#a boat started chasing to assist the one we were chasing so it become a 2v1 ships (3v2 players)

[dodomingo]

Sea of Thieves is the best game of all time

[phykios]

Five Times Percy Jackson Cheated At School (And One Time Someone Cheated Him) [read on ao3]

thank you as always to @darkmagyk for inspo and beta-ing 💙💙💙 and thank you to @arosnowflake for the homer idea!

1)

Percy squints at the paper prompt again, tilting his head, as if the new angle will extract some hidden information. It doesn’t change. The font is the special dyslexia-friendly one used by most departments at NRU, so he isn’t misreading it, either.

Your final will be an 8-10pp (TNR, 12pt, double-spaced) research paper expanding on one of the topics discussed in our class so far, or an alternate idea of your choosing, to be submitted in writing by May 7 with footnotes and bibliography. By 10am on the Wednesday before the Thursday class you will submit online a 750-word essay (word count does not include footnotes) on the research thread you have pursued that week (no written assignments due Week 6 or Week 12). 

Percy might hate college.

“Your neck bothering you again?” Annabeth asks, coming up behind him, her hands already on his shoulders. She’s sweaty, dressed in workout clothes, having just come back in from a jog. 

“My neck is fine,” he says. “Just preemptively freaking out over my Roman history final.”

He tilts his head back over the top of his chair, staring into the upside down, prettily frowning face of his girlfriend, and it does nothing to improve his mood.

“How bad is it?”

“Eight to ten pages,” Percy says, “not including footnotes.”

“Ouch.”

“And,” he grimaces, “it’s a topic of our choosing.”

Her mouth twists in sympathy. “Sucks.”

“Yep.”

“Anything I can do to help?” She squeezes his shoulders lightly, an open invitation. 

He shakes his head, stretching his arms back to grab her waist. “Promise not to break up with me when you catch me crying at 4AM over it.”

“Promise.” And she seals it with a kiss, bending down to reach him. “Dad wants to know if you’re free on the 16th.” 

“The 16th?” He wracks his brain. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t conflict with sailing, or Greek Club, or the monthly intra-pantheon relations council meeting that Chiron and Clarisse both guilted him into joining. “Pretty sure. Why?”

“Dinner--Charlotte’s out of town that weekend.”

“Sounds good.”

“Great, I’ll let him know. Now,” and she grins, “are you going to stare at that computer all day, or do you want to come and take a shower with me?”

Percy slams the computer shut. 

He doesn’t think about his paper topic for a while after that.

***

To his great dismay, Percy gets to her dad’s house first on the 16th. Drama in writing group 🙄 she texts him as he gets to the door, be there asap.

Great. Alone in the house with his girlfriend’s dad. Taking a deep breath, he knocks on the door. 

Not a minute later, Dr. Chase opens it. Last time they went to visit, Percy and Annabeth had ended up waiting outside for almost a quarter of an hour. “Oh, Percy,” he says, fumbling his flight helmet off his head. “Goodness, I thought I’d lost track of time again. Come in, come in.”

“Thanks,” Percy says, stepping inside and shedding his jacket. “Annabeth’s running late, but she said she’d be here soon.”

He frowns, looking so much like Annabeth that it throws Percy for several loops. “Well, that’s alright,” he says. “I’m sure we can entertain ourselves well enough until she gets here.”

“Yeah,” Percy chuckles, uneasy.

Several seconds pass. 

“Oh!” starts Dr. Chase. “Right, yes. Come in. Would you like something to drink?”

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t get much better.

A few minutes of staggered conversation later, it becomes eminently clear why they need Annabeth between them. It’s not the awkward small talk that doesn’t go anywhere (“How’s school going for you?” “It’s okay.” “Good, that’s good to hear.”) or the fact that Dr. Chase doesn’t really grasp how to relate to younger kids (“Have you heard of this website called ‘Vine’?”), but more that it’s just painfully obvious that the two of them don’t really know where they stand with each other. 

Now, he knows that Frederick Chase doesn’t hate him. Objectively, he’s aware of the fact that, if it weren’t for him, Annabeth never would have reconnected with her father in the first place, and he kind of owes him for that. Also, Percy knows that he’s a pretty chill guy--a little scatterbrained, but chill. 

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to make a good impression, though. Or that Dr. Chase thinks that Percy is smart enough for his daughter. Because, like, Percy isn’t smart enough for Annabeth--that much is obvious. Dr. Chase was courted by Athena. Percy barely made it out of high school calculus.

“Would you…” Dr. Chase hedges, plucking off his glasses and giving them a quick wipe with his shirtsleeve. “Would you like to see some of my current research?”

“Uh… sure. I’d love to.” 

At the very least, hopefully Dr. Chase will talk enough for the both of them, eating up time until Annabeth gets here.

A new spring in his step, Dr. Chase leads Percy to his study, where he’s got a setup worthy of Cabin Six: on his desk is a massive map of the Mediterranean, littered with miniatures of tanks, planes, and ships. Ringing the room are wall-hangings, depicting different types of planes, half of their structure in x-rays like people in an anatomy textbook, sandwiching the giant viking sword which hangs directly behind his chair. Every inch of floor space is occupied with a pile of books, some serving as additional desk space for mugs, notepads, spare toy soldiers, and, in one case, what looks like the leftovers of a handful of celestial bronze spearheads, melted down into shiny, useless nuggets. 

“You know I primarily study aviation,” Dr. Chase is saying, tidying up as he walks around the room, “but my colleagues and I are collaborating on an interdisciplinary re-evaluation of the entire North African theatre in World War II. It’s fascinating stuff; until very recently, they used to call it the ‘war without hate,’ given the lack of partisan roundups and, ah, ethnic clashes that you see in Europe--absolute garbage, of course. As if there weren’t civilians caught up in the fighting, too!” He chuckles, pleased at his own joke. Percy forces a laugh out of himself. “Anyway, with my prior experience studying the invasion of Sicily, I was brought on to assist in piecing the timeline together, working backwards from 1943.”

“Cool,” says Percy, filling the natural gap of conversation.

“Extremely! Operation Husky was a terrific endeavor of airborne, amphibious, and land-based combat.”

Percy nods. Amphibious? “Uh-huh.”

“Though, I must admit, I am having a little trouble retracing some of the ships.” Peering over his map, he leans down, fiddling with one of the ships. “You see this one here? The Palmer?”

Stepping up to the desk, Percy crouches down so the little toy ship is at eye level.

“Well, based on official records, the Palmer was supposed to have arrived at the rendezvous point at the same time as all the other ships, but ended up delayed by two days, and I can’t… quite…” He moves the ship again, frowning. “Figure out… why…” 

“Where were they sailing through?” Percy asks. 

Dr. Chase points to the map. “From Alexandria to Malta.” 

“They probably just hit a bad couple of currents,” Percy says, standing up. 

Tilting his head, Dr. Chase peers at him. “How do you mean?”

“If you’re going through the Cretan Passage, you’re going to hit all kinds of West-East currents which will push you backwards.” Snatching up a pencil from a nearby book stack, Percy lightly sketches on top of the map, tracing along the North African coast. “There are tons of overlapping currents in this area that push boats around in circles, especially around Sicily. That’s one of the reasons why so many historians figure that Homer was referring to the Strait of Messina when Odysseus goes through Scylla and Charybdis, here.” And he circles the strait, with a confident flourish.

When he pulls back, Dr. Chase is staring at him.

Percy blinks. “Um… sorry I drew on your map.”

“You--I have been trying to figure that out for weeks.”

He coughs, shrugging his shoulders. “Sorry.”

But Dr. Chase just laughs. “You can make it up to me by helping me with these next.” Clearing crumbs off of southern France, he bends over, pencil in hand. “So, say you were trying to get from Marseilles to Tunis…” 

Forty-five minutes later, still embroiled in battle recreations of the Mediterranean theatre, they don’t hear Annabeth letting herself in with her key, not even registering her presence until Dr. Chase, grasping for a notebook, spots her leaning against the doorway. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“Oh, Annabeth, dear! I’m sorry,” says Dr. Chase, going over to give her a hug. “We didn’t hear you come in.”

“I can see that,” she says. “What are you guys doing?”

“Percy here has been assisting me with naval movements,” he says, proudly.

Lacing her fingers with his, Annabeth steps over to Percy, studying their battle map. “Really?”

“Oh yes, he’s been phenomenally helpful.”

She kisses his cheek, pleased. “Look at you, Mr. ‘Phenomenally Helpful.’”

“It was pretty fun,” he admits, warm all over.

“I’d bet. Although, I guess this means we should probably order in for dinner…?”

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Dr. Chase smiles. “Yes, I suppose we should. Does pizza sound all right to you two?”

“Let me take care of it,” she says, slipping from Percy’s side. “You guys looked like you were in the middle of something. Extra olives, dad?”

“Don’t forget--”

“And anchovies, Percy, I know.” She rolls her eyes, taking out her phone.

Rather than the three of them move into the kitchen, Annabeth ends up bringing the pizza in with her, because of course she has opinions she’d like to share about the Allies’ naval movements. 

“You know, Percy,” says Dr. Chase, “I must say, you have a real knack for this kind of thing. Have you thought about what you might major in yet?”

Ah, the million drachmae question. “Not yet,” he says, fiddling with a pencil. “I figured I’d get through my gen eds first and then see which one I hated the least.” 

“I think you should consider majoring in history.”

Percy’s head snaps up. “History?”

“Specifically maritime history, I suppose. Your predisposition to sailing and ocean currents would be a huge asset to your research.”

“But--wouldn’t history have, like, a metric ton of required reading? I’m not really sure that’s my area.” He has a daughter with dyslexia and ADHD; surely he’d understand Percy’s hesitation.

But he just shakes his head. “Graduate programs these days are very favorable towards interdisciplinary methodology, I sincerely doubt you’d have to barricade yourself in the library. And recently there’s been a significant push to make the field more accessible to students with disabilities, including things like digitization, screen reading for people with vision impairments, and even restructuring programs all together so that students no longer have to memorize the Encyclopedia Britannica in order to pass their general exams.”

“That’s really nice of you to say, Dr. Chase,” Percy says, “But history class isn’t like talking over naval movements with you.” He thought back to the paper that had lowkey been haunting his dreams. “Like, in my classical history survey, I can’t just… talk about currents and battle plans. I have to come up with a topic on my own, and then write about that.” 

“Surely something involving Roman naval movements would be well within your skill set. You have a second sense about these things,” he chuckles, “clearly.”

Percy glances towards Annabeth, hoping she’ll back him up, but she looks thoughtful. Considering. Like she’s actually thinking about her dad’s proposal. “I can’t just choose something in naval history.”

“Why not?”

“Because… it's too easy?” 

If it was anything like his afternoon with Dr. Chase, it might even be fun. And school isn’t supposed to be fun. 

He repeats that thought to Annabeth as they drive home. “School isn’t supposed to be fun.” 

“No,” Annabeth agrees, “but I don’t know… I like my intro art history class way better than anything we ever did in high school because I actually care about it. Maybe if you write about stuff you’re good at, like my dad suggested, you’ll like it more.” 

The idea follows him all the way to bed, where he’s still mulling it over at 2 in the morning. Before he can chicken out, he grabs his phone, shooting off a quick email to his professor with his potential paper topic, then rolls over, eventually falling asleep.

By morning, he has a response. 

Sounds good! Looking forward to it.

***

With shaking hands, Percy calls his mom. “Yes?” 

“Hey mom.”

“Percy?” He hears her perk up, almost visualizing her sitting up in her chair. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

Mom instincts. They can always tell when something is different. His heart throbs in his chest. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says, smiling stretching across his face. “It’s just--I got my paper back.” 

Percy had ended up writing his paper about the Roman navy movements in the Battle of the Aegates in 241 BC. It was probably the most fun he’s ever had on a school assignment, or at least the most fun he’d ever had writing a paper. 

“And?” She sounds expectant, hopeful. His mom has always had such faith in him, even with thirteen years of schooling to prove her otherwise. 

He looks back at his email, just to make sure he’s reading it right. “I got an A.”

She gasps. He can hear the scrape of the chair as she stands up. “Percy, that’s wonderful!” 

“Thank you.”

“An A!”

He smiles into his fist, inordinately pleased. “Thank you.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I am so happy for you!”

“Thanks, mom.”

“I’m so proud of you, Percy.” Her voice is soft now, like twilights on the beach with blue marshmallows. “I know how hard you’ve worked for this. You should be very proud, too.”

“I am.” And he is, weirdly enough. “I just can’t believe it.”

“I can.” His mom must be grinning, her eyes sparkling. “I always knew you could do it.”

“Sally?” He hears in the background, muffled. “Is that Percy?”

“Paul, Percy got an A on his Roman history paper!”

A second voice crowds its way in, equally excited. “An A? That’s great, kiddo! Congratulations.”

Why can’t he stop smiling? “Thanks.”

“I bet that feels pretty good, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

“Well, it is very well-deserved,” says Paul. “That was some great work you did. I could tell how passionate you were about your topic just from your first sentence.”

“Thank you.” Maybe he should be worried about all this praise going to his head, but damn, is it nice. “Listen, I have to go get started on dinner, but I just wanted to give you a call.”

“Of course,” says his mom. “I want to hear from you more, okay? Tell me more good news! Like when are you and Annabeth going to--”

“I’m working on it, okay?” says Percy, smiling even more broadly. “I’ll keep you posted, promise.”

She laughs, tinny and happy. “You’d better. Congratulations again, sweetheart.”

“Thanks mom. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” 

And he hangs up, puts his phone down on the table, tilts his head back, and sighs, full, happy, a release. 

Maybe college won’t be so bad after all. 

