him saying Jack was away with Roy and Jessica, something she was currently grateful for, and she glances around quickly and is satisfied they are alone. She closes the door behind her and places her gun down before she walks over. She kneels in front of him and places her hand on his knee, squeezing tightly when he jumps, his eyes slightly wild as they meet hers.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she says, squeezing his knee again, “It’s just me.”

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, sure she’ll disappear, that this is just his mind being cruel to him again, but she’s still there when he looks back. Her eyes soft and full of concern as she looks at him.

“Emily? What…why are you here?”

She cups his cheek, only realising as she does it that she’s never done it before, and strokes along his jaw.

“You called me, remember?” She says, careful to make sure she keeps her voice quiet. He frowns for a moment and then he nods, the jumbled moments from the last hour or so unscrambling, finally becoming clear, “You hung up and I couldn’t call you back, I was worried.”

He nods again, clenching his jaw, something she feels beneath her palm, “I uh…I think I broke it. I threw it across the room.”

That makes her worry even more than she already had been. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen him lose control, when his carefully constructed hold on his emotions came undone, and it had only ever been in high moments of stress. She pushes the concern down, knowing she had to play this carefully, that she had to approach this like he was a caged animal.

She supposes in some ways he was, trapped in an enclosure he’d built himself. Chainlink fences welded together by parents who should have done more and a life that had dealt him more than his fair share of cruelty.

She flashes him a smile, “Well, that’s okay. We can get you a new one. I have it under good authority that your best friend is pretty loaded.”

He chokes on a sound she thinks is supposed to be a laugh before he swallows thickly, “Thank you for coming. You can go, Em. I’m fine.”

She scoffs and stands up before sitting next to him on the couch, close enough to force him to have to move to make room for her. She reaches for his hand, something else she’d never done before, and links their fingers together.

“Aaron, that clearly isn’t true,” she says as softly as she can, “You called me at 3 a.m., you barely made any sense…” she sighs, “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

His instinct is to tell her he’s fine, to insist that she leaves, but he knows no one had ever been able to convince Emily of something she didn’t want to do. She was just as stubborn as he was, a trait that he both loved in her and that frustrated him in equal measure, and he knew she wouldn’t leave. That she’d sit right here on his couch at 3.30 a.m. in a t-shirt, sweatpants and mismatched shoes. As he looks at her, nothing but understanding and something he thinks might be love reflecting in her dark eyes, he realises that he wants to tell her. That the part of him that wants to bask in her comfort, in her presence, is bigger than the part that wants her to leave so he can process this himself.

“I…” he shakes his head at himself and clears his throat, “I had a nightmare.”

It feels juvenile, and he hates it, but he sees no judgment flit over her face, only understanding, and for a selfish moment he’s grateful that this was something she understood.

“Oh,” she says, squeezing his hand again, smiling softly when he squeezes back, “Do you want to talk about it?”

He sighs and closes his eyes before he looks down at their joint hands, letting himself enjoy the feeling, how perfectly her hand fit in his.

“It was about today. We…I couldn’t save you,” he says, his voice tight as he relived it. Memories of what he’d seen in Boston when they couldn’t save her then mixing in with what had happened today. The feel of her blood against his skin just as warm as her hand was in his now, “I was too late.”

It feels like a punch to the gut, guilt filling her lungs so quickly it winds her, leaving her temporarily unable to breathe. He doesn’t need to say any more for her to know what’s happened, what he’d seen in the dream that had pushed him to call her when he was still half in it. She wonders if she’d ever be free from it, if the decisions she’d made back when she had no one would ever stop impacting the people she had now. The ripple effect forever ongoing, moving outwards in ways she could never have imagined when she first heard the name Ian Doyle.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice shaking as she chokes out the words. He frowns as he looks back up at her, confusion knitting his brows together.

“What are you sorry for?” He asks, and she sighs, the sound catching in her chest, and he holds her hand tighter, sandwiching it between both of his, his gaze as intense as she’d ever known it to be, “You have nothing to be sorry for, Em. None of this is your fault. I was just so worried about you earlier,” he shakes his head at himself and laughs bitterly, “I know in comparison to everything you’ve gone through it was nothing, but the moment I saw the victim profile, how similar they all looked to you I panicked,” he clenches his teeth, as if he was angry at himself for reacting at all, “I don’t think I can handle losing another woman I love to this job. And it’s not that I expect you to quit, I could never ask that of you, I just don’t know what to do.”

His words hang in the air around them for a moment before they both realise what he’d said at the same time. She feels her mouth go dry and his hands go slack around hers before he tries to withdraw them, his jaw tight again as he tries to put space between them that she won’t allow.

“What did you just say?” She asks, breathless in a way she wasn’t expecting, the accidental confession taking up all the space in her chest.

He clears his throat and stands up, shaking his head as he goes, “It’s nothing it’s-”

“No,” she says, cutting him off, determined not to let his moment pass them by as so many had before, “No it’s not nothing.” She stands a few paces behind him and crosses her arm over her chest, holding herself together in a way she idly hopes he’d do for her soon, “You…you love me?”

Aaron chuckles as he turns around, a sound that is more like a scoff as it escapes him, and he nods.

“Yes,” he says, “Yes I do love you,” he takes a step towards her, “But you already knew that, just like I know you love me too.”

She can’t deny it, just like she can’t stop her cheeks from turning bright pink as he says it, any thought that she’d been subtle long gone as she tightens her grip on her biceps.

“Yes,” she says, repeating his words back at him, “I do love you,” she takes a step closer to him, “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Why didn’t you?” He asks, stepping closer to her again, invading her senses as she smells his cologne. He feels any remaining fear brought on by his nightmare fade away, replaced only with what he felt for her.

“The timing has always been off,” she replies, smiling sadly at him, “We haven’t exactly had the best luck these last few years.”

He laughs, the real thing that makes her skin tingle whenever she hears it, and he nods, “I think that’s an understatement,” he watches as she looks him up and down, clearly trying to anticipate his next move. “What do we do now?”

She uncrosses her arms and lets them fall to her side, taking the final step that closes the gap between them, close enough to him that she can see the light dusting of freckles across his nose, and the healed ear piercing she’d always wanted to ask about.

“Well, right now,” she says, “I say we go to bed, because it’s close to 4 a.m. and we need sleep before we talk about everything we need to talk about.”

“We go to bed?” He asks, and her smile turns into a smirk before she nods.

“Someone’s got to be here if you have another nightmare,” she says, reaching out and straightening the edge of his t-shirt unnecessarily before she rests her palm on his chest, immediately drawn in by the thundering his heart, “And I think it makes sense that it’s me,” she says, smiling up at him, “Since we’re in love with each other and everything.”

He wraps his arms around her without thinking about it, drawing her closer to him, their noses almost touching, “And then what?”

“Well,” she says, heaving in a breath, her chest stuttering with it, “Then we’ll talk, but I’m fairly sure we’re on the same page about a lot of things,” she licks her lips, wetting them before she carries on, “And we’ll go from there.”

Aaron smiles and clears his throat, “You forgot one thing.”

She frowns, not sure what he’s talking about, “What do you mean?”

He cups her cheek, holding her in place as he leans in to kiss her. It’s everything both of them had imagined it to be and more, the world reducing down to just the two of them, standing in his living room in their pyjamas after a phone call that had unintentionally changed everything.

When he pulls back for air she chases him, smiling as she licks her lip again, the taste of him against her skin something she knew she was already addicted to.

“Right,” she says, nodding before she presses her forehead into his, “How stupid of me.”

“Hey,” he replies as he pulls back, fake irritation painted all over his face, “Don’t call the woman I love stupid.”

She rolls her eyes at him and leans in to kiss him, a quick thing stamped against his lips that she knows will become a staple of her life. Something she would do to say hello and goodbye, a greeting she would one day not be able to remember living without.

“Come on,” she says, wrapping her hand around his, “I need some sleep.”

He guides her to his bedroom, holding her close, half worried that this was somehow all a dream he’d wake up from. He smiles as she sits on the edge of the bed and takes off her shoes, seemingly only realising they weren’t a pair as they drop to his bedroom floor. They climb into bed together, curling around each other like they’d done it a thousand times before instead of it being the first.

As they fall asleep dawn breaks outside, the first sign of a new day, of a new beginning, filtering in through the curtains of his room.

-x-

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bluestar22x · 1 year

Text

Sweet Annie

The Rockford Files - Sweet Annie

Summary: Your first case with Tim Rockford vaults you into a race against time to find a little girl.

Pairing: Tim Rockford x F!Reader (He's 47, she's 45)

Rating: 18+ Series

Word Count: 13,300 (rounded)

Warnings: Mentions of blood and trauma (both kinds). Mentions of domestic abuse. Sexual assault of a minor mentioned/hinted at (the perpetrator is truly a monster). The R word is used. Horror elements.

Author's Note: This is my biggest fanfic project in a long time (and it's for a mobile game ad character - ha). Talk about a labor of love. This is like a crime show crossed with Ghost Whisperer, sort of (the reader doesn't talk to spirits, they "talk" to her). I loved CSI growing up and throwing ghosts into my crime fic is perfect for spooky season. Starting this short series off dark. I am truly sorry, hopefully the Tim content makes up for it. Expect this to be updated monthly. The chapters are going to be LONG cause they go case by case. (Longer than I expected - I posted this two weeks later than planned!).

xxx

September 18, 1995 (Monday)

Portland, Oregon

It was the beginning of the night shift at the Portland Police Department when Chief Robert Bronson, a man whose appearance distinctively reminded you of Uncle Phil from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air finished guiding you around the large building, having focused on the divisions you would need to be most familiar with.

Your last stop was the most important one of all - the section you'd been assigned to - the homicide division. It was where you, as a consultant, would put your gift, or curse (your definition of it depended on the day) to good use once more.

Strolling through the glass swinging doors into the massive division you wanted to snort at the on-the-nose atmosphere. Despite it being eight o'clock at night most of the secretaries and detectives on the main floor were using minimum lighting, sticking to desk lamps as they flipped through files and tapped away on keyboards. Most of the men were dressed in dark suits and ties, while the women were in equally drab dresses (the secretaries) or blazers (the one woman in the entire room who was a detective).

The place smelled old too. It smelled of musty, aged paper and cigarette smoke and - you could swear - ink.

It was as if you'd stepped into a time portal and had traveled back to the setting of a classic 1950s noir film. So, yeah, it was damn fitting, even if the decade was wrong.

Chief Bronson introduced you to some of the secretaries and detectives as you walked through, and when he explained to them why you'd been hired you were met with a mix of warm greetings and skepticism. Nothing you hadn't expected. This wasn't your first rodeo. You'd dealt with all kinds at the last police department you'd worked at. You had thick skin. Or at least you thought so.