2)

“You don’t have to do this,” Frank says, hushed. “All you have to do is walk away.”

Five Greek Fire bombs, cloudy yellow, are lined up on the table in front of him, neatly laid out in front of five twenties. From the side, Frank stares him down, surrounded by an army of morbidly curious Romans. Someone turned off the music and turned on the lights a while ago, stopping the party in its tracks, every eye on Percy and his opponent. Figures, his first college party all year and he causes a scene. 

Percy grips the edge of the table. “He insulted the Mets,” he says for the millionth time. “I can’t let that shit stand.”

Frank sighs. “Annabeth?” he asks, hoping to stop this nonsense.

Turning to his side, Percy sees his girlfriend, two drinks in, her cheeks lightly flushed, but solid as she stands beside him, supporting him. Her eyes are hard, fierce, the warrior gaze of Athena all but leaping out of her. “Do it,” she says. 

William, the sour-faced Roman legacy of Juventus, scowls. “A hundred bucks on the table. Sixty seconds. No throwing them back up.”

“Deal.”

“Frank,” Annabeth calls. “Start the clock.”

He sighs. “You guys are idiots.”

“Frank!”

“Okay, okay.” He holds out his phone, thumb primed, hovering over the screen. “On your marks, in three… two… one…” 

He hits zero, and Percy grabs a shot glass. Squeezing his eyes shut, he brings it to his lips, and throws it back.

It’s… not what he expected.

The tequila is awful--no getting around that. Even to Percy’s untrained taste buds, having really only ever had some of Gabe’s sour beer (under duress) and some of the Demeter cabin’s strawberry wine (on his eighteenth birthday, a celebration for actually getting to graduate high school), he can tell it’s cheap, rank, unrefined shit, like he’s drinking straight toilet cleaner. But the garum, the weird Roman condiment that the shot is mixed with, the one that Percy had never heard of before, it’s… it almost tastes like the fish sauce that comes with the pork and rice noodles from the Vietnamese place down the corner of his mom’s apartment, only less… fishy? Yeah. Less fishy.

It’s a weird taste. It’s not bad, by any means, it just--straight up, it just tastes like saltwater. Like the sea. 

And, well. Percy can handle the sea.

He looks at William, and grins. “You are so fucked.”

The assembled Romans cheer, spectators at a gladiator show, as Percy knocks back the rest of the Greek Fire bombs, one after another, clearing them all in under thirty seconds. Annabeth swipes up the cash, shrieking as she throws her arms around Percy. William wanders off, red-faced and glaring, as whoever turned the music off before flips it back on, the night, and the party, saved.

Silly Percy. He should have known what was coming next.

Thirty minutes later, he is well and truly wasted.

“You’re, like, really pretty,” he shouts at Annabeth over the loud music.

She snorts, grinning at him. “Thanks.”

“Seriously,” he slurs, tipping forward on his feet. “You could be a model.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Remember when we were fourteen,” he yells, bracing himself against the wall, “and you got kidnapped by that monster?” Slightly soberer but still a little flushed, she bites her lip, nodding. “Well, I followed the rescue party--I told you that, that I snuck out of camp to follow the rescue party? Right?” 

“You did.”

He takes a sip of water, running his tongue around the inside of his mouth. Feels goofy as fuck. “We got hijacked by Aphrodite halfway through, and when I saw her, I thought--I thought, ‘Holy shit, she looks a little like Annabeth.’”

Her brows shoot up, smile pulling at her lips. “Really?”

He nods. “Totally! But you’re way, way p--” 

Still smiling, she silences him with a kiss, the lingering taste of hard cider on her tongue. “I appreciate it,” she murmurs, grinning, “but you probably shouldn’t say that out loud.”

“Gross.”

From out of nowhere, like he always does, the weasley little shit, Nico di Angelo is suddenly in their space, looking surly and emo as ever, red solo cup in his left hand. “Nico!” Percy crows, grabbing for him and missing. “How’s my favorite cousin?!”

Ducking his wildly swinging limbs, Nico grimaces in the way that Percy has to come to recognize as his attempt at a smile. “Better’n you,” he says, a little wobbly. “What’s up with him?” he directs towards Annabeth.

“Greek Fire bombs. Five.”

“You’re a psychopath.”

“What!” Percy pouts. “He insulted the Mets.”

“Aren’t you s’posed to be, like…” Nico snaps his fingers, words momentarily escaping him. “A--representation… person? For the Greeks?”

Percy waves his hand, hitting the wall. “Fuck that. The Greeks can handle themselves. The Mets are sacred!”

“Are you with anyone?” Annabeth asks, momentarily taking up Percy’s usual role of concerned parent friend while he is drunk off his ass. Theoi, he loves this girl so much. 

Nico shakes his head. “No, but Will and I are staying with--”

A thought suddenly blooms in Percy’s tequila-soaked brain. “Nico!” He shouts.

“What?” he hisses, glaring.

Percy pushes himself off of the wall, outstretched arms managing to box Nico in, falling on his shoulders and trapping him. He’s still a short, skinny little shit, the fuck, when are his Big Three genes going to kick in? “I need to talk to you about the thing.”

“The what?”

“The thing! The--the,” then he leans in, scream-whispering over the pounding bassline. “The thing.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“You know, it’s…” Percy licks his lips, language escaping him for a hot second. “Round. Metal. Jewelry thing.”

A beat, then Nico’s eyes widen. “Oh, that thing.”

“Yes, that thing!” Pulling back, he pulls Nico towards him, slinging an arm over his shoulders in a half-headlock. Annabeth watches, bemused, lips pursed as she tries not to smile. “I need to borrow Nico for a sec,” he says, words spilling out of him. “Back soon. Later. Soon.”

Her eyes crinkle, grey sparkling. She’s so fucking pretty. “Drink your water.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Then together, like some three-legged beast, the two boys lurch away deeper into the party, Nico leading them towards the kitchen. “Where’re you taking me?” Percy slurs. “‘M I being kidnapped again?”

“If I’m helping you plan out this stupid proposal,” he grumbles, pouring himself more vodka, “then I need to be less sober.”

***

Some mistakes may have been made.

“Where’s Annabeth?” Percy mumbles, looking back towards the house. The party is still raging, someone’s muffled Spotify playlist making a real racket, the greatest hits of ABBA still bouncing around his skull.

“Simp.” Nico, swaying a little, tries to stand up from his kneeling position, only to fall heavily back down on his knees. “She’s right where you left her.”

Discussing Percy's proposal plan had led to more drinking. More drinking had led to the two of them discussing their shared preference for blondes. (“Malcolm is pretty cute,” Nico admitted, flushing, and Percy almost screamed, “Isn’t he?! Sometimes I think about Annabeth with short hair looking like Malcolm and I almost start crying because she’d be so cute!”) Which then led to even more drinking. Which then led to general bitching about their lives, about Percy's hard-ass classics professor Dr. Bauer who he actually really liked but just pushed him so hard and expected so much of him, and Nico's half-brother Zagreus who was causing some family drama by picking fights with Hades all the time and also hooking up with both Thanatos AND the fury Megaera, which, ew, which then led to Percy inhaling his drink, nearly choking to death on unspecified college punch, Nico laughing at him all the while, as he had the most incredible idea.

"Nico!" He shouted, crushing the red solo cup. "Can you resurrect Homer for me?"

Nico gaped, staring. "What."

"Seriously! I need to ask him something for my paper."

"Percy." Nico gazed at him, all the power of the Ghost King boring into his soul, deep and haunting. Percy stifled a burp. "You're a fucking genius."

Which is how they found themselves around a shallow hole they had dug in the backyard, a large bottle of Pepsi originally intended as a mixer pilfered from the kitchen along with two slices of pepperoni pizza dumped on the grass beside them.

"Maybe we shouldn't do this," he says, uneasy even through his drunken haze.

"It was your idea!"

"I don't have good ideas."

“Fuck you, I’m doing it.” With all the force of a tiny, angry kitten, he snatches up the Pepsi bottle, wrestling with the twist cap for a good ten seconds. “I wanna give that bitch a piece of my mind for making me cry in school.”

Percy looks at him sideways. “Hector killing Patroclus got you, too?”

He snorts. “Fuck no. Achilles didn’t pay his dues to the dead.”

“Seriously?”

The cap pops off, and Nico tips the bottle over, dumping flat, lukewarm soda into the shallow hole. “It’s the ultimate dishonor!”

Freak. Percy would die for the kid.

“Let the dead taste again,” Nico mutters. “Let them rise and take this offering. Let them remember.”

“You’re so weird.”

“Says the guy who’s related to both horses and water.”

“I’m not related to water, I just control it.” 

The dirt turns black, dead soil mixed with sticky sugar water. Nico drops in the pizza, and begins to chant, that same ancient Greek that Percy heard in a dream once, talking of death and memories and returning from the grave or whatever. It’s still creepy as shit. 

Despite the warm California night, the air thickens with chilly fog. Silence, impenetrable, surrounds them, blocking out the noises of the party. From the earth, blueish, vaguely person-shaped figures begin to form, like thunderous clouds before a storm. “Which one is Homer?” he asks, hushed.

“Shh!” Nico hisses. 

Like little wells of gravity, the fog begins to coalesce. On one of them, Percy can almost make out, like, fingers. “Um, Mr. Homer? Sir?”

The figure doesn’t say anything. It lowers its mouth, drinking the soda out of the dirt. When it raises its head, Percy can see it more clearly, curly hair and milky white eyes and a straight nose. It--he?--seems a little more solid than your average run-of-the-mill ghost.

Nico frowns, eyes closed, concentrating. “What’s your name?” he mumbles. 

That mouth opens, soundlessly, jaw working on nothing.

“Speak.”

It--there’s a sound, like hissing, only it’s not coming from the mouth, Percy thinks. It sounds like it’s coming from the earth. “Nico?” he asks. “You good?”

The ghost opens its mouth again, moaning, raising its hands. Weakly, unsteadily, it stumbles forward on feeble legs, tripping over the shallow hole in the dirt.

“Nico?” he asks again, a little more forcefully. “What’s going on, dude?”

Nico blinks, slowly, mouth hanging open a little. “Uh.”

The… thing… raises itself up on its hands? He guesses, and knees, crawling its way over towards them.

Now, Percy may be drunk off his ass, but he has seen enough movies to know exactly what the fuck is up.

Moving with a speed he didn’t quite think was possible right about now, he grabs Nico’s wrist, and pulls him up, dragging him along as he lurches towards the house. “Percy…” Nico moans, stumbling over a rock. “I think I fucked up.”

“You think?” Percy wrenches the door open, tossing Nico inside, before following in after, throwing himself against the door. 

Nico groans, throwing his arms over his face. “Dio santo, my head.”

“Forget your head,” he says, “did we just raise a Homer zombie?!”

Panting, Nico stares up at him, sprawled on the floor of the house. “Oops.”

Percy thunks his head against the door. He does not have nearly enough mental capacity to deal with this right now.

But, he thinks ruefully, at least it’s just one. Even drunk, he’s pretty sure he can handle one zombie.

Nico’s eyes widen. 

Percy stares. “What.”

“I didn’t stop the ritual.”

His stomach goes cold.

Turning around slowly, he pulls aside the little curtain on the window. “What?” Nico asks. “What do you see?”

Percy can’t speak, mouth dry.

Slithering up behind, Nico peers over his shoulder. “That’s… not great.”

“Nico,” Percy says, eyeing the horde which slowly shambles closer, half-decayed bodies in togas bumping into each other, almost identical to the drunk college students inside, as the song changes, once again, to ‘Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight).’ “Please go get Frank and Annabeth.”

The following Monday, an announcement is sent out to the entire campus: Per new department guidelines, students may not utilize the ambassador of Pluto to interview the dead for academic purposes.

3)

Percy attempts to flatten his hair. He readjusts his shirt. He almost wipes his sweaty palms on his pants, before he realizes what he’s doing, and clenches them instead, nails digging into his palms. He turns to Annabeth. “Do I look okay?”

“Ooh, ‘Mapping Funerary Monuments in the Periphery of Imperial Rome.’”

“Annabeth.”

She looks up from her brochure. “Relax, seaweed brain, you look fine. You look better than most people here.”

“That’s because I bring down the average age of presenters by about thirty years,” he hisses, eyes darting about at the milling mass of attendees, all packed into the hotel ballroom. 

Dr. Bauer had alternately convinced/pressured/guilttripped him into attending this year’s annual conference for the Society of Classical Studies to talk about the research he’d been doing with her. This year, the conference was held in San Francisco, so at the very least Percy didn’t have to spend five hours stressing about his poster presentation while simultaneously up in the air. But now that he’s here, in the ballroom, surrounded by strangers who know way more about this subject than he does, who are actually smart and probably never nearly flunked out of school or got kicked out or--

“Hey.” Annabeth takes his hand. “I know that look. You deserve to be here just as much as any of them.”

“Do I? I feel like any moment someone is going to come over and throw me out for trespassing.” He vaguely recalls something similar happening to him as a kid after he had ducked into the lobby of a semi-nice hotel to dodge what he had thought, at the time, was just a weird stalker, but had later realized had only had one eye. In any case, the hotel security guard had practically picked him up by the scruff of his neck, tossing him back out into the street. 

“That’s just your imposter syndrome talking,” she reassures him. “No one is going to throw you out.”

He sure as shit hopes so. It would be a shame to have done all this work for nothing. 

Glancing back at his poster, Percy can’t help but feel… good. Accomplished. Proud. About a school assignment, of all things. 