You only hoped your partner in the division would be like your previous one. He had been a sweet (now retired) old man with more hair on his head than any man his age had the right to have. He had been accepting of you immediately, an oddity in his community, and had looked out for you like you were one of his own children.

You missed him already. Wondered why the hell you had accepted a job way out in Oregon that would make it impossible for you to visit him regularly. You silently reminded yourself it was because of "budget cuts" and having no other good offers.

Chief Bronson didn't give you time to mope about it, already making his way into one of the private offices for the big timers, the detectives who'd climbed the ladder through successes and had rightfully earned their own spaces.

You quietly slipped in behind him, your eyes scanning the dimly lit room.

It was a decently sized office, maybe twenty by thirty feet. To the right there wasn't much but a printer and a small computer desk. To the left there were filing cabinets lining the walls and evidence boxes neatly stacked against them, all behind a large oak desk with a golden nameplate that read Tim Rockford. The only other items on the desk were more files, a rectangular shaped lamp, and a plain white mug filled with pens and pencils.

In the center of the room was the man himself. He was straddling a turned around metal chair, back towards you, focused on the cork board in front of him. It was covered with newspaper clippings, jotted down notes, and old photos of evidence. To the untrained eye it would be considered unorganized, but the pinned red yarn crisscrossing the board suggested otherwise. Everything was connected and probably easy to piece together.

The board wasn't what your eyes lingered on though. It was Tim himself. You couldn't see his face, but from behind him you could see that he was dressed it a suit like all the other detectives, though he had discarded his jacket on the chair at his main desk. He had on shoulder holsters over his crisp white shirt, and the combination seemed to highlight how broad his shoulders were. He was thick, a far cry from the frail looking man you’d previously worked with.

Chief Bronson pulled him out of his contemplations with a greeting, sending him to his feet, and he spun in his spot to face you both.

Your heart skipped a beat. You'd been afraid to admit to yourself that Tim looked good from behind, but it was impossible to deny face forward. He was around your age, in his late forties, but you wouldn't have guessed it if not for the gray scattered in his patchy beard and hair, and the crinkles around his eyes. His thick brown hair was an unruly kind of curly but trimmed down short enough that it appeared to be nicely tousled instead. His nose that curved strongly contradicted the softness in his coffee-colored eyes, just like how the scowl he wore contradicted his plump lips.

He was undeniably handsome, and undeniably annoyed.

"This department has never respected me," he declared in a gravelly voice, sighing deeply, a hand shooting to one of his hips as he spoke, eyes scrutinizing you.

"We all know you're a very capable man, Rockford," Chief Bronson assured him. "Your record for closing cases is stellar. Best in the city. But this partnership can't hurt."

Tim grunted. "Yes it can. It can hurt the department. It can diminish the department's resources for nothing. For God's sake Bronson, psychics are frauds." He pointed an index finger at him. "You should know better at your age."

"She gets results," Chief Bronson informed him, a firmness injected into his words. He sounded like an unmovable man, one certain in his decision, probably because he was. "With you both working together this division would stand out nationally. She's helped departments cut down investigation times in half in many cases."

"I don't need a partner," Tim ground out.

"Need? No. Still getting one though."

Tim shook his head at Chief Bronson, eyes disbelieving. You gritted your teeth. His reaction was nothing new, and you had always tried to have thick skin, but it still rubbed you the wrong way sometimes when people refused to give you a chance to prove yourself.

You were also rather irritated about being talked about like you weren't even in the room. Men.

"It's already been decided," Chief Bronson said in a that's final tone. "I don't want to hear anything more about it unless you have a legitimate reason to file a complaint against her. So suck it up and properly introduce yourself, Rockford."

Tim grumbled but outstretched his right hand and you begrudgingly grasped it in yours, giving him a solid handshake. He seemed to like that at least, his head bobbing in a slight approving nod.

"Tim Rockford."

You stated your name back to him and he gave you another nod.

"Where are you from?" he inquired as Chief Bronson slinked out of the room.

"Georgia," you answered shortly.

"Please don't tell me Savannah," he pleaded with a groan.

You bit back a laugh, huffing instead, wanting to make it abundantly clear you weren't liking the idea of this partnership any more than him after his dispute with Chief Bronson. "Atlanta, actually."

"That's a small relief, at least," Tim said, "No need to be cliche."

"I'm sorry," you hissed, feeling quite the opposite, "But isn't being a cynic a cliche too?"

He muttered something under his breath and you decided it was not worth knowing what. Whatever it was, it wasn't positive and was definitely pointed at you.

"Look," you said sharply. "You don't have to like me. You don't have to trust me. But whether we like it or not, we're working together for the foreseeable future, so let's just behave like professionals, huh?"

He bit down on his lower lip and you had to force your eyes to meet his to ignore the...stimulating visual. You were really hating that he was easy on the eyes. His attitude didn't match it.

But maybe for that reason, it was for the best. At least if you didn't get along it would be easier for you to ignore his stupid chocolate colored puppy eyes and his big hands that had made your mind wander into the gutter upon your first glance of them.

At least HR wouldn't have any issues with the two of you, as long as you didn't give into the temptation to smack him in his strong jaw.

Functioning as a team would mean having to beat that yearning back with a stick. You hoped reasoning might make things more tolerable for you both.

"I don't like frauds either," you told him. "They make trouble for me, and yes, there are a lot of them out there. But I'm not one of them, Rockford. Let me prove that to you. Give me a chance to get some results."

Tim huffed at your request but conceded. "Not like I have a choice. Just don't get in my way, alright? And keep out of trouble. Do what I say when it matters. You're a consultant, not a detective. No need of you putting yourself in the line of fire."

You nodded stiffly. "I won't get in your way if you don't get in mine."

"Deal."

There was a knock on the door and you both turned to it. Chief Bronson had returned.

"What is it?" Tim asked, sounding like he already knew the answer.

"Murder at the Mirage Hotel," Chief Bronson replied, glancing between you both. "You're up. The rest of the team's already there."

He left the room again and Tim strolled over to his desk chair, throwing his suit jacket on.

"Follow me," he ordered without looking at you as he shrugged on a tan trench coat as well. He strolled out of the room without another word and you had to take twice the steps he did to keep up with him.

He led you to his unmarked car in the back parking lot and you climbed into the passenger seat, put on the seat belt, and tapped your fingers on the windowsill as he started the vehicle up and drove out onto the main road.

You were always apprehensive on the way to a crime scene. A part of you afraid of what new nightmares you'd get from what you'd see, hear, or worst, smell on arrival. It wasn't just the dead body or bodies. It was the spirits too, the souls that lingered after the violent acts. It wasn't completely their fault, they were often confused, or angry, or both, and didn't know what to do with their overwhelming emotions, but it didn't change the fact that they often startled you and creeped you out. Your ability to sense them, to understand them, was why you had this job, why you did this job, but it was far from a dream. You did it because you felt like you had to put your abilities to good use, needed to. You couldn't ignore them. It would be wrong to, right? But they certainly didn't make it easy.

It was a fifteen minute drive to the Mirage Hotel, and the quietest drive you'd ever experienced. Tim hadn't spoken one word to you and he didn't have the radio on. You'd have turned it on yourself, but you didn't want to overstep. This was Tim's car for all intents and purposes, and though you two hadn’t hit it off on the right foot that didn't mean you were going to chance making the situation worst just for some background noise.

When Tim pulled up into the front parking lot your first thought was that the Mirage Hotel was not the most typical spot for a murder. It wasn't an expensive hotel, no fancy windows and yard, just red brick and a patch of grass, but the place as far as you could tell was well maintained and was probably mid-tier among all the hotels available in Portland. You were used to violent deaths happening in one-star motels.

You pulled yourself out of the car before Tim could but let him lead the way through the front door, flashing your consultant badge at a beat cop guarding the first floor hallway when Tim showed him his detective one.

The officer nodded approvingly at you both and stepped aside. "Room seven."

Even before you reached the door, you could smell it. The unmistakable intense wet iron scent of blood, so strong that your stomach flip flopped when you inhaled a little too deeply.

You weren't surprised when you ducked under the yellow crime tape draped across the doorway and found yourself staring at a blood bath.

You were pretty sure there wasn't a single piece of furniture in the small, one bed room didn't have splatters of blood on it. The TV, the nightstand, the bed, the chair, the corner table, even the damn lamp shade had flecks of red on them.

The beige carpeted floor was the worst off, a pool of blood at the foot of the bed, where her body sat, propped up, with her back to the bed. It would've looked like she was just casually resting there if not for her blood bathed band t-shirt and light blue jeans, her extremely pale skin, and the biggest giveaway, her wide open but blank pale green eyes.

She must've been pretty in life. Early thirties, fiery curly red hair that reached the middle of her back, and perfect curves that even twenty year old you would've been jealous of.

In death she was just...eerie. Even after two decades of consulting you still found yourself fighting against the temptation to shut the eyes of the victims.

Instead of giving into it you donned rubber gloves offered to you by lab personnel who were already scoping out the room for evidence and squatted near the body alongside Tim, who'd also received a pair of gloves.

Another man, late thirties, thin blond hair, wiry build, was already there, kneeling beside her, carefully examining her neck under a flashlight.

"What do we know, Joe?" Tim prompted.

The man sighed. "This is Rebecca Flynn. Thirty-three years old. From Seattle, Washington. We got that from her driver's license. Beat cops already interviewed the front desk staff. The guy who booked her said she used a different name to get the room. Shirley Wilson. Paid cash. Looked jittery, like she was high on something, or just nervous."

He gestured at her blood-soaked abdomen. "I'm betting on nervous, but we'll need to run tox at the lab to see if she has anything in her system to be sure."

"Stabbed?" Tim questioned.

Joe gave him a nod. "Multiple times. This shirt is shredded. I won't be able to count how many until she's out on the table."

"Time of death?"

"An hour ago, maybe. She hasn't gone into rigor mortis yet."

You attention drifted from their conversation as you felt a draft of cold air that made you shiver, and the hair on the back of your neck stood up. It felt like someone was watching you, breathing on you from behind, and you stood, whipped around quickly to look for someone.

As expected, no one was right behind you. No one visible at least.

When you turned back to them, Tim was frowning up at you, like he was concerned. "You alright?"

You forcibly composed yourself without a deep breath. "I'm fine," you chewed out, refusing to explain why you'd jumped up suddenly.

Tim didn't ask. He continued his discussion with Joe, who you presumed was the medical examiner, otherwise unfazed by your strange behavior.

You felt an unexplainable pull towards the head of the bed and carefully moved around the men and Rebecca’s body to join a twenty something year old woman, who looked a little like an adult version of Wednesday from The Addams Family, in lifting the bedsheets, searching for evidence.

You introduced yourself, pointing to your badge which was hanging around your neck, and when she shook your hand she smiled more softly than you'd expected. "Katie."

"Mind if I look for evidence with you?" you inquired politely.

"Sure," she said, "Just remember the protocols and let me know when you find something."

You promised to do so and got to work, flipping the sheets over carefully, eyes trailing every inch inside and out. All you could see at first was more specks of blood, but something was telling you to keep searching. Insisting. It was like a voice at the back of your head, but it wasn't yours. That realization always made you tingle a bit, was always unnerving.

You pushed on until your gloved hands found a lump in the bed sheets. Cautiously lifting them up off the bump, you were relieved to discover that it was a stuffed animal making it. An aged, stained thing with tan fur and a missing ear. It looked like a dog, but what kind it was supposed to be you had no idea.

The relief was quickly replaced with dread when you touched the toy and a vivid image of a little girl, maybe ten years old, with Rebecca's hair and chin flooded your mind. She was giggling, being tickled playfully by whoever was out of view. You could only see their hands. They were a little less pale, but you recognized them as Rebecca's.

You sucked in a deep breath when the memory (what you assumed it to be) left you. "She was here with her daughter."

Tim, Joe, and Katie all stared at you, confused, and you pointed to the stuffed dog.

"No one saw her with a kid," Joe informed you.

"Maybe she sneaked her in," you suggested, knowing you were shown that memory for a reason.

"Why would she do that?" Katie frowned.

"Someone was very likely after her," you said, "Probably was her killer. She might have had reason to believe that letting anyone see her daughter would give that person a greater chance at finding them."

"How would she have got her by the front desk?" Katie asked, perplexed.

"We'd have to see the lobby security tape," you replied, shrugging. "It could have been a few different things. She might have even had her climb into a suitcase and stay there just long enough to get checked in and into the room."

Everyone stared at you like you had grown another head and you raised your hands in defense. "I didn't say that's what I would do. But desperate people do desperate things, you all know that."

They nodded their acknowledgment. Tim grunted. "How do you even know she had a kid with her, let alone a daughter?"

You pointed at the stuffed dog again. Duh.

"It could be Rebecca's," Katie suggested, chewing on her bottom lip. You could see the hopeless denial in her eyes. She didn't want Rebecca to have had a daughter with her because it meant she had likely seen her mother get murdered, and that she was missing.

You shook your head. You had been at this too long to think you could be wrong. The dead never lied or gave you unnecessary info. You knew Rebecca was still here, you knew what she was trying to tell you. There was no doubt.

But you had to prove it to everyone else.

You glanced around. "Where's her suitcase?"

"She has two," Katie told you. "Under the bed. We haven't gotten around to opening them yet."

You ducked down and tugged them both out into view. They were both black rolling cases, one large, one medium sized. You unzipped the medium one, going off a hunch.

It was filled with a child's clothes. Tiny jeans, underwear, and shirts that would likely fit the little girl you'd seen. There were a lot of pink items.

"Holy shit," Joe hissed, dismayed. "She was here with a little girl. Fuck. That means -."

"We're looking at a missing persons case here as well," Tim finished for him grimly. He headed for the hallway. "I'll call it in."

"How'd you know?" Joe quizzed, staring at you with his mouth agape. "How could you have guessed that?"

"I didn't," you answered, hesitating before continuing, "I'm a psychic."

"No way," he choked, eyes wide. "No offense, but Bronson actually hired you?"

"He did," you confirmed.

"So a little ghost whispered it to you?" Joe was smiling at you, amused by the idea of it.

You narrowed your eyes at him before sighing. You should be used to this.

"Doesn't matter where I get my info, as long as I get results," you said flatly.

"We would've figured it out when we saw the contents of the bag either way," Joe told you.

"But we wouldn't have thought to check it so quickly," Katie stated in your defense, surprising you. You met her eyes gratefully and the corners of her mouth lifted. "We don't normally check bags until we get it to the lab. That would've made at least another hour where the missing persons unit wouldn't have known a kid is missing, probably kidnapped."

Hopefully not dead, you thought, chest constricting. You knew if Rebecca's daughter had been taken by the killer, if she had witnessed the murder, they would have nothing good planned for the little girl. "Every second counts."

"Yes,” Katie agreed.

Everyone had resumed their work by the time Tim ambled back into the room a bit later. "Follow me, partner. Front desk has the camera tape up and ready for us to look at."

"Missing persons going to look for the girl?" you inquired as you left the crime scene with him, tugging off your gloves and using the trash bin by the door to dispose of them.

"As soon as they know who exactly they’re looking for," he replied with a sigh. "They're looking up info on Rebecca, confirm she has a daughter, and find out what she looks like. Then they can start the search and get info out to the public so they can help."

"I can tell them what she looks like," you told him. "She's ten. She's got red hair like Rebecca, and she's small, even for her age. I think I could give a good enough description to get them started."

He gave you a funny look. "How do you know what she looks like?"

"Part of my gifts -" you used air quotes, "- is that I can see the memories of the dead. Sometimes. Only when they want me to. Only when they're nearby."

"You're saying Rebecca showed you?" Tim huffed like it was the most absurd thing he'd ever heard.

"I saw her playing her daughter," you stated plainly, patiently. "It was inside a house. Probably theirs. Probably a recent memory. Spirits have a harder time digging up the old ones."

"Uh huh." Tim didn't sound convinced.

You shrugged. "Don't ask if you don't want the answer."

He grunted, giving you a curt nod after. "I'll try to remember that next time."

When you reached the front desk, you found a woman in her late thirties, dressed in a suit similar to yours, waiting there expectantly, expression anxious.

"Detective Rockford," Tim introduced himself. He gestured to you slightly as you leaned on the counter before her and he stated your last name. "She's a consultant for my division. We were told you have the footage of the victim checking in here at the desk?"

"And more," she claimed, waving you both behind the desk to watch her computer screen with her.

"I wasn't the one who signed her in, but Terry, my coworker who did, let me know around what time it was."

"Where's Terry right now?" Tim quizzed.

"In the break room if you have more questions," she answered, pausing, "He's the one who found her, if you didn't know. There was a noise complaint so he went to knock on the door and when he got nothing, no reaction, he used the master key to get inside..."

"Poor guy's in shock," you concluded. You'd have been yourself if you hadn't known what you were walking into.

She nodded. "I'm Vanessa, by the way." She glanced between you and Tim.

"Pretty name," he said offhandedly, nodding at the screen. "Let's see the video."

Vanessa pursed her lips and silently did as ordered to, clicking the play button on screen with her mouse.

An older balding man had been standing where Vanessa was, greeting a person who was walking through the front doors in a baggy dark green sweatshirt and blue jeans. There was no sound, of course, and the image was blurry, but it was clear enough for you to see that the person was female and that she had loose red hair spilling out of her hoodie. She was dragging the large suitcase from her room behind her as she approached him. The time on camera read 4:42.

You, Tim, and Vanessa all observed quietly as she booked a room for the night, often turning her head to the door as she did so, like she half expected someone to charge in and stir up trouble.

Because she did. Rightfully.

After she got her key Rebecca swiftly made her way towards the hall and out of sight of the camera.

"Not worth much," Tim hummed after she ambled off screen, "But it does confirm what Terry said about her looking wary."

"There's more," Vanessa said quickly, fast forwarding the video. "I decided to watch the video for a while after and fifteen minutes later she goes back outside and comes in with another suitcase."

She clicks play when the time on screen passes 4:57 and sure enough, there was Rebecca, leaving the hotel, and at 5:03 entering again, with the smaller suitcase this time. You noticed her looking over her shoulder just as she was about to step out of view and into the hallway again and spotted a smaller figure dressed in Barbie pink darting into frame, speedily racing past her.

The action made the figure's features difficult to discern, but a flash of scarlet told you all you needed to know.

"Terry didn't see her come back in the second time," Vanessa informed them. "He had gone out back for a moment to get a drink and Cassidy, the other person working up front with him at the time, was eating supper."

"She picked the perfect time to sneak her daughter in," you surmised.

"She got lucky," Tim figured, his expression turning grim, "For the last time."

"Did you check the footage around the time of Rebecca's death?" you asked Vanessa. "It was just over an hour ago."

She shook her head. "Give me a moment."

Again she sped up the video and you stared at the screen as Terry returned to the desk, as a young lady who was most likely Cassidy did, and as the lobby became busy with guests starting to mill in for the night.

It was difficult to know exactly when Rebecca's killer had entered the building. Several faces were hidden from the camera or were too blurry to make out at this speed. The video analysts would have to figure that out later.

The time on camera approached eight-thirty and Vanessa slowed the video down to half speed so each person walking into and out of the building could easily be spotted.

You hopped in spot and pointed at a familiar figure on the screen at 8:37. "There!" Vanessa paused the screen.

It was the little girl, dressed in a baby blue shirt, a much taller, green hooded figure beside her, tugging her towards the front entrance.

They must have taken Rebecca's sweatshirt to hide their face and had the kid change her shirt before rushing out with her.

You remembered all the blood in the hotel room. If she had been close by, if she’d witnessed her mother's murder as you had assumed, she'd have gotten blood on the pink shirt she'd been wearing earlier. The image that popped into your head made you shudder. Your eyes focused in on the large hand grasping the little girl's wrist tightly, unseen by Vanessa, who was distracted by a guest talking to her at the desk, and your heart sank.

From the corner of your eye you saw Tim pull his bulky government issued phone out of one of his deep coat pockets and dial a number without a word to you.

"Everyone on deck," he said firmly when someone picked up his call. "A girl's been kidnapped."

By the time you and Tim finished interviewing people at the hotel and returned to the homicide division everyone was in a frenzy, busied with work that had sprouted from the case, and someone had already found and contacted Rebecca's sister, who was on her way from Seattle to confirm her body's identity.

Before Rebecca’s sister had hung up with the detective who'd called her, she’d given him her niece's name.

Annie.

Her name was Annie.

Knowing her name somehow added to the urgency you felt to help the division find the girl. Tim seemed to share the sentiment.

It wasn't long before you both were holed up in his office to have a meeting with the lead detective of the missing persons unit, James Weston, an extremely muscular man who towered over you both.

Weston seemed kind, but was all business, and he knew what he wanted. His team was in charge of finding Annie, but you and Tim could assist whenever extra hands were needed.

You kicked the trash bin by the door after he left out of pure frustration. The ding reverberated through the room. "We should be playing a bigger part in finding her."

Tim, who was standing by his desk, shook his head and placed a hand on his hip. "No, we shouldn't. It's Weston's job to find people; we solve murders. His people will find her, and hopefully Rebecca's killer will be right there with her. Then they'll hand the bastard over to us."

You palmed your face and sighed. It wasn't like you didn't understand how the system worked; it was just that you didn't like it. "I know. I just don't know how I'm going to focus on solving Rebecca's murder when I know her daughter is still out there in the hands of her murderer. Priorities."