His poster traces the development of the prow from the Greek penteconter, to the Roman liburna, and finally to the Byzantine dromon, looking at artistic depictions in history. Percy had picked the topic himself, spending hours in the library reading, writing, and hand-drawing cross-sections of the ships on the poster board when the images he had gotten from the Cambridge University library had been too small. It had been grueling, frustrating work, but fun, too. And not nearly as much reading as he had feared.

Dr. Chase proofread it for him. Dr. Bauer signed off on it. And Annabeth had taken one look at it, smiled, then kissed his cheek.

That was the best compliment he had gotten.

Though now he’s kind of torn between showing it off and hiding it away before one of these attendees figures out that he doesn’t belong.

He rocks back and forth and his feet, pursing his lips, randomly clicking his tongue. Annabeth nudges him. “Your ADHD is showing.”

That’s when, finally, one of the attendees steps up to his poster. He certainly has the look of a professor, in a black cable knit sweater with grey, curly hair and a receding hairline, thin, rimless glasses perched on his nose. He squints at Percy’s poster, rubbing his chin with one hand. “Interesting,” he murmurs, in a thick German accent. “Very interesting. This is yours?”

“Um.” He glances at Annabeth, who is frowning at the brochure, silently sounding out words that she can’t read. “Yep. All mine.”

“Very interesting.” He leans in closer, tilting his head. “So you agree with Pryor and Jeffreys about the skeleton-first construction, then?”

Percy blinks. Pryor and Jeffreys had written The Age of the Dromon, arguing that the ram, which had been a key feature of Roman liburnians, had gone away in ancient ship construction because of developments in how they built the hull. Right. “Yes,” he says. “The skeleton-first construction is a lot stronger than the, um,” shit, what was the name for this, Leo had only told him about a million times--oh! “Mortise-and-tenon!” He nearly shrieks. “The mortise-and-tenon method. It, um, it wears out a lot more quickly than the frame, so… yeah.” He clears his throat.

He nods. “Very interesting.” 

Percy stares. Can this guy say anything else? 

“This is very well done, young man.”

Oh. “Thank you,” he says. 

“Who are you working with?” 

“Um, June Bauer?” He winces at the accidental question. 

He frowns. “I’m not familiar with her work. Where does she teach?” 

What a loaded question. “Uh… New Rome University.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s--she used to teach at Northwestern, if that helps. Um, retired,” Percy says.

The frown stays, but at least he doesn’t ask any more questions. “Hmm. Well, this is excellent research, nonetheless. I look forward to reading your dissertation.” Then, distracted by something else, he wanders off, chin still attached to his hand. 

“Who was that?” Annabeth asks. 

Percy shrugs. “Beats me. Also, what’s a dissertation?”

“It’s like a senior thesis, but, like, five hundred pages long.”

Five hundred?! “Fuck me.” 

“Maybe later,” Annabeth smirks. “It looks like you’ve got company.”

Sure enough, a smallish group of four people are approaching, led by Dr. Chase, making a beeline straight for them. “Here we are,” Dr. Chase says, gesturing. “This is the project I was telling you about. Percy, would you mind going over your poster for us?”

“No problem, Dr. C,” says Percy, smiling his least-grimace-y smile. 

As one, the adults all turn to look at him, faces politely blank, expectant.

Percy swallows. “So,” he begins, “um, this research is about the development of ship construction in the Roman empire…”

He trips up on some of the words, and at one point, he sees Dr. Chase squint in the way that usually means that Percy is speaking too fast, but all in all, he doesn’t totally fall flat on his face. His audience looks engaged, nodding along as Percy moves from point to point, and no one accuses him of being a giant fraud, which is pretty nice. 

At one point, Percy turns to the poster to indicate a specific point on his ship diagrams. When he turns back, his audience has suddenly multiplied, four people turning into a whole goddamn crowd. Each person gives him their undivided attention almost unblinking.

His mouth goes dry. “Um…” 

Dr. Chase, bless him, saves his ass once again. “Would mind starting again from the beginning, Percy?” he asks, a little bemused himself at the amount of people that had suddenly appeared. 

Silence stretches on for a moment, the muffled noise of the rest of the conference like a dull roar in his ear. 

Annabeth, behind him, coughs. 

“S-sure. No problem.” 

Swallowing, he closes his eyes, breathing in through his nose. Why, oh why did he let Dr. Bauer talk him into doing this again?

He pictures the tides of Long Island Sound, gentle and rocking, unhurried and unbothered, tries to match his breathing to them. When he opens his eyes, unfortunately, the crowd hasn’t disappeared. Everyone is still staring at him. 

But Annabeth stands next to her dad, flashing him a big smile and two huge thumbs up.

Percy relaxes. He’s got this.

“Okay,” he says. “So, about the middle of the first millennium CE, ship construction went through a couple of major developments…”

This time goes much, much more smoothly. He’s not sure what it is--though it’s probably Annabeth, her face fixed in a gentle smile as she watches him speak. Gods, what did he do in a past life to deserve someone as amazing as his girlfriend? 

That’s the only reason he can do this. Hell, that’s the only reason he even thought to do this. If he didn’t have Annabeth there, encouraging him, cheering him on, he never would have had the confidence to put himself out there like this. She’s there to pick him up when he doubts himself, there to listen when he can’t explain himself, there to give him feedback when he needs to practice. 

She makes him feel so strong. She makes him feel like he can take on the world--or at the very least, that he can impress a handful of academics.

And they certainly seem impressed with his talk so far. 

“Excuse me,” says a nasally, pinched looking older British guy, face lined as though he lived his life in a state of perpetual squinting. “I find your conclusions to be suspect--wouldn’t the frame method be more susceptible to breaking than the mortise-and-tenon?”

Well, most of them, anyway.

Percy shakes his head. “You’d think, but no. If you look at the study by Steffy, you’ll see that the three-finned ram from the Athlit wreck was designed specifically to break the mortise-and-tenon hull by causing the planks to flex, so that they’d dislodge the joinerys right next to them. A blow like that can cause the wood to split right down the middle.” A blow like that had sunk Sherman Yang’s ship when they tested it out on the lake at camp last summer, the naiads practically hurling him out of the water so quickly Percy didn’t even have to dive in to save him.

“How were you able to do these strength tests?” asks another listener, an older woman with a thick Hungarian accent.

“Hands-on battle simulations,” Percy replies, easily. “We took our models and tested them in as accurate a simulation as we could make.”

“And how big were these models?” 

Percy holds his hands apart, a vague, entirely inaccurate estimate. “About thirty meters, give or take.”

Her eyes widen. “How on earth did you get your hands on such a large ship?”

Percy freezes. “Uh.”

Oh, shit.

He had forgotten--most people didn’t have dads who could summon shipwrecks from the bottom of the sea, dropping them off at Camp Half-Blood with nothing but a sand dollar and one or two exhausted, pissed off hippocampi who had had to drag them all the way there.

“Um,” he stammers, licking his lips, thinking fast--c’mon, Percy, think! “I…” He swallows, panicking. “I… b… built one.”

In the corner of his eye, Annabeth facepalms.

Simultaneously, every mouth in the crowd drops--in shock, outrage, and even excitement. “You built one?!” the woman yelps. 

Oops. “I had help,” Percy says, quickly. 

Annabeth adds a second hand to her facepalm.

“Where?” The first man asks, his bushy brows flying above the rim of his glasses.

“At my… summer camp…” 

Dr. Chase sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I mean,” Percy chuckles, shrugging his shoulders, trying not to sweat too obviously, “it was either that or lanyards, am I right?”

Dr. Chase, thank Athena, raises his hand, ready to step in. “What Percy means to say, I believe,” he says, attempting to draw their attention, “is that--”

“That’s amazing!” says another woman, probably a grad student attendee based on the fact that she’s wearing jeans. “Do you have pictures?”

Oh this is not good. “Um, not--not on me, but--”

“I do.” Annabeth takes out her phone, holding it up to the person next to her.

Percy blinks. “You do?” He doesn’t remember her taking any pictures.

She shoots him a look, two parts exasperated and one part “shut up and let me handle this,” with just a dash of fondness in the mix. Pointedly, she looks at him, eyebrows raised, indicating that he should continue.

Oh. She’s using Mist. And he needs to keep their attention on him so that they buy it. “Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Any more questions?” 

His audience placated for now, passing around Annabeth’s phone, he manages to finish up his presentation. After fielding a few more questions, people start to peel off, distracted by other posters and presenters in the ballroom. When everyone has finally wandered away, Dr. Chase comes up and pats Percy’s shoulder awkwardly. “Nice work,” he says, and he seems like he means it. “A little touch-and-go there for a while, hm?”

“A little.”

He chuckles. “Still, you should be proud. I don’t know how many undergraduates would be able to handle that kind of pressure.”

“I mean,” Percy says, shrugging a shoulder, “it’s about on par with leading an army. Maybe a little less.” Honestly, maybe even a little more stressful. If a monster had decided to attack the convention center and interrupt his presentation, he probably would have been relieved.

He’d been worried for a moment that he’d undone all those years of work in making Annabeth’s dad like him. And that he’d be charged with some sort of academic fraud, for the whole “I have a boat” thing without proof. Thank the gods for Annabeth, as always.

She’s looking at him now through narrowed eyes. She at least can’t be surprised--that was far from the dumbest thing she’s ever seen him do. At least his “I spent most of my time at magic greek mythology summer camp” covers are normally better than hers. As someone who spent his formative years in the real world, he’s usually pretty good at keeping the demigod thing under wraps. 

“Come on,” she says, grabbing his hand. She pulls him off, through the dispersing crowd, lacing their fingers together, sweet and intimate, out of the hall and then down another one, and through a smaller corridor. Bringing them up to a little door, with a shake of her wrist, she pulls out her Estruscan keyring bracelet. About several of the keys have found themselves used in various misadventures, vanishing once their purpose is fulfilled, but her favorite key is still there. And, just like a clever child of Hermes, it can pick just about any lock. 

Inside is just an empty room, a little staging area surrounded by tiered desks going up, no more or less remarkable than any of the other conference rooms they’d visited before. 

“What--?” His question is cut off by Annabeth’s mouth on his. 

Surprising, but definitely not unwelcome.

It's a while before they separate again. “You’re so good at this,” she tells him, unbuttoning his shirt.

He runs his hands along the lines of her flanks. “I’ve had a lot of practice,” he grins. He’d practice kissing her all day long if he could. 

She smiles, shaking her head. “No, not this,” though she does lean in for another kiss, pulling at his lower lip with her teeth. “I know you’re good at this.” They break away, Percy pulling her shirt over her head, Annabeth shucking off his. “But history. Presenting.” She runs a finger over his chest, kissing his cheek, headed towards the sensitive spot on his jaw. “Gods, you’re so smart.” 

Something about the praise vibrates through his chest. She doesn’t sound surprised, or anything, just--turned on.

“You had all those crusty academics eating out of your hand. Just, so impressed by you, knowing you know way more than they do about naval history. When you were explaining the--” Her compliment is cut off with a moan, as he leans down and starts sucking on her throat. Her blouse has a high neck, so he feels no guilt for using his teeth.  

“Watching you today, gods.” Her breath is labored as his fingers play at the waistline of her skirt. “And then thinking of you defending your dissertation.” He bites at her jugular, and she lets out a long, deep moan. 

“I don’t know what that means.” Do academics fight each other? Like, with weapons? He’s pretty sure he can take most of the people he met today. 

“It means you get to show off how smart you are,” Annabeth says, grasping his shoulders, pulling him in for another kiss. “I was born the day my dad defended his. Gods, it's going to be amazing to watch you go.” She yanks his belt out of his pants, tossing it to the floor. 

They miss the panel on recent translation efforts. But Percy can’t say he minds one bit. 

And when Annabeth presents him with a positive pregnancy test two months later, Percy definitely knows he made the right decision. 

4) 

He almost doesn’t realize he’s having a dream-vision at first.

It has been literal years since he’s had a demigod dream. Hell, it’s been a long while since he’s had a dream, period--being a new dad to a one-and-a-half-year-old saps too much of his energy to even think about dreaming. Once Junie is put to bed, when he’s out, he is fucking out, and he does not have the brainpower to spare to manifest any messed up subconscious fears.

Which is why when he blinks open his eyes, taking in the too-bright colors of the Parthenon and the gleaming shine of the bronze statues which are somehow all looking at him--also, you know, how the Parthenon is complete, standing as it did thousands of years ago, and not crumbled into ruins--he knows, immediately, he is being contacted by a god.

And only one god in particular would bring him to Athens.

Without even checking, he heaves himself up off the ground, folding into a kneel. “My lady Athena,” he says, “can I ask for what quest you’ve brought me here?”

“Impertinent as ever, Percy Jackson,” rumbles the goddess, but Percy doesn’t think he can sense any ill will towards him. He hopes, anyway. “Perhaps I have summoned you here for a social visit.”

“Perhaps,” he says, choosing his next words as carefully as possible. “But I assume you have too much to worry about to randomly check up on your daughter’s boyfriend.”

He lifts his head, catching her expression--stoic as always, but maybe with just the barest hint of a smile. “You assume correctly. You have become, contrary to my initial expectations, very wise in the time that I have known you.”

“Thank you.” He knows better than to do anything but accept the compliment for what it is.

“I have observed your work as a scholar in recent years, and I must say that I am surprised, yet pleased, that you have chosen to pursue such a path. I had not thought you to be suited for a world of old men and dusty papers.”

He grits his teeth. Don’t rise to the bait, don’t rise to the bait, don’t rise to the bait--

“I understand, as well, that though you and my daughter have,” and here her careful composition cracks, just the slightest, the tiny lift of her lips falling, “made a child together.”

Percy swallows. He figured, you know, in the abstract, that Athena would know about Junie, but hearing her say it out loud is… well, he’s just glad that Dr. Chase has always liked him. “Yes, my lady.”