"Gotta trust the system, Psy."

You lifted your head up to blink at Tim, confused, unsure what the nickname stood for.

"Short for psychic," he explained, giving you a grin that seemed uncharacteristic to you, though you'd only known him a few hours. Maybe it was in character for him to think he was being clever.

You groaned and headed for the door. Just want you needed. A silly work name for him to add to his toolbox. "We going to check in on the Forensics team or what?"

"Right behind you," he replied, serious again.

You stalked out of the room without looking back.

A lot happened that night at the department, and you and Tim were pretty much in the center of it all. You went to the Forensics division as planned, but they didn't have much for you yet, having only just begun to test the evidence and examine the photos taken on site. The only new information you got was from Joe, who'd counted eighteen stab wounds from a kitchen knife on Rebecca’s body and had concluded that the one in her neck was most likely the cause of her death.

There was blood and hair samples from the room to compare to the most likely source - Rebecca, and to compare to the national database just in case she’d pulled hair or clawed blood out of her killer, but that was going to take days or weeks to be processed. DNA testing was not a quick task.

After your visit to Forensics, you and Tim returned to his office to find a reporter waiting by the door. She was there to get details on the murder side of the case, already having visited Weston for the kidnapping part of it. You sat down at the computer desk during the interview, noting how patient and formal, even warm, Tim was in answering the reporter's questions. He was used to those types of interviews, and that night the press were their greatest allies.

Less than an hour later the case was on the eleven o'clock news with a vague description of where Rebecca was murdered (good hotel managers always made sure crime reporters never mentioned their hotels directly by name), followed by the blurry video image of Annie being dragged out of the building and several interviews. The fifteen minute interview with Tim was cut down to one for TV, getting to the core of it. Weston's was before that and his screen time was slightly longer. They were followed by Rebecca's sister, standing in front of the police precinct teary-eyed, begging civilians to help them find Annie and the reporter telling people how they could do just that - by calling the Portland police if they saw a red haired girl with a tall, hooded stranger. They also showed a picture of her. Annie was definitely the little girl who had been in your vision. The picture even seemed to have been taken in the same room you had seen.

After the story ran, you and Tim joined Weston in his office for an update.

"The interview with Rebecca's sister was enlightening," Weston declared. "We've got a good idea of who we need to be looking out for."

He pinned a photo of a large framed man with a square jaw and haunting gray eyes that stood out against his dark facial hair on his cork board and tapped it with his left index finger. You and Tim both stepped closer, eyes studying his every feature.

"This is Rebecca's ex-boyfriend, Neil McKingley," Weston began, sounding winded already (if homicide had been busy, missing persons had been frenzied). "Neil's thirty-six, lives in Medford, works as a garbage man. No criminal record, but Rebecca did have a restraining order against him as of last month. Her sister, Rory, informed me that he'd been abusive to her during their five year relationship, mainly emotionally, but towards the end, the last couple weeks, he'd started slapping her whenever she stood her ground against him. That had been the final straw for her, when she realized he was only going to get worst. Rory also told me Rebecca had expressed concern to them a few days ago that he was possibly stalking her. She felt like someone was watching her whenever she left the house. She had announced to Rory yesterday that she and Annie were going to go stay with her at her home in Seattle for the next couple weeks, to get away, in hopes that it was just paranoia."

"It's not paranoia if you're right to be concerned," Tim stated, folding his arms and nodding at Neil's image. "Is he Annie's father?"

"No," Weston answered. "And apparently, judging by what her aunt told me, he barely even tolerated her. He was always trying to pull Rebecca's attention from her to him, always trying to send her to a camp of some kind. This past summer was horse camp."

"So he's our lead suspect," you concluded. "But if he can't stand Annie, why would he kidnap her? Why not kill her right away?"

"There's no good reason I can come up with," Weston told you, his lips drawing tight. "And by that I mean whatever he's planning for her, it's likely not good."

You figured that much. You never liked thinking about it, but the reality was there weren't many different possibilities to what plans a guy like Neil would have for kidnapping a little girl like Annie, who he didn't care about. Either he'd dump her, hurt her, kill her, or all of the above, not in that order.

He'd do it soon too. The ticking clock in your brain, the one that was always present at the back of your mind while you were on an active case grew painfully loud.

The first forty-eight to seventy-two hours after a crime is committed is critical. It's the ideal time period for gathering evidence and interviewing witnesses. It's also the most vital time period in missing person cases. After seventy-two hours the chances of finding a missing or kidnapped person alive was basically zero. Hell, finding the body after that long got a whole lot slimmer too.

Every hour that slipped by cut Annie's chances astronomically. Everyone in the room, the fucking whole building, knew it too.

You silently begged whichever higher power that was paying attention, if any were, that the news announcement would lead to some intel and fast.

Sudden rapping on the wooden door nearly made you jump out of your skin.

"Boss," said an unfamiliar man standing in the doorway, breathless, "Gas station employee in Eugene just called in that they saw the little girl from the news in the back of a 1987 white Dodge Aries that stopped to gas up. The driver fit the description of Neil, to boot. Troopers already out on patrol are keeping an eye out for him on the highway."

You gaped at him. Maybe there was a god.

"The fool's headed home," Weston hypothesized. "Make sure someone's waiting for him in case he makes it there."

"I think someone is already there, but I'll check to confirm," the man told him, turning on his heels to charge off.

Weston glanced at you and Tim. "Sorry to barge off, but duty calls. When I return, it'll be with Neil in handcuffs and a little girl on her way to get checked out at a hospital."

You and Tim both nodded and watched him bolt out of the room.

"Back to the office until he does," Tim decided. It was an order. You wanted to argue, but you had no better plan, so you swallowed your pride and followed him back.

You had been at the Portland Police Department for less than one shift when Weston proved to you that he could keep promises. Mostly. When he returned to the building four hours later, it was with Neil in tow. A state trooper had spotted his car on the road outside Grants Pass and pulled him over after a lengthy chase that had their cars reaching speeds over one hundred miles per hour. The trooper had gladly arrested him and passed him over to Weston when he showed up on site, and in another four hours Neil was in the missing person's interrogation room.

Weston's promise wasn't complete though. Neil had been the only person in his car.

"Where is she!" Weston demanded, smacking the metal table right in front of Neil, who was handcuffed to it, seated in a metal folding chair across from him and Tim. You were watching the three of them through a one way window, so the sound of skin on metal was muffled to you, but in the room it reverberated enough to make Neil flinch.

The man recovered fast though, a smirk forming on his ghostly pale face.

He's sadistic, you concluded wordlessly. Big surprise. The sight of it still made your skin crawl. You'd have thought after decades of laying your eyes on the worst of the worst, hearing them speak what should be unspeakable, you'd be immune to a creepy smile, but you definitely weren't.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

You rolled your eyes, having heard that line more than one way too many times. It didn't even make sense to ask. They did want to know.

"We're not messing around here Neil," Tim said sternly, keeping his expression trained, unreadable. "Oregon hasn't had an execution in over a decade, but it is currently legal, and we can aim for it when prosecuting you."

Neil chuckled. "Oh, scary. Or it would be, if the alternative wasn't life in prison."

"What will it take to get you to reveal Annie's location?" Weston inquired impatiently.

"Nothing you can give me," Neil answered, "I know I'm not getting out of here."

"Already given up?" Tim huffed. "Is that why you turned down a lawyer?"

"Can't trust anyone but yourself," Neil declared. He made it sound like his trust had been broken recently and not the other way around.

"What would be the harm, if you know you're going to jail either way?" Weston asked.

"This way I stay my own boss. No one nagging my ear off."

Tim hummed. "Like control, huh?"

"There's only two main states in life," Neil told him in a matter-of-fact manner. "Being in control or being controlled. So, yes."

"What did Rebecca escaping you fall under?" Weston questioned smartly.

Neil snorted. "She may have ran for a short time, but fear is control in itself."

"Where did Annie fit?" Tim asked.

"Annie controlled Rebecca," Neil replied with a hint of bitterness, jealously even. "Took most of her time and attention. Contradicted what I wanted her to do. Annie was mouthy even for a brat. She was the only reason Rebecca ran. We would've been fine if not for her."

Boy, is he delirious, you thought.

Weston frowned. "You keep saying was."

Neil curled his lips upward, his expression bright. "Caught that, huh?"

"What did you do to her," Tim ground out, the first sign he'd shown that their suspect, who had confessed in every way except spelling it out, was making him boil.

"I used her for the only thing she was good for and left her to fade away," Neil stated simply as he shrugged, like it was normal, like it was right.

Your stomach twisted. Used her. He fucking used her. The smirk that upturned his face left you without question as to what he meant by that.

What do you call someone so inhumane they murdered an innocent woman in front of her child, kidnapped said child, and continued to further traumatize her then leave her to die? The only correct answer in your book was Monster.

Both Tim and Weston appeared more than ready to give Neil a beat down, fists and jaws clenched, eyes dark with fury. They'd read between the lines and drawn the same conclusion as you. It wasn't like it had been in fine print, after all.

"Was she alive when you left her?" Weston pressed on with a hiss.

"Maybe. No idea."

It was clear Neil did actually have an idea, but wasn't willing to let them have the truth. You understood then what he had been doing all along. He was playing a game, or at least thoroughly enjoying riling up Tim and Weston. He was toying with them like their limbs were hanging from strings. In his eyes, he was in control here.

"We're not going to get anywhere with him," Tim bit out after a few long, tense moments passed, eyes darting to Weston. "You can stay here, but I'm going to get out there and help with the search."

Weston nodded at him and without another word Tim stormed out of the room. You slipped out of the observation room and chased him down the hall.

"I'm coming with," you told him.

"It's past seven," he reminded you, stopping in the middle of the walkway to face you. "Go home. Get some sleep. No use both of us working overtime."

You tilted your chin up stubbornly, knowing that wasn't the only reason he'd suggested you leave. "I'm not going home until you do."

He sighed heavily, deeply annoyed by your insistence, but too tired to argue further. "Fine." He turned to continue making his way towards an exit.

"What are we doing?" you inquired.

"Gonna head out to the highway," Tim said. "Hope we can spot where he might have dumped her."

It sounded like a fool's errand, trying to find Annie that way, but you didn't say so. You had a feeling he already knew the odds, but like you he just needed to do something. With nothing else important left to do for the homicide case until the Forensics results started coming in, or until you both collapsed from lack of sleep, driving around looking for Annie could be that something.

It was better than nothing.

Though it was morning, a surprise rainstorm had darkened the city to the point that it might have as well still been night. The weather matched the state of your mood, and the longer you sat in the passenger seat of Tim's patrol car as he drove along the main road, the deeper your worry for Annie got, and the more it ate at you.