“It is customary in your time to marry prior to childbirth, is it not?”

“It is.” Oh, fuck, is she going to smite him for that? “I--that is to say, we, Annabeth and I, we, um, we definitely want to get married, but, Annabeth kind of…” 

He trails off. He can’t tell Athena, goddess of war, that his daughter pissed off the queen of heaven! And if he does, he definitely can’t imply that it was because she was being too stubborn!

“I know well of my daughter’s history with my father’s wife,” Athena says, smoothly. “I come to you now with an offer of peace.”

Percy straightens his back. Peace?

Raising one graceful arm, Athena turns, indicating the structure behind her. “Look upon my temple,” she intones. The white marble shines even more powerfully against the blue and red paint, intricate scenes and figures ringing the top of the columns. “In the time of Pericles, it was built to commemorate the victory of Hellas over the armies of Xerxes the Great. It was to be the shining beacon of our world, a triumph of our power and influence over the race of men.”

The race of men might have had something to say about that, he thinks to himself.

“But it was not to be,” Athena says, mournfully. “As our influence waned, so too did our temple, until its might was all but forgotten.” 

Before his eyes, the paint fades away, ceilings and columns collapsing, the destruction of the Parthenon playing out in front of him. 

“Some two hundred years ago,” she says, her voice taking on a darker, more dangerous tone, “a grave insult was paid to the ruins of my ancient sanctuary.” Like curtains falling on a stage, darkness swallowed up the structure, swift and impenetrable. “Many treasures were taken from my temple, stolen, by foolish, greedy men, spirited away far to the north, where they have languished in unworthy hands.”

He narrows his eyes. She can’t possibly be talking about--

Athena turns back to him, her eyes blazing, somehow twice as tall. “Retrieve my treasures,” she commands, war personified, “return the prizes of Athens to their rightful place, and I shall give you my support against my father’s wife.”

“You…” Percy leans back on his haunches, staring dumbfounded up at the goddess. “You don’t happen to mean the Parthenon Marbles, do you?”

“Yes.”

“The ones in the British Museum.”

“The same,” she says, imperious as ever.

Fantastic. “Welp,” Percy says, slapping his thighs, scrambling up. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to decline. Nice seeing you, by the way. I’ll tell Annabeth you stopped by.”

Her sharp gazes pierces him, full of fury. “You dare to refuse my support?”

He snorts. “When it means trying to get the UK to give the marbles back, absolutely. Do you know how stubborn they are about this?”

Lightning flashes behind her, nearly blinding him. “You will regret this,” Athena says, dark and foreboding. “You may have your father’s goodwill, but the queen of Olympus is clever and cunning, her displeasure swift and merciless.”

But Percy still shakes his head. “When Annabeth and I get married,” and it’s definitely a ‘when,’ it’s just a matter of when precisely, like after Junie can sleep through the night maybe, “I’d rather take my chances with Hera than try and untangle that particular can of olives.”

A growl, and a snap of her fingers, and Athena disappears.

With a start, Percy wakes up. Junie had gotten her chubby little hands around his nose, and had decided to pull.

“Ow, ow, Junie, hey,” he squawks, attempting to dislodge her grip from his face. “Hey, I’m awake, it’s okay.”

She laughs, illegally adorable, her grey eyes sparkling, squeezing harder. 

“Okay, okay,” he laughs along with her. “You got my nose, you win.”

As if she were waiting for him to admit defeat, she lets go, clapping her pudgy toddler hands together. 

“That’s right,” he picks her up, raising her above his head. “Barely sixteen months old and you already know how to take me down, don’t you? Just like your mommy.”

She smiles, waving her little fists.

Gods he loves this little monster.

Junie really is the best parts of both of them. She’s got her daddy’s hair but her mommy’s brain, quick and sharp and painfully adorable. She’s already learning to read Greek, Annabeth sitting her in her lap and sounding out vowels together, Annabeth taking her finger and tracing it over the letter shapes. This kid absorbs information like a sponge, which Percy can only assume is the natural conclusion of taking a son of Poseidon and a daughter of Athena and mixing their DNA together. 

Thinking about his dream, he frowns. “What do you think, Junie,” he asks his toddler. “Should I take her up on her offer?”

The baby says nothing.

“I mean,” he tilts his head, “Greece has been trying to get the marbles back for two hundred years. UNESCO has top lawyers on this. What does Athena think I can do?”

Junie blinks at him.

“On the other hand, I do really love your mom,” he admits, “and I really want to marry her. You’d like that, right? To have your parents be married?”

There’s no way she can understand what he’s saying, but she moves her head like she’s nodding. Or maybe she does understand. She is Annabeth’s daughter after all. 

Percy sighs. Dammit.

Time for a new project, he guesses.

***

Several months, a college graduation, and one relocation to Boston later, Percy growls, hurling his pencil at the wall. Mother fucker. Fuck the British Museum, fuck his tiny laptop screen, and fuck the Italian prick who decided to have the least ADHD-friendly handwriting of all time. 

Why the hell is he doing this again? Like, seriously. Why in all of Hades is he, an inexperienced, snot-nosed, first year master’s student deciding to tackle the return of the fucking Parthenon marbles of all things. Like, what is wrong with him? 

Roughly scrubbing his fingers through his hair, Percy stands up. He has to go for a walk, clear his head, or he might actually explode. 

Then he catches a glimpse of the photo pinned to the fridge.

Percy’s mom had taken it, a candid of Percy and Annabeth and Junie on a sunny day in Central Park. There, in perfect 1080p, Junie is laughing, at what he can’t even remember, her pudgy fists yanking on Percy’s hair, while her mother and the love of his life does nothing to extricate Percy from her grip, her face screwed up so hard she had tears in her eyes. 

Percy had talked a lot of shit to the goddess of war’s face, but truth be told… Hera still terrifies him a little. Which, he assumes, was her goal all along, but it would be nice to marry Annabeth without fear of something going terribly wrong--or, gods forbid, something happening to Junie. That simply was not a risk he was willing to take. Percy is content to spend the rest of his days as Annabeth’s life-partner and roommate, if it means that the queen of the heavens won’t have a reason to take out her issues on his children.

Even if the engagement ring in the back of the pantry is gathering dust. 

Sunlight, wan but warm, falls in from the window, landing perfectly on his pile of open books. “I know, I know,” he growls, speaking to the air, rubbing his face so it doesn’t get stuck in a permanent glare. “I just--I just need a few minutes, okay? Let me go down the block and get a coffee or something. Two minutes, Lady Athena.”

The light fades. Percy takes that as an acquiescence, angrily scribbling a note. He’s not sure when Annabeth and Junie will be back, but even angry as he is, he doesn’t want to worry them.

Snatching up his jacket, he slams the door shut, stomping out of his apartment building and down the streets of Boston. He must be accidentally doing his wolf stare, because people are practically flinging themselves out of his path as he hurtles down the sidewalk. Literally--some girl is walking her husky, and the poor dog actually whimpers, cowering as Percy rounds the corner. 

Coming to a stop, Percy slaps his hands over his face, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. 

He might be in over his head a little.

Sighing, he looks to his right. He’s standing outside of a Starbucks. 

Percy doesn’t drink coffee, Annabeth does. And he knows exactly how much of a coffee snob his girlfriend is. Starbucks? Overpriced, overrated, over-sweetened garbage.

He pushes the door open, sliding up to the counter. “I’ll take a… iced mocha, I guess,” he says. “Large.”

“No problem,” chirps the barista. “I’ll have that out for you in a minute.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

One thing Starbucks does have going for it, though, are really good napkins for doodling.

Slumping down in his uncomfortable metal chair, elbows resting on the hard, faux-wood table, Percy takes out his pen, and doodles aimlessly on the brown napkins. No, not that pen. Just because it can write doesn’t mean that Percy wants to risk slicing his face open every time he has a stray idea. Completely out of the blue, Annabeth had gotten him a nice set of pens, and ever since then, Percy always keeps one on him. Now, if he could just remember to use the little notebook she had gotten him, too.

Percy is not an artist by any stretch of the imagination. He doesn’t have an image in mind, just lets his pen move, drawing endless chains of triangles and stars, nebulous shapes which form themselves into Greek letters. After he catches himself writing γλαυκῶπις for the eighth time in a row, he sighs, dropping his pen, and picks up the cup, taking a sip.

Yuck. At least the chocolate outweighs the coffee taste a little.

Gods, and their cups are always, like, drenched from condensation--not that Percy can feel it, but there’s practically a whole other drink on the outside of the plastic, dripping all over Percy’s pile of doodle napkins. That must be why they give out so many.

Grumbling, he mops up the mess, ink smudged into a blue-brown slurry.

He stops. 

He squints at one of his doodles. 

Not that anyone else could tell, but Percy had apparently been trying to recreate the signature of Ottoman sultan Selim III, the guy who had supposedly authorized the Earl of Elgin to take the Parthenon Marbles. Percy had been staring at copies of his signature all damn day, trying to tell if it had been forged or copied, but classical Arabic was just so far beyond anything he could even begin to wrap his head around. It was gorgeous work, but even looking at it made Percy’s eyes swim.

This particular doodle is not his best attempt. It looks nothing like the signature. It’s smudged, blotchy, but in a way that’s… weirdly familiar. 

Snatching the napkin up, Percy bolts from the Starbucks, leaving his mocha behind.

Taking the steps of his apartment building two at a time, he bursts into his kitchen. His set up is exactly how he left it, books spread out all over the table, laptop shut and laid askew, the dry, half-eaten remains of his morning muffin on a plate on top of his encyclopedia of illuminated manuscripts--except for one book, the one on Ottoman history of the nineteenth century. It’s been opened, its pages facing the door, in the exact opposite direction of all the other books. 

“Hello?” he calls into the apartment. “Anyone home?”

No response. 

Percy approaches the table. 

From the pages, Selim III stares at him, his portrait rendered in black and white, sitting just above a figure of his signature, his tughra. 

Percy picks up the book, squinting. 

The signature is crisp, clean, a work of art all by itself. 

He looks at his napkin drawing. Blurry and smudged.

Opening his laptop, he pulls up the scans of the documents in the British museum, zooms in on the letter’s seal.

Blurry and smudged.

Percy stares. 

It… can’t be that simple, can it?

In a daze, he fires an email off to his new grad advisor. Hopefully he won’t mind Percy sticking his nose in where he doesn’t belong. Hey Dr. T--was looking at the Parthenon marbles docs in the BM (don’t ask) and I noticed this weird smudge on the tughra. Lazy scribe, maybe?

And he closes his computer.

Later that night, while he puts Junie to bed, he gets a response. not sure. sent it to a colleague for a closer look. 

He can’t even be bothered to really think about it though, not with Junie looking up at him with Annabeth’s eyes, and asking for another book. “Alright, kiddo,” he acquiesces, settling in beside her. All her story books are in ancient Greek, and at age two, she’s starting to recognize the letters. “Which one are you thinking?” 

“Daw-fins, daddy,” she says, smiling.

“Dolphins, eh? Getting Mr. D on your side early, I see. As smart as mommy.” He leans down and kisses her forehead before he starts to read her the story of the sailors and their sudden dolphin madness. 

***

“Huh,” Percy says to himself a few weeks later, as he and Annabeth are chilling on the couch, watching some Netflix.

His advisor has forwarded him an article from the BBC (New evidence suggests Elgin documents to be forgeries) with an accompanying note: Amazing catch! 

“What is it?” Annabeth asks, nudging him with her elbow--a feat, since she also has an armful of a squirmy Junie to deal with.

“Update in the Parthenon marbles thing.”

That gets her attention. Anything Parthenon-related does. “Really?”

He shows her his phone.

Her eyes go wide as saucers. “Damn.”

“Yep.” He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he feels his lips pulling at the sides of his mouth. 

“My mom is probably your biggest fan right now.”

He starts. “What did you say?”

Turning back to the TV, she still manages to cast him a weird look. “I said, my mom will probably love you for this.”

A beat, then Percy practically somersaults over the couch, darting into the kitchen. Wrenching open the pantry door, he shoves his hand behind their collection of flours, fingers grasping for--

“If you’re looking for any more sacrificial cookies,” Annabeth calls after him, “we burned them all when Junie got a cold.”

“Remind me to make some more,” says Percy, pulling out his prize. It’s a little dusty, streaks of flour clinging to the blue velvet. “I have a feeling we’ll need them.”

“Oh yeah?” She chuckles. “What, did Olympus put in a special order?” 

Percy slides back down next to her, ring hidden in his closed fist. “Can I have the baby for a sec?”

Eyes fixed to the screen, Annabeth passes her over. Junie’s hands automatically reach for his nose, ready to grab, but Percy places the ring in her grasp instead, kissing her forehead. “Hey, babe?” he asks Annabeth, handing her back. “I think our daughter has something for you.”

Annabeth takes her without a second glance. 

Then she does take a second glance.

Ring closed in her pudgy toddler fist, Junie holds it out to her.

Annabeth gapes. 

“So,” Percy says, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, “quick confession: I wasn’t just working on the marbles for fun.”

Annabeth just stares. Junie babbles.

“Your mom told me that if I helped get the marbles back, she’d back us against Hera if we ever got married. So…” He trails off, waiting for her response. As close as he is, he can see the tears start to well up in her eyes--a good sign. “Shall we?” he prompts.

“Oh thank all the gods.” Annabeth is crying, because she's Annabeth. And because she's Annabeth, she also wastes no time in transferring Junie to her other side, and holding out her hand so Percy can slide the ring on her finger. “I was so worried I'd have to have Chase on my Masters’ diploma, too.”

5)

Percy is making sauce when his phone lights up. He hits speaker. “Hey.”