If she wasn't dead, she was likely out there in the pounding rain, drenched and freezing, especially with these autumn temperatures.

If she was still live, time was running out for her fast.

Tim drove slightly slower than the speed limit, along the same roads Neil had taken, eyes scanning the sides. You knew he was searching for signs of a vehicle having driven off the road or some path that might catch a killer's eye as the perfect body dumping spot. You knew because you were looking for the same thing, but with no hints as to where he’d brought Annie, you might as well have been looking for a needle in a haystack.

You and Tim were nearly three hours into the ride to Grants Pass when you found yourself nodding off to the hum of the wheels on the asphalt. You had no control over it after having been up for nearly twenty-four hours straight at that point.

Your heavy eyelids fell for what you thought would be the last time for a while when you felt your world shift from underneath you and you gasped as you found yourself standing in an overgrown grass field, in the middle of a path made of slightly patted down foliage that ran through it. It simulated a corn maze in your mind, the grass almost tall enough to blind you to your surroundings, but not quite. Angling your head just right you could see a highway a few yards away, a multitude of trucks and cars zooming by. It was a dreary day, near noon as best as you could tell. You realized that this was now.

You sucked in a deep breath and when you breathed out it looked like a cloud was slipping out of your mouth. The same eerie feeling of being watched that you’d had in the hotel room the night before overtook you and you spun around.

Rebecca was standing a few yards away from you on the makeshift path. She would have pulled off the role of a serene goddess if not for the determined look in her eyes and her blood-soaked clothes. Your heart thudded in your chest. It was as if someone had given her CPR and she'd just stood up and walked away from the room she'd been murdered in, wandered into this field.

She's here, you heard loud and clear in your head, the voice not your own. This path. Forest. To the forest. Stop. NOW!

You startled awake, crying out, "Stop!"

Tim flinched at your scream and had to adjust the steering wheel, having jerked it when you'd stirred.

"What the hell, Psy!" he growled. "Nearly gave me a damn heart attack."

"Pull over!" you shouted at him as the field blurred by over his left shoulder. "Now!"

He stomped on the breaks, grumbling as he rolled the car into a stop on the right shoulder of the highway.

"What's your problem lady?" he demanded, staring over at you like you'd gone mad. You supposed it was a fair reaction to what had just gone down.

You pointed over your left shoulder with your thumb. "That field we just passed. That's where he took her. He took her there, took her through it, left her in the forest beyond it."

Tim blinked at you in surprise. "How do you know that?"

You threw him an exasperated look. "Again, don't ask questions you're not going to like the answers to. Just trust me. She's out there. Call the search and rescue unit."

"We can't just call the sniffer dog out on a hunch," Tim told you.

You snorted. "Isn't that the point of sending out the dog? If we were sure of where she was, we wouldn't need him."

He ticked his jaw and you read between the lines. It wasn't that they couldn't call for the dog, it was that he didn't want to do it on your word.

"Fucking trust me, Rockford," you hissed. "Trust my results as the department trusts yours. Just this once. And if I'm wrong, I'll walk. You won't have to see me again. Deal?"

He gave you a stiff nod and lifted the radio's handheld speaker to his lips, pressing the button to talk. It was already set up to contact someone under Weston who was also out on the road. The young sounding man promised to let Weston know they needed the bloodhound and where and told Tim to hang out by the location until then.

"Are we really going to just sit here until they show up?" you asked Tim once he returned the speaker to its holder. "That'll be hours. She doesn't have that time to waste."

“You’re the one who wanted the dog.”

“The dog could be back-up.”

"You really think she's still alive after spending half the night and all morning out there in the rain with God only knows what injuries?" Tim questioned, lips pursed.

You stared into his dark, solemn eyes. "I know it."

He tilted his head at you and fell into action, pulling his key out of the ignition and pocketing it before pushing himself out of the vehicle with a groan. You slipped out of the passenger side and met him at the trunk. He opened it to reveal a mess of tools of the trade and emergency supplies.

"Grab the compass and blanket and put on your back up shoes," he ordered you. "I'll grab the walkie and the pack of hiking supplies. I assume Rebecca the friendly ghost didn't tell you how far away into the woods Annie is...?"

"No, she did not," you confirmed, reaching for the folded navy blue blanket tucked away in a back corner. "But I can't imagine they'd have gotten far. Surely Annie was fighting him?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Tim said, shrugging. "It depends if he tried selling some promise to her or if he made it clear what his intentions were. I have a feeling Neil is the type to only reveal his truths when there's no hope left."

You chewed your upper lip, again picturing the girl from the memory you'd seen the night before. So bright and smiley. You realized that version of Annie was a ghost. If she survived, if you found her in time, you knew she'd never be the same. You could only hope that she'd find the strength to cope with her nightmares. That she'd find meaning in her life to keep going. You clung to that hope as you and Tim trekked out into the field, towards the dense, damp forest lining the back of it.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time you and Tim stepped under the canopy of the gorgeously autumn colored Oregon woods, but you'd been out in the pouring rain in a thin dark purple fleece long enough to already be half soaked and chilled. You had to clench your teeth together to keep yourself from chattering them, afraid Tim would hear and send you back to the car. You had to see this through.

At least the wind is almost dead, you mused. Small blessings.

Tim was dressed far better than you, in his long, tan trench coat and wearing heavy black boots that were surely keeping the water off his socks a hell of a lot better than your sneakers were (they were the only backups you'd brought and were better than your dress shoes at least).

There was no point in time you weren't crunching dead leaves under your feet or tripping on hidden roots, but you managed to keep up with Tim as he traversed the game trail through the dense forest much more quietly than you, like he had hiked every day of his life.

As time passed you noted he had a subtle limp, a hitch in his stride, when climbing or sliding down hills. Probably a bad knee. With the rain and his age, you weren't surprised. You were feeling achy yourself, an old ankle injury having flared up after the first twenty minutes of the trek.

"Rebecca tell you anything since we've been out on the trail?" Tim finally inquired, breaking a long silence between you, both absorbed in your own thoughts. You'd been walking for just over thirty minutes.

"No," you answered more sharply than you intended. You really hated hiking in wet weather. You were sure you looked like a drowned rat and you felt just as miserable. "She's a tickle at the back of my mind right now. Nothing else."

"Ah, so she admits it's all in her head," he said, not bothering to glance back at you.

You were going to bite off Tim's head for the comment, at the smug smile he was probably sporting, but then it registered that his tone was teasing. It startled you. First the Psy nickname, then the joke about you imagining your gift (curse). Maybe Tim Rockford really did have a sense of humor. It wasn't a good one, but it was something, you guessed. If you could ever get along, be comfortable around each other, you imagined it was something you could work with.

You chose to ignore him instead, taking a moment to stand still and study the surrounding forest. It was just trees and logs and moss and rocks. Dirt and muddy puddles. The faint whistle of a far-off woodpecker.

Something was silently calling your attention to the east though. You could see nothing that would've tipped you off, any traces of footprints washed away in the early morning heavy rainfall, but you had the urge to head in that direction, off the beaten path, anyway. You were being called out to like a ship’s crewmate in the clutch of a siren's devastatingly divine song.

You couldn't ignore it. You knew better than to do that.

You were almost out of sight of the path before Tim noticed you had wandered off. You heard him shout after you, concern in his voice. "Psy, where are you going?"

"This way," you yelled back. "She has to be this way."

Tim took one last glance at the trail ahead then hesitantly followed you, nearly jogging to catch up. By the time he did, you'd stepped out into a small opening in the forest, littered with a thick layer of gold and orange leaves.

Curled up in the fetal position and completely bare, her scattered clothes buried out of sight, the body of a pale little girl with fierce red shoulder length hair laid nearly perfectly in the center, as still as the air.

You felt your stomach drop. Were you too late?

Tim made his way pass you to approach her carefully. "Annie?" he called out tentatively, placing one foot slowly in front of the other, like he was afraid to startle her.

There was no reaction from her, and the silence locked your heart in a fist-like squeeze.

At Annie's side, Tim squatted to press two fingers to the side of her curled neck, checking for a pulse. When his stiff form relaxed slightly, his broad shoulders dropping, you heaved a sigh of relief.

She had a pulse.

Your deduction unstuck you from your spot and you rushed forward to cover Annie's tiny form with the blanket from the trunk, mentally crossing your fingers that the part that had been folded in the middle wasn't damp like the edges were.

Tim reached for the walkie talkie he'd attached to his backpack and talked into it. You knelt by Annie's head and studied her mostly hidden face as he did so, only vaguely aware of him telling whoever was on the other end that Annie was alive and that they needed an ambulance at their car's location on the highway.

You wanted to reach out to her, but something stopped you. The guilt of not being able to find her sooner.

"We need to get her to the road," Tim told you. "The paramedics are going to meet us there. I'll carry her. You guide us back with the compass."

You nodded at him, eyes still fixed on Annie's face.

Nearly out of your peripheral vision, you saw Tim reach for Annie's right wrist, grasping it gently, pulling it up to examine it.

"It's a miracle she didn't completely bleed out," he muttered. You followed his eyes to the slit on her wrist, dried blood caked on her arm. When your eyes found her left wrist, it was in the same state.

"That's what he meant by having left her to fade away," you realized.

Tim dropped her arm and tucked the blanket underneath her, making sure she was wrapped up like a burrito, her arms free, but no skin left exposed below her shoulders or above her ankles otherwise. As he did so, she began to stir, eyes still shut, too weak to open them, but aware enough to know someone was jostling her around.

She whimpered sharply and began to softly sob, tears leaking out of the edges of her eyes. Your heart wrenched at her pitiful noises, knowing immediately why she was panicking, what she thought was going to happen to her...again. Your hand automatically shot out to caress one of her cheeks, to wipe the tears away, to soothe her.

"Hey, hey," you whispered softly. "It's alright, Annie. We're from the police department. We're here to help you. Trust us, okay? You can trust us. You're safe now."

Tears continued to leak out, and she was shivering uncontrollably, but the girl quieted. You nodded to Tim to continue, and he met your eyes, his worried, before pressing forward.

"Gotta pick you up to get you out of here Annie," he warned her as his eyes scanned the side of her face, voice as low as yours had been. "Gonna lift you on three. One, two..."

On three he scooped her up into his arms, more gingerly than you'd have thought possible for a man of his size, standing slowly up with a wince.

A small hand managed to reach up to curl around his trench coat's collar, like Annie was trying to cling to him, but she made no other moves and her breaths soon evened out again. You and Tim had lost her to sleep once more.

Tim didn't dare run with Annie in his arms, but he still moved fast, strides long, and you had to nearly jog to keep up with him on the way back to the car. The compass was mostly forgotten, Tim only asking you once where north was, to confirm he hadn't gone off course and veered west instead.