“Hey man,” comes the tinny voice of Magnus. “Sorry I missed your call earlier.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Percy says, “I figured you were dying or something.”

Magnus’ eye roll is almost palpable. “Very funny. What’s up?”

Bringing the spoon to his lips, he blows on it, taking a taste, before reaching for the salt. Needs way more. “Do you happen to have any Varangian guards in Hotel Valhalla?”

“Varangian guards? Uh, maybe. Probably. Why?”

“I’m doing a thing on the attempted reconquest of Sicily,” he says, lowering the heat a little to a simmer, “and I’m having some trouble piecing together the Battle of Montemaggiore. Know anyone who was in it?” 

Magnus hums. “I’ll ask around. Anyone in particular you’re looking for?”

Rifling through their little spice cabinet, he makes a mental note to get a new thing of hot sauce, tipping the rest of it into the pot. “If you have anyone who fought under Harald Hardrada, that would be great.”

“Hardrada? I’m pretty sure he lives on the fifth floor.”

Percy nearly drops the bottle. “No shit?”

“Big dude, long mustache, writes poetry?”

“Yes!” He picks up the phone, grinning from ear to ear. “Do you think I could come up and talk to him sometime?”

“Sure, but I thought you were doing something on Homer’s identity?”

He groans. “Backburnered for now until she stops driving me crazy.” No matter how many times Percy tells her, he can’t just drop the “Homer was actually an Egyptian woman” bomb without some serious evidence backing that up. And forgery is not one of his strong suits. Hence the need for a different topic for the time being.

“Has everyone ever told you your life is weird?”

“No, why do you ask?”

His phone suddenly vibrates, shocking him so badly he nearly drops it into the saucepan. Almost home, texts the love of his life, a shot of serotonin directly into his bloodstream. V hungry

“Sorry, Magnus, but I gotta run. Thanks for your help.”

“No problem. Say hi to my cousin for me.”

“Can do.”

“And make sure you pick a date soon! Sam needs to know so she can schedule her flight home.”

“Soon as I can.” You know, when his brain isn’t melting from grading undergrad papers. And making sure Annabeth and Junie are fed. And that Annabeth doesn’t lose herself in graduate school. And finding Junie a new preschool after she destroyed a classroom last month because of a monster. His toddler is a badass. But he’s a little worried she’s gonna follow Mommy and Daddy’s example as far as school goes. 

Sometimes, he thinks that their wedding just won’t ever happen. With Athena on board, he figured it would happen sooner or later, but time just… keeps getting away from them. Which isn’t the end of the world. A lifetime at Annabeth’s side is all he really needs, Mrs. Jackson or no. But he’s seen the silver fabric she weaved for her wedding dress. It would be a shame for all that hard work to go to waste.

And, yeah, he wants to see his little Junie dancing down the aisle flinging seaweed before her mother. He wants his mom to cry a little and he wants all his friends to be there to celebrate with them. Is that so much to ask? 

Speaking of his two favorite girls--”We’re home!” Annabeth calls from the hallway. “Junie, go say hi to daddy!”

Her bare feet slapping against the floor, his daughter comes toddling in, making a beeline for him. “Hey, kiddo,” Percy says, scooping her up. “How’s my best girl?”

“She’s just fine, thanks,” Annabeth says, setting her work bag down on the table. “Tell me I don’t have to wait for dinner--Margie kept me for the entirety of my lunch break, and I am starving.” 

“Just gotta make a salad and we should be good to go.” But he makes no move to finish chopping vegetables, entirely too enraptured with the way Junie smiles when Percy sticks his tongue out at her. “Let me guess,” he says. “Does my best girl want some olives?”

“Peas,” Junie says. 

“Oh, you want peas instead?”

She giggles, waving her arms. “Elaia, daddy!”

“Fine,” and he kisses her nose. “Extra olives for you.”

“Chip off the old block,” Annabeth says.

Handing her back to her mother, Percy sighs. “When am I going to get a kid who likes anchovies?”

“I’m doing my best here, okay?”

***

Hardrada is… not what he expected.

“Reputation isn’t that bad.” Hardrada is saying. “The production isn’t what it should be, but lots of her lyrics are still on point.” 

“The production ruins it,” Percy insists. “And as a follow up to 1989? It's just bad.” 

“And what about Lover?”

“What about Lover?”

“You can’t argue with the genius of that one.”

“It is terribly inconsistent,” Percy shoots back. “Yeah, ‘The Archer’ and ‘Daylight’ and ‘Miss Americana’ are sublime, but ‘ME!’? Come on!”

“Are you one of those people who thinks she peaked at Red?”

“Red is a bop from start to finish,” Percy fires back. “But she definitely peaked at folklore.”

“Thinking she peaked at folklore is just pedestrian when ‘tis the damn season’ exists!” Hardrada yells, drawing his axe, which is then promptly flung over Percy’s head. 

As the only mortal in a room full of armed, excitable, undead Taylor Swift stans, Percy beats a hasty exit, Magnus and Jason covering him as he flees, because they’re just so thoughtful like that. Percy’s pretty sure he saw Magnus take an arrow to the knee, going down in a heap, before he shuts the door to the hotel, finding himself in a Forever 21. 

Looking over his notes later as he gets back to his apartment in the North End, he frowns. They had spent… approximately twenty minutes talking about Sicily before getting solidly off track. Who knew an eleventh century viking would have such intense feelings about pop music? 

And now he’s singing “seven” to himself as he unlocks the apartment door, because it's a good song, and because it made him think of Annabeth. And he always wants to think of Annabeth. 

“Hey, babe,” he calls into the apartment, toeing off his shoes. “I’m back!”

He gets no response.

Percy looks up, confused. “Annabeth?”

“In the bathroom,” he hears, faintly. 

“Everything okay?”

“Yep! Totally fine!” she says, unconvincingly. 

“Alright,” he calls back. “Let me know if you need something.”

Moving Junie’s toys out of the way, he drops down onto the couch, grabbing his laptop. Hopefully he can make some sort of sense of the… notes… that he got from Hardrada. Though he’s probably going to have to trek out to Beacon Hill again, which, while not really out of his way, does mean he has to hike a bit from the Park Street station through the Commons, which makes him super sweaty and out of breath. It’s just embarrassing, walking into a hotel full of the greatest warriors of Valhalla, and Percy can barely handle a hill. 

However, he’s not so out of practice that he can’t sense Annabeth coming up behind him. “You good?”

“What do you think about getting married by the end of the month?”

“Sure,” he says, pecking at his computer. Damn autocorrect ruining all the Norse names. He keeps forgetting to download the right language package he needs. “But I thought you wanted to wait until after you turned in your portfolio?”

“Well… I might not be able to fit in my dress if we wait much longer.”

That gets his attention.

Percy turns around, slowly. Annabeth is grinning, holding a thin little piece of plastic with a circle on the end. She wiggles it. 

“Is that…?”

“Yep.”

“Oh.”

Her smile falls. “Are you mad?”

“What? No!” Percy slides his computer off his lap, twisting around to face her, up on his knees. “No, no, not at all. I’m not mad.” She slings her arms around his neck, pregnancy test warm against his skin. “I just…” 

Eyes warm, she looks into his, unafraid. “What is it?”

“It’s…” It’s silly, is what it is. But this is Annabeth. If he can’t tell her, who can he tell? “I just feel bad that I’ve gotten you pregnant twice before getting married.”

“Well, at least I’m not nineteen this time,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “But maybe we wouldn’t have this problem if you weren’t such a horndog.”

Percy snorts. “Me? What about you, Annabeth ‘3 AM anal before my first lecture’ Chase.”

“Jackson,” she corrects.

“Huh?”

“It’s Annabeth ‘3 AM anal before your first lecture’ Jackson.”

Grinning, he presses his mouth to hers. After all this time, she still smells like lemons, her lips soft and warm. “Not yet it’s not.”

“Then let’s make it happen.”

And, well, Percy can’t think of a better plan.

+1

Jamie hisses. “Fuuuuuck,” she whispers, the sound dropping like a stone in the dead lecture hall. “Goddamn shit fuck ass.”

And the worst part is, she’d actually spent a lot of time preparing for her Latin midterm. She’d made flashcards, she’d drilled noun endings, she’d even slept with the textbook under her pillow for fuck’s sake. 

Typical--the moment she sits down to take the test, it all goes out the window. 

“Legistne carmen longum de Troiano,” she reads under her breath, as though saying it out loud will unlock some hidden secrets of the cosmos. 

Nope. Nothing. The multiple choices remain as inscrutable as ever.

“Psst.” 

Jamie looks up. 

There’s a four year old staring at her. 

“Hi,” Jamie says. 

“Hi,” says the four year old. Junie, her name is, she thinks. 

Mr. Jackson, Jamie’s Latin TA, will bring his kids to class with him sometimes--his wife works full time, and Jamie guesses that they can’t afford a babysitter. She’s a cute kid, quiet, usually sitting in the corner of the lecture hall, drawing or even knitting, sometimes with her little sister playing with toy ships next to her. 

Now, she’s still staring at her. “What’s up?” Jamie asks.

“Bello,” says Junie.

Jamie blinks. “Sorry?”

“Legistne carmen longum de bello Troiano.” 

She squints down at her test sheet, attempting to visualize her flash cards. That’s… “Bello” is the right answer.

The fuck? The fucking four year old can speak Latin? “Thanks,” she whispers. 

Junie beams at her.

Darting her eyes to the front of the lecture hall, Jamie spies her professor, Buck, completely conked out at his desk, his chest rising and falling with his snores. Percy is nowhere to be seen, his laptop open at his chair. “What’s the next one?” Jamie turns her paper so that Junie can see better.

“Pluto Proserpinam infelicem cepit,” she announces, perfectly accented.

Jamie points to the one after that.

“Rex qui pontem fecit erat Ancus Martius.”

“Awesome.” 

The door to the lecture hall opens. Jamie whips around in her seat, startled, and sees her TA, walking down the steps. From the corner of her eye, Junie disappears, booking it to her dad, who scoops her up without missing a beat. “Hey kiddo,” he murmurs, smiling crookedly. “Were you bothering my students?” Then he glances at Jamie. “Sorry about that--hope she wasn’t too annoying.”

But Jamie shakes her head. “It’s fine.” Dammit. 

Still smiling, Percy makes his way back down to his seat. Junie grins at her over his shoulder, her arms wrapped tightly around her dad’s neck.

At the beginning of the semester, Professor Buck had droned on and on about Mr. Jackson, about how he was one of the best up-and-coming classics scholars in the world, how he could have had his pick of PhD programs, and how NYU was lucky to have him. He got first pick of assistantships this semester, apparently, but had volunteered to teach Latin 1001, and they should all be grateful, because he had done some beautiful new translation of Virgil for his Master’s thesis, and they were all going to learn a lot from him. 

Turning back to her exam, Jamie snorts. Of course a guy like that would have a kid who could speak perfect Latin. 

She really should have just stuck with German instead. 

[pedro-pascal-love]

Officer Brown Eyes

One Shots ❖ Main Masterlist ❖ Join My Taglist

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 3k+

Summary: During the events on Morak, Reader sees Din’s face for the first time, and isn’t sure how to handle it.

Warnings: Language, angst, SO MUCH FLUFF

⟸ Raise Warriors ❖ Moving On ⟹

They had to get the child back. By any means necessary. Which meant having to pick up Migs fucking Mayfeld to help them out.

“Dank farrik, I do not like this idea,” you said dramatically. “I don’t like the fact that we have to team up with Mayfeld yet again, especially after what happened last time!”

“If we want to get the kid back, we don’t have a choice,” Din replied as you all waited for Cara to get back with Mayfeld. You’d traveled with him since before the Child entered the picture and had learned to pick up how Din was feeling based on the way he spoke and his body language.  Din Djarin was a man of few words but fewer facial expressions, so having to gauge how he felt through his modulated helmet was hard for most people, but not for you. You could tell that Din was worried. He was afraid that The Child was hurt or worse. You knew that Din would do anything in his power to get the Child back, even if it meant busting out an ex-Imperial sharpshooter who’d double-crossed you both the last time you ran into each other.

You watched from the shadows as Boba and Fennec went out to greet Mayfeld. You smirked as you saw Mayfled stop in his tracks and look at Boba, having to do a double-take.

“You know, for a second, I thought you were this other guy,” Mayfled stated in relief with a smile. You watched as Din took that opportunity to descend the ship's ramp to greet Mayfeld and saw the color drain from his face.

“Mayfeld,” Din greeted coolly.

“Hey, Mando. Long time,” Mayfled greeted nervously, not sure if Din would blast time where he stood or something else.

“What, you came here to kill me?” He joked.

“All you need to know is that I bent a lot of rules to bring you along,” Cara replied begrudgingly.

“Why am I so lucky?” Mayfeld retorted.

“Because you’re Imperial,” Cara glared.

“Hey, that was a long time ago, all right?” he defended.

“You still know your Imperial clearances and protocols, don’t you?” Din asked, cutting right to the chase. Mayfeld looked worried and watched as Cara and the others walked up the ramp before he finally sighed and glanced back at the prison planet he’d been assigned to. He wasn’t sure if he preferred to be going with them or if he should just stay, but he chose to leave with them anyways. As he boarded the ship, he saw you looking at him with a look that would kill anyone in an instant, and he gulped as he sat down.

“We need coordinates to Moff Gideon’s cruiser,” Din stated as he took his seat next to you.

“Moff Gideon?” Mayfeld scoffed. “Yeah, forget it. Just take me back to the scrapyard. I’m not doin’ that.”

“They have his kid,” Cara explained with annoyance. Mayfeld looked at Cara, then to you and Din, actually looking a little concerned.