When you popped out of the woods, you could see an ambulance parked on the edge of the road, across from and parallel to Tim's patrol car and two other unmarked cars with a few detectives from missing persons inside them. The two paramedics waiting already had a gurney out, ready to go, and Tim lowered Annie down onto it like she was a porcelain doll. He explained the shape you’d found her in to the paramedics as they loaded her up into the truck. He didn't notice you'd hopped in and planted yourself down on one of the border seats until one of the paramedics was about ready to slam the back door shut. He stopped the door mid-way.

"What are you doing?" he asked, confused. "Someone with the missing persons unit will interview her when she wakes. You don't need to go with her."

"I'm not leaving her until the doctors say she'll be okay," you explained. You knew you wouldn't sleep a wink otherwise and hearing it on the news would be too long of a wait. Besides, she knew your voice, and you wanted to be there to reassure her on the way to the hospital if necessary. Being turned over into so many different hands in her state had to be disorientating, at least you could make the ride a little easier on her if she woke back up.

Tim looked like he wanted to argue with you over your decision to ride along, with the way his jaw was jutting out, but he never got the words out, for some reason deciding against it. Instead, he gave you a curt nod and let the paramedic finish shutting the doors.

You slipped a hand over one of Annie's delicate ones as the engine roared to life, giving her thin, icy cold fingers a light squeeze, and watched as the paramedic out back got to work examining her, monitoring her, getting an IV in her, and pushing pain meds until the nearest hospital came into view.

As soon as you entered the emergency room with Annie you were forced to part from the unconscious child, ushered towards the waiting room by a nurse.

You could've left, you weren't a relative to Annie and most first responders, most detectives, had a rule about getting invested in patients and/or victims, but you didn't. You'd never learned to move on after seeing children harmed by the criminals you helped catch. You needed to know their fate every time.

So you sat there, watching the muted television in the room for nearly three hours. When it was clear the nurses weren't going to come out and give you an update, you went back in, headed for the nurses' station.

You cornered the petite blonde who'd kicked you out. "Anything you can tell me about Annie Flynn?"

"Are you family?" the nurse inquired patiently.

"I'm a consultant for the police department," you told her honestly, flashing your badge at her. "I'm the one who found her. I know it's not exactly protocol to tell me, but I'm not going to be able to sleep restfully if I don't know how she's doing, so please."

The nurse hesitated, but eventually gave in, sighing deeply. "Physically she's okay. She's been given antibiotics and pain medication and has been gaining strength since she got a blood transfusion. She doesn't have any injuries that won't heal. Mostly bruises and minor cuts, except for the cuts on her wrists, of course. But those should heal fine too, even if they probably will leave scars. Emotionally however," she paused, rubbing her cheek, "Emotionally we have no idea, of course. We can't even be sure of everything that happened to her because she's in a sort of mental shock right now and isn’t speaking to anyone, but the doctor who examined her used a rape kit on her. They're pretty sure what the results from it will be, as I'm sure you are, but it'll take a couple days for them to come in."

"Has anyone come in yet to see her?" you asked.

She nodded. "Her aunt is with her upstairs as we speak."

"Where?" You gave her a pleading look.

She chewed on her lower lip, trying to figure out how much trouble she'd be in if she told you. "Room 201."

"Thanks," you said gratefully, immediately rushing off for the nearest stairway.

You climbed to the second floor and did your best to look casual as you approached the room.

When you reached the door the sound of a woman's assuring voice stopped you from entering. You quietly peered into the room to see a woman slightly younger than Rebecca had been, who shared the same hair as she had, seated on the edge of the only bed in the space, a hand on Annie's sheet covered knees. Annie was laying on her back, eyes wide, tears streaming down her face.

"I can't begin to imagine everything you've been through," Rory told her softly. "But I am here for you, and I'm going to find you a therapist who will listen to you as well, okay? You won't have to deal with what happened on your own, sweetie. You'll come stay with me and we'll get through this together, alright?"

Annie nodded vigorously, her newfound energy as obvious as her anguish, and she sat up to throw her arms around her aunt's neck, to bury her head in her chest.

You backed off, making sure they didn't notice you. You'd seen enough, seen too much in fact, feeling like you had invaded their privacy by eavesdropping on them even if it had been brief.

You had your answers. Annie was awake and on the road to recovery. It would be far from easy for her, emotionally, but she had a supportive aunt to take care of her. It was more than many young victims of crime ever got.

You could live with that. You had to.

You were turning back to the stairway when a chill ran up your spine. Instinct had you whipping around and your head shooting up, searching for what had caused the sensation. Rather who.

Rebecca.

She was at the end of the hall, by the bay window overlooking the parking lot below. It wasn't a glamorous sight, but with the sun finally peeking out of the clouds just in time to start setting, there was still a hint of beauty to it.

Rebecca's spirit was still in the white dress, but it was no longer bloody, and the symbolism wasn't lost on you. Her killer was caught; her daughter would be safe. She didn't move, she didn't smile, but the gentleness in her eyes made up for it; allowed you to figure out why she was here.

She was silently thanking you, in what was probably the only way she was capable of in the in between.

You gave her a nod of acknowledgement, blinked, and she was no longer there. Peacefulness filled the atmosphere and the weird mental itch at the back of your brain was gone.

Rebecca had moved on.

You called for a taxi as soon as you were back on the first floor of the hospital and waited by the main entrance for the driver to pick you up. It was a long, expensive drive, since you needed him to get you from Roseburg back to Portland, but Tim had already left the city so you'd had no other choice (he'd called while you were in the waiting room and you'd refused to leave without answers). At least you were able to nap for about an hour, head leaning on the back side window, until a pothole jostled you and you banged your head painfully against it.

It was nearly nine o'clock at night when you arrived at the department, headed back to the homicide division in hopes of catching Tim before he headed home, wanting to get an update on the murder investigation side of things.

One of the secretaries on the main floor, Helen, who was close in age to you and Tim but dressed like she was seventy, stopped you from trying the closed door to his office. "It's locked."

"So Rockford's already headed home?" you guessed.

She shook her head, the corners of her mouth tugging downward. "More likely than not he's at Liquid Alchemy. It's a bar on the next street over. A lot of the detectives go there to drink on weekends. Sometimes us secretaries join them."

"It's a Tuesday," you pointed out.

"So it is," she said, "But that wouldn't stop him after solving a case."

"He likes his celebratory drinks?" you quizzed. "Do you think he'd let me join him, or would the presence of the psychic ruin it for him?"

She chuckled a little. "Been giving you a hard time?"

"To say the least," you replied with a huff.

"Well, don't take it too personally," Helen told you, sitting back down in her seat and sipping coffee from a paper cup. "Tim's just a proven facts kind of guy. Unknowns bug him, a lot. And a psychic once said something to him he didn't like."

“What was that?" you asked, interest peaking. The tone of her voice had suggested the mentioned something was big.

She glanced around, like she was afraid to be caught for what she told you next. "It's a long story, but Tim had a little sister. Had being the key word. When he was nine and she was four, she disappeared. They'd been playing hide and go seek out in the backyard, and during one of the rounds where he was the seeker he couldn't find her anywhere. The yard was bordered by trees. Her parents thought maybe she'd run off or got lost in them, so they searched the woods for hours by themselves. They called the police at nightfall and the missing persons unit used a bloodhound to try to track her. The dog got a trail, but it led to a dirt logging road not far from their house and a set of tire tracks. The police concluded that she'd been kidnapped."

"That's awful," you said sadly, your heart going out to your partner and his parents. "I'm going to take a wild guess that he blamed himself."

Helen nodded.

"Did they find her body?" you inquired, remembering the past tense she'd used earlier.

She shook her head dramatically. "It's what drove Tim to be a detective. At first, when he was fresh from the academy he thought he could investigate her disappearance himself and solve it, but it's remained a cold case. There was never enough evidence to follow."

"No wonder he couldn't leave the search for Annie to Weston and his unit," you realized. "This case hit close to home."

Helen nodded in confirmation. "It's also, in part, why he's drinking on a Tuesday."

You pursed your lips. "So, what's a psychic got to do with it?"

"When Tim was at a carnival with friends three years later, a psychic that traveled with them approached him, unsolicited, and told him his sister was with him," she explained, "Like, actually with him, following him around wherever he went, just like she tended to do when she was still alive."

"He didn't like what it meant," you figured. Who would want confirmation that their family member was dead from a stranger like that? Still without a body to bury? Who would want to know that they weren't at rest?

"Wasn't just that," she told you. "He asked the psychic to describe what his sister looked like, and she got a detail wrong."

"She was a fake."

"Yes."

"How'd she know as much as she did?" you asked, gnawing on the inside of your cheek. You hated hearing stories about fakes. After all, every fake out there tarnished your reputation just a little bit more by existing.

"Newspapers, small town talk," Helen suggested. "He grew up in Hood River."

You'd never heard of the place but assumed that it was another town in Oregon.

"Surely you know how fakes are," she continued. "Some of them are very good at what they do. They dig up all the info they need to convince people, or try to at least."

"Guess I should stay away, then." You sighed. "He's been calling me Psy."

"Hey, well, that's something," Helen said, grinning ear to ear. "He doesn't give pet names to people he hates. There might be hope for you yet."

You laughed. "What if I don't want that?"

"Have you seen the guy?" she whispered, leaning towards you. "Eye candy."

You snorted even as a part of you silently agreed. It definitely was not the most logical part of your brain.

It wasn't just his appearance that had you agreeing though. You had a feeling you'd have the vivid image of Tim carrying Annie out of the woods like she weighed nothing stuck in your head for a long time.

"Thanks for telling me about his sister and the fake psychic," you said soberly, yawning after. "Guess I should head home."

"Stop by the bar first," Helen insisted. "He gave you a nickname. I think you'll be surprised at how receptive he may be of your company."

You arched your brows. "You trying to set us up?"

"God no," she barked out, winking at you. "Then I wouldn't have a chance at him."

You smiled. It seemed you'd made a friend during your very first case. Not bad.

You said goodnight to Helen and nearly bumped into Bronson on your way off the floor.

"How was your first shift?" he asked you, pulling back the coffee cup he was holding to protect it from the hazard that was you.

"Terrible case," you told him, "And Tim's still lukewarm to me at best, but it's been suggested I might be wearing his walls down."

Bronson dipped his head at you. "Good. He needs that." He checked his watch. "It's getting late. Rockford already finished the necessary paperwork for the day before he left and you've proven yourself plenty today. Get out of here. Get some rest. I don't want to see you back here for another twenty-two hours."

You raised your hands in surrender. "No arguments there."

You didn't mention that you were going to stop by the bar first.