“The little green guy?” he asked.

“Yeah, the ‘little green guy,” Cara replied, annoyed with Mayfeld’s attitude already.

“So…..I help you guys get him back, you guy let me go?” Mayfeld asked hopefully. Cara rolled her eyes.

“That’s not how this works,” she replied

“Well, then what’s in it for me?” Mayfeld retorted. You were ready to gouge his eyes out at that statement. You tensed and straightened your posture, looking Mayfeld dead in the eye.

“A better view,” Cara responded.

“You get to live,” you replied heatedly. “You either help, or you somehow end up blown to oblivion, and Cara writes it off as if you tried to escape custody.” Mayfeld gulped and took a moment to ponder his choices.

“All right, but here’s the thing. I can’t get those coordinates unless I have access to an internal Imperial terminal. I believe there’s one on Morak,” Mayfeld finally stated.

“Morak? There’s nothing on Morak,” Din replied, not trusting what Mayfeld had to say.

“It’s a secret Imperial mining hub, okay?” Mayfeld replied. “If you can get me in there, I can get you the coordinates.” You looked at Din skeptically but nodded.

“Fett, punch in the coordinates to Morak,” Din instructed Boba through the commlink.

“Copy that,” you heard Boba reply and felt the ship take off towards Morak.

“If you’re lying to us, Mayfeld, I just want you to know that you will suffer an excruciating and prolonged end by my hands,” you threatened as you pointed a knife at him before going to sharpen it. Mayfeld visibly gulped as you felt a hand on your knee.

“Whatever it takes to get the kid back,” Din said softly to you in an attempt to quell your fears. You nodded and went back to sharpening your blade.

Due to Boba’s initial scan, you all decided that a full frontal assault would be too risky, considering the refinery was crawling with Imperial troopers, so you decided to go in quietly. After some debate on how to get into the refinery undetected, you chose to have Mayfeld and one other disguise themselves as stormtroopers to get into the refinery. Din had insisted on going with Mayfeld while you stayed with Fennec and Cara.

“No, I’m coming with you both,” you insisted, leaving no room for argument. Din sighed.

“Fine, but you have to promise me that you’ll be careful,” he said, looking down at you through the visor. You nodded, feeling the worry in his tone but knowing he wouldn’t convey it any other way due to present company.

“I promise. I’ll make sure that things go according to plan,” you said with a shrug.

Once you, Din, and Mayfeld had successfully hijacked and disguised yourselves as stormtroopers, you began to make your way to the refinery. Things have been going smoothly so far until you came across a village on route to the refinery. The villagers watched as you slowly drove by, and the air was tense.

“Yeah, Empire, New Republic, it’s all the same to these people,” Mayfeld said as you gazed out the window at the haggard villagers. “Invaders on their land is all we are. I’m just sayin’ somewhere someone in this galaxy is ruling, an others are being ruled. I mean, look at your race. Do you think all those people that died in wars fought by Mandalorians actually had a choice? So how are they any different than the Empire?” Mayfeld questioned. You rolled your eyes and could feel Din doing the same thing.

“Watch it, Mayfeld,” you warmed.

“If you were born on Mandalore, you believe one thing, if you’re born on Alderaan, you believe something else,” Mayfeld continued. “But guess what? Neither of them exist anymore,” he said with a shrug. You growled, getting annoyed the more he spoke.

“Hey, I’m just a realist. I’m a survivor, just like you,” he defended.

“Let’s get one thing straight.” Din replied, “You and I are nothing alike.”

“I don’t know. Seems to me like your rules start to change when you get desperate,” Mayfeld said with a glance. “I mean, look at ya. You said you couldn’t take your helmet off, but now you got a stormtrooper one on, so what’s the rule? Is it that you can’t take off your Mando helmet, or can’t show your face? ‘Cause there’s a difference. Look, I’m just sayin’ we’re all the same. Everybody’s got their lines they don’t cross until things get messy. As far as I’m concerned, if you can make it through your day and still sleep at night, you’re doin’ better than most.”

At his words, you glanced over at Din, not being able to tell how he felt since you sat behind him but sensing the thoughts coursing through his mind. The Creed forbade him from removing his helmet in front of any living being, but lately, you’d witnessed differently from other Mandalorians. Boba Fett and Bo Katan were evidence of there being a different way that Mandalorians lived, and you’d hoped that maybe one day Din would take up their way of life instead of the stricter way that the Tribe lived, hiding in the shadows and never showing their face. You hoped that maybe one day Din would see it fit to remove his helmet unless going into battle, and you’d be able to gaze into the eyes of the man that you were hopelessly and secretly in love with. But that was a spice dream at this point. Mayfeld’s other words rang through your ears. You and Din had become desperate in more ways than one to get the Child back. At this point, you’d do anything, and everything to ensure the safe retrieval of the Child and knew that Din was very much on the same boat.

As you made your way to the refinery, things took an unexpected turn that neither of you foresaw. It seemed that on Morak pirates wanting to blow up the rhydonium, and you were getting very annoyed with having to do things the hard way just to get some information on Moff Gideon. Luckily, the three of you had made it safely to the refinery after some excitement and with a bit of assistance from the Empire.

“Dank farrik,” you muttered as you saw the stormtroopers line up and salute the transport. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

The three of you finally disembarked from the transport and were greeted warmly by other stormtroopers, thinking you were a colleague of theirs. Oh, were they wrong. Mayfeld guided you and Din to the officer’s mess hall where he suspected the terminal would be, and low and behold; it was there. You watched through the visor of your helmet as Mayfeld began to walk into the mess hall, abruptly stop, then turn back around and made his way back to you and Din.

“I can’t go in there,” Mayfeld stated

“Why not?” Din asked.

“That’s Valin Hess,” Mayfeld replied.

“Who?”

“That’s Valin Hess. I used to serve under him,” Mayfeld stated nervously.

“Will he recognize you?”

“I don’t know,” Mayfeld said. “I was just a field operative, but I’m not takin’ the chance. It’s over.” You held your arm out to stop Mayfeld from walking away.

“Let’s just do this quick, and we can get out of here,” Din said sternly, also blocking the way.

“I can’t do it, okay? We have to abort. I’m sorry.”

“No, I can’t,” Din said. “If we don’t get those coordinates, I’ll lose the kid forever. Your heart broke at his words. You know that Grogu meant a lot to Din; he meant a lot to you too, but you knew that Din would do anything to get him back.

“Give me the data stick,” Din said.

“It’s not gonna work,” Mayfeld replied. “In order to access the network, the terminal has to scan your face,” he explained.

Well fuck, you thought

“Give it to me,” you heard Din say, and before you could respond and go in yourself, you watched as Din walked into the mess hall himself with the stick. You grew anxious watching the officers watch him awkwardly salute and then make his way to the terminal. Your anxiety rose once you saw him get to the terminal and then turn to glance at the officers and you. Your heart nearly stopped as you watched Din remove his helmet as he faced the terminal and place the data stick into it. You watched with bated breath as Valin Hess approached Din at the terminal and faced him. You looked at Mayfeld, hoping he’d have some sort of solution but saw he was just as fearful as you were. You heard the officer ask Din for a TK number and knew it was over. The mission was blown.

“This is my Commanding Officer, TK-593, sir,” Mayfeld interjected as he walked up to Din and Valin Hess, you following close behind him, your helmet removed as well at this point. “I’m Imperial Combat Assault Transport Lieutenant TK-111, sir.”

“TK-660, sir,” you added as you stood next to the two of them, watching as Din awkwardly looked at you and Mayfeld and back at the officer, his body rigid.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to speak up to him a little bit since his vessel lost pressure in Taanab,” Mayfeld smoothly said. Valin looked over at Din.

“What’s your name, Officer?” Valin loudly said. Din pretended not to hear and raised his eyebrows.

“We just call him Brown Eyes. Isn’t that right, Officer?” Mayfeld covered as Din looked at him and nodded with a slight smile.

“Sir, we should go fill out those TPS reports so we can go recharge the power coils,” you interjected. The three of you proceeded to walk away but were stopped when Valin said you weren’t dismissed.

DANK FARRIK, you thought. Valin proceeded to praise the three of you for being the only transport that successfully delivered the rhydonium that day and insisted on a drink.

You were on edge the entire time Valin and Mafeld were speaking. Mayfeld just had to bring up his history with the Empire and Operation Cinder, and you instantly knew that this was going to end badly. Very very badly. You saw Din glance at Mayfeld at one point and slightly shake his head as if warning Mayfeld not to start anything, but Mayfeld paid him no mind. Things ended up going astray yet again that day, and the three of you ended up in a firefight to get out. You were getting tired of this. You managed to kick open part of the window and climb up to the roof, where Boba swiftly rescued you, and he was able to swiftly release a seismic charge to stop the two tie fighters that were on your tail. You let out a breath as you finally were clear of any dangers and got up to take off the stormtrooper uniform, ready to get out of the blasted thing and never speak of what happened again today.

You walked over to the bag that held your clothes and Din’s armor when you felt a presence behind you. Closing your eyes and sighing, you turned around to look at him as he stood before you in the cursed stormtrooper uniform.

“Din, I….I’m so sorry that you had to go through that,” you started, as tears well in your eyes. Knowing just how much the Creed meant to him and knowing that you were part of the reason why he broke it tore you to pieces. You looked down at the ground as he approached you and placed his hand under your chin, tilting your face up to look at him.

“It…..It had to be done,” Din said softly. You looked at him bewildered. “Whatever it takes to get the kid back, remember?” You nodded.

“Yeah, but no living being can see your face. That’s part of who you are,” you pleaded, tears now fully streaming down your face. “I don’t want to be the reason that you’ll no longer be able to wear the helmet or armor.” Din shook his head, taking his hand away from your face.

“You could do nothing to control what happened, cyar’ika,” Din reassured you. You shook your head and shut your eyes.

“….Mando…Din….I just…I can’t unsee what I saw. You have to fix it. I’ll leave if you want, or if you have to do what must be done, then do be it,” you urged. Din shook his head.

“I already lost the kid; I can’t lose you too,” he stated as he took your hands in his. Your eyes widened at the revelation. You watched as Din brought your hands up to his helmet and placed them on the bottom, with his hands resting gently on your forearms.

“It’s ok. I’d been thinking about this for a while now, and I want this,” Din softly said, gazing down at you, his voice quivering slightly from nervousness.

“……Din, you…You don’t know what you’re asking,” you tried to reason as you tried to remove your hands from his helmet, but his hands held firmly onto your arms and kept them in place.

“I do, cyar’ika,” he said as he moved your hands up, lifting the helmet slightly. “I’d rather it be you to remove my helmet by your own terms than by anyone else.” You still couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You respected him too much; even seeing part of his neck and chin made you avert your gaze.

“I….I can’t….” You spoke softly.

“You can. I want you to see my face,” he said as he guided your hands to lift his helmet once more.

“You…..You’ll have to do it,” you pleaded. “I can’t do it.” Din chuckled and nodded. You watched as he guided your hands to lift the helmet more. First, you saw the rest of his chins. Then his lips. Followed by his nose and then his eyes, until finally, the helmet had been completely removed, and he stood before you. You averted your eyes again, but he swiftly stopped you and tilted your face until you were yet again looking into his eyes. His beautiful brown eyes. Eyes that seemed to stare into the depths of your soul and know everything that you were thinking. You chuckled, and Din looked at you puzzled.

“Mayfeld called you Officer Brown Eyes while we were at the refinery,” you stated. “I think it’s very fitting; I might just call you that from now on.” Din chuckled and shook his head.

“If you want, but only you’re allowed to call me that,” Din stated as he stepped closer to you until you were pressed up against his chest. “But on one condition.”

“Oh? And what’s that?” you questioned, feeling the heat radiating from him as your gaze shifted between his eyes and his lips. You licked your lips and gave him a small smile. “Name your terms, Mando.”

“Say you’ll be mine,” he replied as he licked his lips as well and brought his face closer to yours.

“I think that can be arranged,” you said softly before closing the gap, and your lips met.

As your lips met, you felt a fire ignite within you, and electricity pulse through your body. It rippled down your arms and legs, and you brought your hands up to rest on his neck and play with his brown curls, deepening the kiss. Din brought his hands to rest on your hips and pull you closer as he slipped his tongue between your lips, further deepening it. After a moment, you both pulled away and rested your foreheads together.

“I’m yours, Din Djarin, now let’s go get our child,” you lovingly said. All he did was nod and close the gap between you yet again with a smile.

.fin

⟸ Raise Warriors ❖ Moving On ⟹

[mollymauk-teafleak]

A Wedding in Paris

Trigger Warning: Light mentions of setting appropriate homophobia, alcohol use

“What’s a marriage anyway? Rings and a promise and a priest. And, the way I see it, two out of three requirements makes a good enough substitute for me. The law doesn’t want us so I say we don’t want it.”

Lucian and Stephen spend their first day in Paris, the first day of their new lives.

----------------

Please leave a comment over on Ao3!

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Stephen had been nervous about Paris.

It was his first step outside of England, the first of a headlong sprint that was going to take him even further than he’d had the free time to read about in books. Paris was meant to be a gentle start, just a hop over the Channel, within three day’s reach of the country he’d grown up in all his life, but it had still frightened Stephen to imagine. A new city, a new soil, a new tongue. A new him, supposedly, a Stephen Day who wasn’t a justiciar and wasn’t alone but now had to find out where he fit into the world, starting with Paris.

It had taken him all of a day to decide he really, really liked it.

That day had consisted of waking up in a very expansive, comfortable bed, made all the more comfortable and slightly less expansive by the fact that he was sharing it with all six feet of his lover. Then he’d padded around the lavish hotel apartment he’d been too exhausted to take any notice of after yesterday’s boat ride, in  a mix of wonderment and apprehension, until Lucien had woken and summoned him back to bed with a crook of a finger and a smile. Not all that different from his fonder mornings in London.

But then there had been bright sunlight, walks along boulevards familiar enough to Stephen that he could relax into the excitement of the chatter around him in unknown, lyrical languages, the smells of herbs he couldn’t name coming from the street stalls, the bright fabrics and colourful buildings. Then there was a park, open space and the smell of fresh cut grass and summer flowers, a museum with paintings from far away and long ago that Stephen felt he could fall forwards into, a patisserie with cakes that looked like perfect sculptures and tasted like heaven. Even the ether felt different, like rich velvet, less fettered by smog. There were smiles, laughter that made his jaw ache, a heart lighter than he could remember.

And through it all, more than anything else, there was Lucien. At Stephen’s side and smiling as he stared like the dumbstruck tourist he was, walking a few paces behind with a proud, patient chuckle while Stephen surged ahead to see something new, lounging beside him and explaining the ways in which French fashions differed to British fashions with each example that passed by. He indulged his little witch completely and for once Stephen didn’t argue or allow himself to become embarrassed by it, the cakes tasted too good for him to recoil at Lucien happily buying him as much as he could eat. It brought that smile of satisfaction to his lover’s sharp features, the warmth in his eyes that their troubles in London had made rarer than either would like.

And there were the touches.

The first time it happened, Lucien casually placing a hand on Stephen’s arm as they walked, he’d frozen in place. For a moment, he’d forgotten where he was, certain they were still in England and even a simple, friendly touch like that would get them spat at in the street. Lucien had taken his hand away quickly with an apologetic, understanding expression, endlessly patient with Stephen’s anxieties, willing to go slowly. Stephen appreciated it, his heart hammering in his chest until the next delight chased it away.

But then, sitting in the park, Lucien had made to reach for Stephen’s hand, stopping only at the last moment when he caught himself. His quick amber eyes had noticed and, for a moment, the fear jolted through him, a sour, metallic taste on his tongue. But only for a moment, the sugar and fresh air rushing back in and, with it, a sense of giddy courage. They were in the shade, dappled by the leaves overhead, and no one was looking their way.

And if they were, what of it? Lucien had promised Stephen a life of freedom. He’d told him they’d go places where everything about Stephen- his magic, the fact that he liked men- wasn’t something to be hidden and ashamed of. And every other impossible thing Lucien had promised was apparently true, so why not this?

So he’d joined their hands together, threading his fingers through Lucien’s larger ones until they knit together naturally. Not a manipulation of the ether, not a spell, just the honest scrape of rough, callused skin against his lover’s, scar brushing against scar, fingers slotting perfectly into the gaps between hair dusted knuckles. It had been Lucien’s turn to jolt in surprise but, God, the look he’d given Stephen put every wonder they’d seen into the shade.

Possibly that look, possibly the wild and welcome sense of freedom, possibly the fact that Merrick knew of a wine bar that didn’t close until one in the morning and served the most delicious ruby red burgundy and a very reasonable price, possibly a combination of all of these factors decided how Stephen’s first day in Paris ended.

Which is to say, piss drunk and dancing with his lover in an empty Parisian street at half past two in the morning. And happier than he could ever remember being.

“Lucien!” he cackled, clinging to him for dear life as he spun him around in what a waltz might look like through a haze of wine, “Lucien, I’m going to be sick!”

His lover laughed, finally letting them stop, moving into a slightly less disorientating four step that neither of them could really keep up with, “I thought you practitioners could hold your alcohol better than us mere mortals?”

“Not when it’s this much alcohol,” Stephen snorted, tilting his head back to watch the stars lurch drunkenly across the velvet blue sky, “God, Lucien, this place…”

“I know,” Lucien purred, catching him in the pool of gas light coming from a streetlamp, letting Stephen slump bonelessly against his chest as they swayed in a lazy circle, “This is what it should be like, my love. This is how you’ve deserved to live your entire life.”

Stephen giggled, loose limbed and loose lipped with the weight of the sweet wine on his tongue,  “No one cares...I’m dancing with my lover in the street and no one cares…”

Luien’s cheeks were a little red too, his speech a little slack and grin overly wide, but he was a few glasses down on Stephen, “Well, we can still get arrested for disorderly behaviour and waking the neighbours.”

“I see,” Stephen hummed with exaggerated seriousness, face still pressed to Lucien’s chest so it came out a little muffled, “We should be inside then so we can be as disorderly as we wish.”

“I like the sound of that,” Lucien chuckled, half dancing and half dragging Stephen to the door of their hotel which they’d been wonkily aiming for when they’d started their impromptu waltz.

Getting through the lobby with whatever wine soaked dignity they could muster took a few moments when Stephen stumbled on the steps and Lucien couldn’t remember his own name briefly when the front desk asked but eventually they staggered up the stairs to the apartments they were calling home until they could book passage further into Europe.

Fortunately they didn’t have to fumble with the key in the door, the French helpfully built their door knobs in brass and he sent it swinging inwards with a thought, unfortunately just as Lucien swept him up to kiss him against it. The two of them burst into helpless laughter, sprawled on the mat, giggling like children.

“Get off me,” Stephen managed to get the words out, through the laughter and the fact that shy of two hundred pounds of muscular lordship was resting on him, “I can’t breathe, you great lump…”

“Some poorly timed romance on my part, I apologise,” Lucien laughed, finding his feet and pulling himself up, snagging Stephen on the way up.

“Oh,” Stephen’s eyes glittered in the pale moonlight, the only thing keeping the apartment from complete darkness, “Well...don’t let this keep you from trying again.”

Lucien seemed to take that as a personal challenge, not letting his lover find his feet, just sweeping him into his arms and carrying him straight to the canopy bed. With a few assists from Stephen, bending the ether to shove an ottoman and curl the corner of a rug out of their path, they made it with no broken necks or barked shins.

“Did I tell you the ether feels different here?” he found himself murmuring, once they’d toppled into the pool of silk and down, his mouth doing that thing where the wine rather than his brain made it move.

“Hmm?” Lucien had collapsed next to him, looking like a scarecrow that had been dropped from a height. A scarecrow dressed in Hawkes and Cheney’s finest, “Don’t recall. Tell me anyway. I like when you talk about magic, your eyes light up.”

Stephen reddened until he was probably a similar colour to the wine they’d been drinking but he held his hands up above himself, backing them against the rich muslin of the canopy. He twitched his long fingers as he spoke, like he was stroking something.

“I work with my hands so it feels different to me. It feels richer, like I’m moving my hands through honey rather than water, like it is back home. It...drags on me, like it’s alive and it’s touching me as much as I’m touching it. Like the difference between velvet and cotton, you know? You just want to dig your fingers in and see how far it goes. I bet if Esther was here, she’d say it smelled different too and I’ll ask Saint if it sounds different…” he trailed off, glancing to the man lying beside him, realising that Lucien was gazing at him with an expression warmer and more adoring than anyone he’d ever given a magical lecture to.

“Did my eyes light up?” he asked shyly, mouth cocking into a smile.

“All of you does,” Lucien purred, looking at him the way Stephen had looked at the paintings and artefacts in the museum, like he was something precious and masterful, like the whole world around them and dimmed and Stephen was all that mattered, “This is just...this is everything I wanted for you, my love.”

“To eat my own body weight in cake twice over?” Stephen hummed,

The jesting tone was a little flat and shaky but he needed some way to blunt this. Because if Lucien kept talking like this and looking at him like that then he felt me might cry. Because they were alone in a beautiful place and everything was changing, because he loved this man so much and he loved him back and light could be as overwhelming as dark. You could drown in honey as easily as blood.

But, as ever, Lucien was the one who was unafraid. They lay practically nose to nose but it still wasn’t close enough apparently, he reached over to hold his cheek. His palm was cool from the chill night air and Stephen leaned into it instinctively.

“To be somewhere you can just be your incredible self,” Lucien murmured, keeping their voices low even though they were alone, just because the words were Stephen’s and no one elses, “Magical and powerful and mine.”

Stephen turned and pressed his lips to the centre of that slightly roughened palm, “Thank you. I know I’m going to be saying that a lot from now on and it’s never going to feel like enough but still. Thank you so much.”

Lucien kissed the bridge of his nose, running his thumb over his cheekbone, protective and comforting, “And I will always reply that you don’t need to thank me. You came with me, that’s more than enough.”

Stephen melted under the touch, sighing softly, finding a way to relax even beyond what the drink and dancing had already accomplished, “And it only gets better from here?”

“The further we get from England, the less anyone will care,” Lucien promised, fingers moving up to tease the tighter curls at the edge of his hairline, “In China I’ll be able to take you to dinners, kiss you in the street, introduce you as my partner to my fellow traders, brag shamelessly about my talented, handsome shaman…”

Stephen groaned, though he was betrayed by his lopsided grin of incredibly endearing goofiness, “Wonderful...though I like being called your partner.”

“Well,” Lucien patted his cheek and let him go, apparently too drunk and tired to engage his neck muscles, “I’d rather call you my husband but not even Shanghai allows me that.”

This certain kind of moment happens often between two people with more wine in their bloodstream than sense in their head, that one of them will casually blurt something without realising the magnitude of their words, their runaway mouths jumbling up the filing system in their head and confusing the one labelled ‘deeply personal thoughts’ with ‘casual conversation’. People said in vino veritas, Lucien recalled, though the more succinct phrase that snapped his eyes open and froze him in place when he realised what he’d said was ‘complete fucking stupidity’.

Stephen was watching him with wide, golden eyes, no expression but naked surprise, “You’d marry me? If we could?”

Lucien wasn’t often caught on the back foot, even around Stephen. His little witch could count on one hand the amount of times he’d seen him blush as he was now, the amount of times he’d seen his mouth twist into the shy, vulnerable smile of a much younger man who’d been through far less in his life.

“Well...of course. Honestly, if we lived in a different time, I’d have done it long before now. Pretty much as soon as I got the slightest inkling you’d actually have me,” the blush deepened as he spoke and, God, Stephen would have been lying if it wasn’t damn endearing to see his lover’s cold, angular features having to deal with embarrassment.

Lucien caught his expression, laughing exasperatedly and dragging Stephen closer, “Oh fuck off, is this really that much of a surprise?”

Stephen giggled, wrapping his arms around Lucien in turn, “That I could land one of the most eligible bachelors in England? Somewhat...oh heavens, would that make me Lady Crane?”

That set them both off again, gripped by helpless laughter, giddy on wine and fantasy.

“I think you’d be Lord as well?” Lucien snorted, the idea of his radical little witch having a title too funny for words, “Or Lord Consort which even you have to admit is an inherently fuckable title.”

“Well, you’ve got me there…” he snickered, rusty curls falling into his eyes, “Stephen Vaudrey….”

Thinking if he was in for a penny on emotional vulnerability, he may as well be in for a pound, Lucien shook his head, “Actually, if we’re indulging ourselves completely, I’d ask you to keep your name. And, if you’d be so kind, extend it to me?”

Stephen’s jaw dropped, “Pardon? Did I hear that right?”

Lucien shrugged lazily, managing to haul himself up into something more like a sitting position against the bolsters, “Come on now, darling, like I’m going to cling to the surname of my abusive father and brother when I could join a loving family of people with actual integrity and honour.”

Stephen scrambled after him, resting his head on Lucien’s chest, gazing up at him adoringly, “That’s...I don’t even know what to say, Lucien.”

Lucien pushed that wayward hair back, his heart thudding at putting that expression of bewilderment and love on Stephen’s face and wanting to admire every inch of it, “So you wouldn’t mind spending the rest of your life with Lucien Day?”

“I’d do it in a heartbeat,” Stephen said emphatically, turning into his hand the way a cat being petted would, “And I will. No matter what the law says.”

Lucien seemed to consider that a moment, an amusement dawning in his grey eyes, the kind of idea that could only happen when one was a little bit drunk and madly in love clearly taking root. His mouth quirked upwards at the end.

“Fuck the law then,” he grinned, “Marry me. Right now.”

Stephen blinked, clearly missing a few pieces of the puzzle, “Excuse me?”

Lucien lurched to his feet so suddenly that Stephen was left to fall face down into the space he left behind with an ungainly yelp. He turned onto his back to see Lucien straightening his lapels, trying to shake out some of the rumpledness in his suit from their raucous evening. He deftly untied his cravat, somehow managing to force hands that had held several wine glasses over the last few hours to handle the knot expertly. Then he held out his hand to Stephen.

“Your leg please, sweet boy. This can be the something new, I only bought it today, and borrowed too as I’m lending it to you. I’d say your suit can be your something old, given the state of it, as I’ve pointed out many times. Don’t think you’re getting out of Paris without some new clothes by the way. And blue…”

“Our tattoos have blue in them,” Stephen grinned at him as he complied, shivering a little as Lucien pushed up the leg of his worn trousers, “You’ve lost your mind completely.”

“It's this or we become pirates and enter into matelotage, my love,” Lucien hummed, tying the lace around his thigh in a decent approximation of a garter, “And the journey across the Channel made it clear you get seasick far too easily for that.”

Stephen wrinkled his nose, he’d had a near constant sour taste in his mouth for the entire trip, “Granted…”

“What’s a marriage anyway?” Lucien hummed, kissing Stephen’s knee before letting him go, “Rings and a promise and a priest. And, the way I see it, two out of three requirements makes a good enough substitute for me. The law doesn’t want us so I say we don’t want it.”

“Spoken like a true smuggler,” Stephen gazed up at him, feeling like he could float.