Liquid Alchemy was no upscale bar, but it wasn't a dump either. The outside was plain white, with a black sign. Its name was in white, and painted alongside the alchemy symbol of silver, which was shaped a lot like a crescent moon. The inside was neat and smoke free, unlike most bars you'd been to, and there was a platform where live bands could play. That night there was only a DJ though, since it was a slow weekday, only a dozen people there when the bar probably could hold a hundred.

You spotted Tim as soon as you entered the building, seated on a black stool at the eight person bar in the center of the main room, his back turned to you. He was still in his work clothes, like you, but he'd tossed the suit coat on the counter beside him. Seeing his shoulder holsters again and the way his white shirt strained over his upper back immediately reminded you of your first meeting just over a day ago.

Had it really only been a day?

You approached Tim on his right. "This seat taken?" you inquired lightly.

It was a joke; you knew all the stools besides his were empty. It was a well-received joke though, Tim snorting quietly at you. He lifted the glass of liquor in his right hand (Bourbon?) to his lips and waited until you seated yourself to speak. "How'd you find me?"

"Helen said all the detectives come here."

"Pretty much."

The bartender approached you and you ordered a whiskey sour.

"Don't know how you can mix alcohol with a sour taste," Tim commented, grimacing.

You shrugged. "What can I say? I've always preferred sour to sweet."

"How's the girl?" Tim asked eventually, after the bartender had handed you your drink.

"Awake and with her aunt," you answered with a sigh. "Not talking right now, but who can blame her? I just hope she can live with some kind of normalcy eventually. At least her aunt seems really nice."

You took a sip of your drink and made a face. Just cause you liked sour things, didn't mean you had no reaction to them.

"You see Rebecca anymore?" he asked you, and your eyes shot up to his, shocked by the question. It took you a moment to recover, long enough for him to swallow a mouthful of his drink.

"After Annie woke up and reunited with her aunt she moved on," you informed him.

He frowned at you. "Just like that?"

"Just like that. Poof. Gone."

"She was able to rest after everything that happened?"

You wondered where Tim was going with this, why he was asking so many questions. "Spirits aren't quite human anymore and they tend to stick around for one purpose. Rebecca's was making sure Annie would live, and she does. Annie's trauma wasn't a part of the equation, and she had no power to do anything about it anyway."

"This a guess?"

"A logical conclusion," you corrected him. "I surmised it from my forty-five years of being able to see and sense them."

"Your whole life?"

You nodded. "Ever since I could remember, I'd get chills when there were no drafts, whispers in my mind when I wasn't thinking, nightmares about real people I'd never seen before."

"That had to be scary as a child," Tim reckoned.

"It was." You smirked at him. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you're starting to believe me, Rockford."

He downed what was left of his drink. "I believe that you believe it's real. I have no solid proof of otherwise."

You rolled your eyes before throwing back a quarter of your drink in one go. "You never will. Spirits aren't tangible, and not everyone has my heightened senses."

"The results are all that matter," Tim decided, waving at the bartender, "And you get results, fast. You were great out there. Annie probably would have died without you stopping me in front of that field and leaving the trail to look for her. I don't know how you did it, but I don't care anymore."

You could work with that, you thought. As long as you both got along, respected each other, you could handle a partner not fully accepting of your abilities.

"I was thinking," he began slowly after ordering another glass of Bourbon.

"Oh?" You blinked innocently at him, leaning on the bar with an elbow and cupping the underneath of the hinge of your jaw.

"I know, shocker," Tim grumbled, guessing correctly what you'd been tempted to say.

You beamed up at him. He could be a pain when he was grumpy, slightly condescending when he didn’t like something, but he was also fun to tease.

"Anyway..." he trailed off, "I was hoping tomorrow night you'd help me with the cold case while we're waiting on the lab results for Rebecca's case."

"The one on the cork board?" you guessed.

"That's the one," he replied with a nod. "It's from 1985. A nineteen year old was found in his house, an apparent suicide, having taken one pill too many, but he had strangulation marks around his neck, like someone held him in a choke hold for a while. Could use his spirit to help me figure out what went down."

"It doesn't work on command," you warned him, "And on cold cases I usually don't see much. Most of the time the spirits are no longer around after the first week, otherwise they risk becoming a poltergeist."

"I don't necessarily need your spiritual talent," Tim said, pursing his lips. "Even just having another brain to pick would help." He took a sip of his new drink. "What do you say?"

You curled your lips up at him.

"Sounds like a plan."

xxx

Tagged: @harriedandharassed

xxx

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#The Rockford Files Series #Merge Mansion Fanfic #X Reader #Tim Rockford Fanfic (Mine)

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akkpipitphattana · 2 years

Text

Okay, so, I did a rewatch of The Eclipse yesterday and while there are so many things that drive me absolutely insane about this show, the thing that got me the most while I was rewatching was the symbolism involving the Suppalo pin. Putting it under a keep reading because this got long.

The first time the pin is brought up is in episode one, when Ayan grabs the pin off of Akk's lapel and when Akk asks what he's doing, he says "Your pin tilts." Ayan tries to fix it, then Akk stops him and walks away with the pin in his hand.

It's important to note that this happens IMMEDIATELY after their conversation about The World Remembers gang and if they should be following the rules or not. One of the lines that stands out the most to me from that conversation is "Why don't you think everyone has their brain and can think for themselves?" because at this point, Akk DOESN'T think for himself. He's brainwashed by Chadok and does everything in order to uphold the rules and be the perfect head prefect. Until, of course, Ayan comes in.

Ayan comes in suddenly, without preamble, without asking, and tilts Akk's world on it's axis. He disrupts things, makes Akk questions things he never thought to question before. It's why I think the wording of the line "Your pin tilts" is incredibly important as well, because Aye could have simply told Akk that his pin was crooked, he could have let him fix it on his own. Instead, he first says nothing, tries to fix it himself, and then tells Akk that his pin is tilted.

The pin being tilted can easily be seen as an indicator of Ayan's disruption in Akk's life, and while yes, that is one way to look at it, it also means the exact opposite. Akk's life was already tilted. It was skewed, his view of the world was wrong, and he was ready to do terrible things in order to keep others in line. And it isn't until Ayan comes into his life and starts questioning him and pointing out the flaws in his logic that he realizes something is wrong.

But it's not like he accepts it right away! He's resistant to change, he's terrified of what it could mean, of how it could effect him, and so despite Aye's efforts to help him - to fix his pin - Akk doesn't let him. But Akk also doesn't fix it right away, either. He goes back to his dorm with an incomplete uniform.

Ayan's words and his actions stick with Akk, he can't get them out of his head. But that doesn't stop him from fixing the pin himself - putting things back where they should be, and then needing to put the suit away entirely because he still can't stop thinking about it. As resistant as he is to change, Ayan's words have already started sticking.

The pin isn't brought up again until episode eleven, when we get the scene where Ayan puts Akk's pin on for him, and in this scene, Aye explicitly states what the pin is representing: "Now your pin has it's own story created by me... It's my school pin I pinned for you, the person I love."

The pin, in this scene, represents Ayan's love for Akk and the fact that he's always there for him. Later on, when Akk is up there reciting words he no longer believes, he looks out and see Ayan and knows that he's on his side, touches the pin to feel it as a reminder. It also, in that way, represents that Akk has changed. He's finally let Aye put the pin on for him - he's let Ayan fix his tilted pin.

The show also makes sure you remember the metaphor it was originally used as because in the same episode, they have Akk and Ayan recreate that first scene for Wat's film! It really drives home the way the meaning of the pin both stayed the same, yet also changed over the course of the show.

And then, finally, we have the scene in episode twelve, where they each put the pin on for each other. And again, Aye gives an explicit meaning by saying "It's like we're exchanging wedding rings." Which, yes, it is! They're doing this because of what Aye did for Akk the day he got the Best Boy award. So that they always have that symbol of the other one on them, that they have a physical representation of their love and the fact that they always have someone that's there for them.

But, on another level, it also shows that just as Aye changed Akk, Akk also changed Aye. It wasn't as loud or earth-shattering, but Akk changed something in Ayan, too. Akk surprised Aye, taught him that not everyone is as they seem, and he also taught him about privilege. And then, it also shows Akk finally being able to verbalize what he feels for Aye, to finally be able to tell him that he loves him.

TLDR: The Suppalo pin symbolizes the way Akk and Ayan changed each other and I'm insane about it.

#i am sooo normal about the fucking pin #the eclipse #akkayan #my analysis #mine

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whumpdoyoumean · 11 months

Text

Whumptober #28

This is an AU based on the 2009 film Push. So, The Man From UNCLE but with super powers!

xxx we might not make it to the morning

“Ah, there you are. I was wondering if you’d come.” One corner of her mouth is upturned, and there’s nothing in Victoria’s tone, in the way she speaks, that’s out of the ordinary. And yet…There’s something there, something that tickles the back of Napoleon’s mind and then disappears the moment he reaches for it, like grasping at smoke.

It unsettles him, even as he puts on a false smile of his own, calm and full of charm. “How could I not? When a stunning woman such as yourself extends an invitation, one would be a fool not to accept it. I brought champagne.” He lifts the bottle slightly, and she steps out of the doorway so Napoleon can enter the suite, closing the door behind him. Napoleon sets the champagne down and turns to Victoria with one eyebrow quirked. “So what is it you wanted to discuss? An art deal, perhaps?”

Victoria grins broadly, showing pearly white teeth that remind Napoleon of a wolf’s, and she lets out a laugh. “Come now, Napoleon. Neither of us is that naive, so let’s not pretend.”

Napoleon’s stomach ties itself in knots at the use of his real name, but he’s careful not to let his shock show. His cover is blown, but he has to keep his head. “Damn,” he says. “I thought I was doing so well.”

“Oh, don’t sell yourself short, Agent Solo. You were doing very well!”

“What, so you found a Watcher, then? A Sniff?”

The woman watches him out from under heavy, dark lashes. There’s something predatory in her gaze, and Napoleon feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up. His strategy shifts immediately from gathering what intelligence he can to finding a way out of here, now.

But then…she speaks. And realization barely has time to hit him before her words crash over him and into him, entangling her lies with his reality.

“You really shouldn’t trust that big Russian ape, you know.”

Napoleon frowns. She’s only barely started to Push, and the contradicting thoughts in his mind confuse him. Surely she can’t mean…“Illya?”

“Kuryakin, yes. He’s still working with them. It’s dreadful, really, the way he’s using you and dear little Gaby. Playing you for fools.”

Confusion slowly turns to anger, and Napoleon feels his hands curl into fists. “I’ll kill him.”

He doesn’t notice Victoria’s amused smile, or the blackness of her eyes. “Now, there’s an idea. He’ll see you coming, though. The man is tracking you, after all.”

Napoleon’s thoughts are heavy and plodding, like there’s weights around their ankles, and it takes him a long moment before he says, “That’s impossible. I check my clothes, and my shoes.”

Victoria sighs, walking past Napoleon and to the nightstand next to the bed. He turns to watch her. “No, no darling. You misunderstand me. He didn’t place the tracker on you, did he? He planted it in you, in your belly.”

Napoleon’s heart rate picks up, hands breaking into a sweat. His head hurts. This doesn’t seem right, but she’s said so and--

“The bastard,” he says.

“Indeed.” She opens the nightstand drawer and pulls something out, lifting it to show him. A small paring knife. She places the point against the tip of her finger and looks at it thoughtfully. “If you want to kill him, which you do, you’ll need to get that pesky tracker out first and destroy it.”

A tracker, a Russian tracker inside him all this time, Kuryakin and the fucking KGB aware of his every move, his every secret…All of it lies. His trust given to the enemy, to a man who’s needled his way into his life and used him.

He needs to get the tracker out and smash it to pieces. And then he needs to find Illya and smash him to pieces, too.

Victoria closes the space between herself and Napoleon and reaches up with one hand, gently running the back of her long fingers down his face, lingering at his jaw.

“I’d love to stay and watch, I really would, but unfortunately I’ve more important matters to see to. Much less entertaining, though. Pity.” She sighs wistfully and holds out the knife. “You’ll need this. A bit short, but it’s sharp enough.”

Napoleon takes the blade from Victoria and she plants a kiss on his lips, lingering a long moment before she pulls away with a smile.

“Goodbye now, Napoleon. We shan’t be seeing each other again, I don’t think. And do be quiet, we don’t want anyone coming in here and trying to stop you.”

Napoleon nods idly, staring down at the small weapon he’s been handed as Victoria leaves the suite.

The agent turns the knife in his hand so it’s pointed toward his belly. His body’s instinct to survive is shouting at him, trying to seize control of his limbs. But there’s a tracker inside him, put there by a man who has lied to him, violated him, betrayed him. And he needs to get it out. He has to. Mind overrides body and he drives the knife forward, plunging it into the right side of his torso, halfway between ribs and hip. The pain pulls the breath out of him and the blood is instant, welling up around the blade and soaking his crisp, white shirt. He’s on the floor before he knows he’s falling, sitting on the carpet against the settee, his legs outstretched before him. His heart pounds in his chest, in his ears, as he starts to pull the knife to the left (the woman wasn’t lying, the knife is sharp) and his hands begin to tremble as more blood spills from him. His body shakes as he continues, quaking with the effort of containing the screams that want to erupt from him--screams of agony, of hurt, of rage. He doesn’t let them out though, he can’t. Only the occasional whimper or groan slips through his lips, though the sounds are quickly stifled. Mostly he gasps, rapid, sharp breaths through flared nostrils, his mouth drawn into a thin grimace.

He wants to stop.

But then Victoria’s voice again, and her words push every other conscious thought aside so that he’s focused only on his task. To get the tracker out.

He’s shaking so badly he can hardly hold the knife, so he wraps his left hand around his right and then he keeps moving. He doesn’t think about the fact that his lap is becoming increasingly wet and warm as blood spills from the lengthening split in his belly. Doesn’t think about the fact that, despite the sweat on his forehead, he’s growing colder.

He has to get the tracker out.

And then he’s going to kill Illya Kuryakin.

xxx

They don’t wait for the girl at the front desk to give them a key. They don’t have the time, and Illya can blast the door open anyway, and does so with more strength than Gaby has seen in a while, nearly knocking it from its hinges. He bursts into the room and then freezes so abruptly that Gaby runs into the back of him.

“Illya!” she gripes, and steps out from around him and then she freezes, too. “Mein Gott.”

Napoleon is on the floor, slumped against a settee, his face shiny with sweat and a sickly shade of gray and there’s blood, there’s so much blood all over his front and his hands and the white carpet beneath him and she’s seen a lot since working with Waverly but this…Bile rises in her throat and she has to turn away, doubling over and clutching her stomach and waiting for the moment to pass. This seems to rouse Illya from his daze and her charges forward.

“Cowboy!” he cries, and Gaby looks up in time to see the Russian fall to his knees beside the agent. He’s muttering in Russian, words too low and fast for Gaby to understand but she thinks he may be praying as he puts two fingers to Napoleon’s neck, searching for a pulse.

“Is he--”

“He is alive,” Illya says. “Go find clean towels, we must try and control the bleeding.”

Gaby nods, hurrying off to the bathroom, and she’s grateful to have a moment to herself, to collect herself as she collects the towels. She’s strong and Napoleon Solo is strong and it’s going to be okay.

That’s when the shouting starts.

She hears Illya first. “Solo, what are you--You are badly injured you must--”

And then Napoleon, and the tone in his voice sends ice in her veins.

“Get the fuck off me, I’ll kill you!” There’s a tiredness in his voice, a slurred quality to his words that she knows comes with being badly hurt, but even so the words are laced with fury and hatred and she hurries back to the two agents.

Napoleon has a knife in his red-with-blood hand, holding it up in front of him, and Gaby can see it shaking. Illya is a step back, hands up in a gesture of retreat, face twisted in hurt and confusion.

“Napoleon!”

Gaby’s cry gets his attention and he looks over at her, then down at his belly. “I have to get it out. Gaby, I--I have to get it out!”

And then he’s aiming the knife at himself, moving quickly but Illya is quicker and grabs both his wrists. The knife clatters to the ground and Napoleon’s face darkens with rage.

“Cowboy, it’s me!” Illya cries. “You’re badly wounded, we have to get you to help, do you understand?”

“You’re a liar,” Napoleon snarls, jerking slightly as he tries to free himself from the Russian’s grip. The action is quickly followed by a sound of pain and his eyes squeeze shut.

“Illya, let him go,” Gaby says, barely keeping her voice from shaking. “He’ll hurt himself more trying to fight you.”

“He will hurt himself anyway if I let him go.” There’s desperation in Illya’s voice, written on his face and in his body, in the uncertainty that is as plain in his grip as the strength. “It--it is bad, Gaby. The towels--he needs the towels.”

Gaby nods, kneeling beside the two men and it’s only then, with the blood on the carpet soaking through the knees of her trousers, that she fully takes in Napoleon’s injury. It’s nothing short of ghastly--a long, ragged cut running from one side of his belly to the other. It's hard to tell but she notes that there doesn't seem to be anything other than blood spilling from the gash. It offers some comfort, but not much.

She’s seen what a powerful Pusher can do, and Victoria is obviously not short on power. It’s plain that Napoleon doesn’t have much strength left in him, but whatever she’s planted in his mind is compelling him to use every ounce of it acting on whatever she’s told him to do, even if it kills him.

She positions herself next to Illya, who’s still holding Napoleon’s wrists, and presses a towel to the long gash, and another, and it’s obvious that he’s in agony but he doesn’t scream, just writhes weakly and lets out small, hair raising whimpers.

“We can’t move him like this,” Gaby says. “Maybe if he were calm, but he is bleeding too much and there’s no way he’ll let you get him out of here. He needs a Stitch. You know one here in Rome, don’t you? Go make the call.”

Illya’s jaw works, eyes growing watery, and he shakes his head once. “I will give you the number. I won’t leave him.”

“You have to!” she snaps, then sighs. “Illya, you have to.”

He reluctantly releases his hold on Napoleon, who immediately reaches for the towels Gaby’s holding against his wound. He’s weak, though, and Gaby easily stops him, taking his bloody hands in hers.

“Go!” she barks, and Illya hurries away.

“He--he--” Napoleon gasps, looking at Gaby with eyes wide and wild.

“What is it, Solo?” she says gently, hoping that she can coax something out that will help her deal with whatever lies Victoria has forced on him.

“He lied to us. The--the--the bastard! Put a tracker in me…I have to get it out.”

So that’s what Victoria told him. She has to think quickly.

“You did!” she says, and his brow furrows in confusion.

“What?” His hands relax in hers, just slightly.

“You already got it out,” she says, slowly releasing one of his hands and waiting for a moment to make sure he doesn’t try and hurt himself again. Then she reaches into her pocket and draws out one of the beads from her broken bracelet and holds it up. “See? It was on the floor, you must have missed it. You already got it out.”

He still looks slightly bewildered, but he nods slowly. “I got it out,” he murmurs, and lets out a long sigh, and as he does his eyes drift shut and his head dips down toward his chest.

“Solo!” Gaby puts her hand on his face, tilting his head upward. Her already hammering heart beats so fast that it aches, with fear, with desperation. A Stitch can’t help a dead man. “Solo, come on. You have to stay awake until help comes. Napoleon!”

She almost weeps with relief when she hears Illya’s voice in the hall, and he appears a moment later, a short, harsh-looking older woman in tow.

“Christ, that’s a lot of blood,” she says in a thick Dublin as she sets eyes on Napoleon. “Is he still breathing?”

Gaby nods. “He’s alive.”

“Alright, help me get him onto his back.”

Illya and Gaby move quickly and carefully, shifting Napoleon so that he’s lying flat on his back on the blood-soaked floor. The woman places her hand on Napoleon’s belly, one on either side of the wound. She glances up at Illya.

“Your friend is about to make a lot of noise. Might bring some unwanted attention.”

“I will deal with it, Brigid,” Illya practically growls. “Just help him!”

Brigid nods and slowly starts to move her hands. Gaby watches in fascinated horror as the torn flesh deep within the wound begins to knit. As it does, Napoleon stirs, just a little at first, a pained whimper escaping his lips. Whimper becomes groan, and he writhes under Brigid’s hands, and then his back arches and he screams and the sound makes Gaby’s stomach churn. Brigid doesn’t seem phased, barely even seems to notice, just continues her bloody work. Gaby has to blink back tears and she looks up to see Illya doing the same, the big Russian’s jaw tense as he stares up at the ceiling while Napoleon cries out.

And then it’s over and Napoleon’s body goes limp, sweat beading his forehead as his head lolls to one side, his breath coming in high, breathy gasps.

“Boy’s just been through hell,” Brigid says, standing. “But he’ll be back on his feet in a few hours.”

“Thank you,” Illya says. “Thank you.”

Brigid just nods. “You owe me one, Kuryakin.” And she leaves the apartment without another word. Illya watches her go, then turns to Gaby.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. Are you?”

Illya sniffs once, looking away, then looks back at her. “The way he spoke to me…He was so angry.”

There’s a noise in the hall and Gaby swears under her breath.

“Illya, we need to get him out of here.”

“He does not trust me.” Illya’s voice is small. Broken.

“We’ll figure it out,” Gaby says softly.

Illya nods, his expression darkening. “And then we find Victoria.”

“And then we find Victoria,” Gaby agrees.

It doesn’t matter how powerful Victoria Vinciguera is. She’s going to pay for this.

xxx

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