Lucien flashed him the kind of grin that made shivers run up his spine, as he slid the magpie ring he’d had made to fit Stephen’s from his finger, “Now I know we already did this part but why not...take mine and I’ll have yours, if you don’t mind…”

His hand felt naked without the ring but Lucien’s larger one lying in his palm was a solid certainty, still warm from his lover’s skin. Stephen clutched it like a talisman, a delighted, bewildered laugh bursting from him as Lucien pulled him to his feet. The two of them stood facing each other like they were before an altar, framed in the enormous bay windows that lay the glittering entirety of Paris out before them. Neither man gave it a glance.

“Now, I’ll do my best to remember how it went at Leo’s though the wine might not be helping,” Lucien frowned as he thought, “Although, having said that, I was drunk for that wedding too.”

“Which one?” Stephen grinned teasingly, “The one years ago or the one last month?”

“Both,” Lucien hummed, taking Stephen’s hands in his own, enveloping them safely in his own, “Now…”

Stephen tilted his head upwards, taking a breath and focusing on Lucien’s face. Something inside him fought through the burgundy fog and the giddiness and the fear of those emotions that felt too big to hold, something whispered focus, this is important, you’ll want to remember every second.

Lucien slid Stephen’s ring back onto his finger, fitting it perfectly where it had sat since last December, “I, Lucien Vaudrey, take thee, Stephen Day, to be my completely unlawful but much devoted and adored husband to have and to hold from this day forward. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, when you’re vomiting over the edge of an ocean liner or in health, so on and so forth and whatever…” he clearly abandoned the traditional vows and his eyes softened with sincerity, “You are the person who woke up my heart when I’d rather forgotten i even owned one. You’ve saved me, you’ve made me a better man and you’ve put so much trust in me. All I can do is swear to you that I am yours, completely and utterly. For whatever it's worth to you, my love.”

For a few moments, Stephen couldn’t speak or move or do anything but stand in place with his eyes fixed on Lucien’s and wonder what the hell he’d done to deserve the place he stood in now. He only realised how long he’d been struck dumb when Lucien stifled a chuckle and pointedly cleared his throat, prompting Stephen to scramble for the ring and nearly drop it, managing to get it onto Lucien’s finger.

“Um, okay, ah…” he shook himself, “I, Stephen Day, take thee, Lucien Vaudrey or Crane or Fortunegate or Day or whoever the hell you want to be, I’ll take every single one of you as my unlawful husband and I’ll do it gladly. I’ll take you for better or worse, though God knows we’ve had plenty of the latter. For richer, hard to do in your case, or poorer, even harder to do in my case. In sickness and in health and whatever else the world wants to throw at us because I swear, you are the best thing in my life and nothing is taking you away from me now. Thank you for helping me see something worthwhile when I look in the mirror, thank you for being that little bit more stubborn than me, thank you for...everything. For the whole damned world. I don’t know what I can do to pay that back but I can promise you I’ll try.”

“You can start by kissing your husband?” Lucien’s voice was rough and thick and if Stephen didn’t know his lover better, he’d say there was wetness on his eyelashes.

Not that he had time to properly take note before he threw himself into Lucien’s arms, kissing him hard enough that he would have buckled if he was a shorter man. Instead they met and melted into each other, kissing hard enough to bruise, hard enough that there would be aching jaws to go along with aching heads the next morning.

And outside of the window, Paris still glittered, gaslamp stars in their cobblestone sea, the Seine the path to the rest of the world that lay beyond. All of Europe, all of Asia, wherever they wanted to go was waiting.

And it would have to wait. Because tonight all that mattered was each other.

[theparanormalperiodical]

Top 10 Scariest Horror Films You Didn't Know Were Based On A TRUE Story feat. Trailers + Where To Watch

There’s something about horror films that are based on real events that just make me weak.

So weak, in fact, I’ve decided to spend the last *checks watch* one and a half years of my early 20s delving into the facts and the fiction haunting the horror genre. 

My parents must be so proud.

Most of these films wear the badge of ‘this is reality or close enough to it, anyway’ with dignity, leveraging gullible paranormalists like me to drive ticket sales. The Conjuring (2013) is just one of these films that is explicit in its basis in reality, going on to rake in 16 times its budget and inspiring me to delve deeper into my occultist journey.

(No, really, they’re so proud.)

But the ventures of Ed and Lorraine Warren are not the only experiences of horrifying and haunting events to be reinterpreted via the silver screen. There are some horror films you wouldn’t expect to have reality flushing through their veins.

Some of horror’s biggest hitters aren’t just living in your nightmares. They actually happened IRL.

Which is, ummm, fine, yeah, it’s not like I need to sleep anyway.

*Stay tuned to discover the horror films you didn’t know were based on true stories and the real accounts that inspired them.*

Jaws (1975)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U1fu_sA7XhE 

This cinematic classic follows the adventures of a great white shark as it terrorises the summer resort town of Amity. A couple of corpses later, and the local police chief, rookie marine biologist, and wild-card shark hunter track the beast down themselves.

Most horror films use a person or a story as a basis for a film. Jaws, however, is an amalgamation of experiences recorded by the writer of the novel inspiring the film, Peter Benchley.

Benchley admittedly had a life-long obsession with sharks and was inspired to write a book on a rogue great white after reading about a bloke called Frank Mundus.

"...in 1964, I read an item in a newspaper about a fisherman who harpooned a 4,500-pound great white shark off Long Island. I remember thinking at the time, Lord! What would happen if one of those monsters came into a resort community and wouldn't go away?”

Quint, the wild card shark hunter, was based directly on Mundus.

Another influence, although not referenced by Benchley, was the 1916 New Jersey shark attacks.

In high summer, five Americans were attacked by a great white off the coast of the Jersey Shore with 4 falling victim to their wounds. For the next 11 days, the same shark cruised along the 70 miles of the beach towns and small villages. The shark even performed the first shark attack reported in US history, countering the long-standing belief that sharks couldn’t bite through human bone.

(Spoiler alert: they can.)

When beach goers came to the beach early morning to discover the 3rd victim bitten in half, this was disproven. After that discovery - which bares a striking resemblance to the opening scenes of Jaws - the story hit The New York Times front page.

Just like the film the mayors tried to deny there was a deadly shark making the rounds to secure profit to their seaside resorts. And just like the film a swimmer was even mauled in an estuary.

It wasn’t long before they settled on the identity of the perpetrator and the locals set off with rifles and pitchforks.

(Not sure how useful they’d be against a shark, but okay.)

The shark met its end after it attacked one of the hunters’ boats, a scene we also witness in the film.

You can rent it for £2.50 on Amazon Prime.

Deliver Us From Evil (2014)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YWDM_p68HAQ

We follow a policeman who has a side gig as an exorcist as he encounters strange goings on in the Bronx. Ralph Sarchie chases up the paranormal activity and attempts to untangle why possessed people are painting ancient messages and images in various places.

Here’s the thing: none of this actually happened. As far as we know, anyway.

What this film is based on is the real Ralph Sarchie who wrote the memoir Beware The Night as an ode to his work as a demonologist. It’s based on his character, his tone of voice, and how he carried out his work.

Sarchie presents his work as his destiny, as some form of divine intervention he believes was signalled by his survival of a severe illness he contracted when he was 10.

He claims to carry a splinter of the ‘true cross’ - I guess the one Jesus actually died on - and considers himself more of a priestly figure armed with relics and holy water than a paranormal investigator.

Sarchie has worked on many possessions and hauntings, claiming he didn’t charge a cent despite the high fee he probably got from the book sales and the film’s debut. The most famous tale is that of the ‘Halloween Horror’:

A woman named Gabby began to see a woman floating in a cloud of white smoke in the corner of her bedroom. It wasn’t long before this smoky woman began to speak through Gabby according to her partner Dominick.

Gabby’s friend then says this was the ghost of a woman murdered on her wedding night. She then apparently saw the spirit of her father. Activity followed with flying books, moans and growls, and the word ‘HELP’ written on the mirror. Eventually an incubus rocks up and is hell bent on attacking various family members.

When Gabby gets possessed in the presence of Sarchie and his paranormal-busting-partner, he exorcises her of the spirit.

In total, Sarchie has assisted in 25 exorcisms and hundreds of ‘house exorcisms’.

You can watch it for free on Netflix.

The Blob (1958/1988)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TdUsyXQ8Wrs

*cue the canned screams*

In some rural town in America, a meteorite crashes to the ground. Someone investigates and a jelly globule attaches itself to their hand before consuming it. It then begins to consume their entire body. It’s not long before it starts to consume, well, everyone and everything in its path.

8 years before the horror icon first became a cult classic, two police officers in Philadelphia saw something float down from the sky. They thought it was a parachute and decided to investigate.

What they discovered was a six feet wide purple glob of odourless gloop. It was filled with crystals and gave off a mist. One of the police officers took the plunge - quite literally - and dipped a hand in. He kept the hand, but noticed the sticky residue left on his hands.

The gloop quickly disappeared and left the grass underneath it unbent. It was allegedly only there for 25 minutes. They were the only ones that saw it. It soon made its way into the press and the FBI asked the Air Force to investigate. They declined.

You can watch it for £3.50 on Amazon Prime.

Wolf Creek (2005)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8S13W69FQhs

Two British tourists are backpacking across Australia when they run into trouble in Wolf Creek National Park. A helpful local offers to help fix their broken down car and provide some shelter. Turns out the helpful local is actually a psychopathic xenophobic murderer. He entraps tourists, lures them to his shelter, and tortures/kills them.

Most gory horror films can be compared to real life murders and other crimes. Unfortunately, even the most imaginative forms of torture or murder has probably already happened. But the film was directly based on the backpacker murders committed by Ivan Milat in the 90s.

Milat murdered 7 people aged 19 to 22, preying on those encouraged to backpack across Australia after several tourism campaigns revealed how cheap and easy it was. In ‘92 and ‘93 the bodies were discovered in Belanglo State Forest with the wounds and injuries suggesting the scenes played out in film were similar to those Milat committed.

In late ‘93 a force dedicated to hunting the unknown killer emerged. It used gym memberships, gun licensing, and police records to narrow down a list of 32 suspects.

It was only when Paul Onions, a British backpacker reported he was nearly murdered near Belanglo State Forest that the police could pinpoint that Milat.

You can watch it for £2 on Amazon Prime.

Open Water (2004)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z9q1qJi1nMs

It’s everyone’s worst nightmare: being left in the middle of the ocean. A distant couple decide to take a relaxing break and head out for a scuba-diving vacation. Their holiday is ruined, however, when the guy driving the boat f*cks up the head count and thinks everyone is back on board after a diving sesh. The couple come back to the surface and discover the boat is gone.

Yep, this all happened in real life.

In 1998, Thomas and Eileen Lonergan went on a scuba diving trip to Australia’s Coral Sea. They were mistakenly stranded by the boat crew leading the dive and their absence wasn’t noticed until 2 days later when a bag containing their belongings was discovered.

The crew and other rescue teams searched the area but did not discover their bodies. Personal belongings were found.

A diver’s slate - a device for communicating underwater - was one of these items.

"Monday Jan 26; 1998 08am. To anyone who can help us: We have been abandoned on A[gin]court Reef by MV Outer Edge 25 Jan 1998 3pm. Please help to rescue us before we die. Help!!!"

The other items that washed up, including a wetsuit, suggested they had probably not fallen victim to shark attacks but had become disoriented, dehydrated, or injured by coral. Alternate theories claim it may have been a murder-suicide to avoid the slow, distressing death of being left at sea, or that it was a faked death/disappearance. No bank accounts had been tampered with, however.

Tougher regulations for scuba-diving in Australia shortly followed their disappearance.

You can watch it for free on Amazon Prime.

The Rite (2011)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_hG3ktopqv8

We follow exorcist-in-training Father Gary Thomas as he navigates the loss of this faith. When the opportunity for fighting growing demonic possessions arises, Thomas decides to become an exorcist. We see Thomas as he is confronted by evil and reaffirms his devotion to God.

Portrayed by veteran actor Anthony Hopkins, Father Gary Thomas is a real American exorcist - one of the 14 Vatican-verified exorcists working State-side. He did in fact study in the Vatican to become an exorcist, and another student he met there would chronicle his experiences in the book The Rite: The Making of a Modern Exorcist.

Thomas even spent a week on set advising the director, utilising his experiences of the 100 odd people he had seen possessed in his career.

Just like in the film, Thomas echoes that most people that come to him for an exorcism have been abused in their past, linking mental health issues to demonic attachment. Thomas also has a lot of praise for the film, claiming the way those possessed moved in a serpentine way is accurate to those he has seen:

“I was beginning to do some deliverance prayers. Within a few minutes she began to tremor and her facial countenance began to change. You saw a snake. She began sticking her tongue out like a snake and hissing and rolling her eyes. She coiled herself up.”

- Father Gary Thomas on a possessed Venezualan woman

You can watch this on Amazon Prime for £2.50.

The Silence Of The Lambs (1991)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W6Mm8Sbe__o

Anthony Hopkins refers to a staple horror film - a film with truth spilling like blood from a bloated corpse…

This psychological horror sees an FBI trainee as they work with an imprisoned serial killer to hunt down a murderer, Buffalo Bill. Add in just a dash of transphobia and we arrive at the film that made my parents actually walk out of the cinema when they first saw it.

First, let’s talk about Hannibal Lecter and his role as an advisor to the FBI: this has actually happened, using a seasoned killer to catch another. The most famous example of this is none other than Ted Bundy, one of the most infamous in history. Bundy told investigators to stake out the graves of victims or the places where bodies had been dumped as necrophiles like himself would return to the site.

Bundy actually helped them catch Gary Ridgeway who killed an estimated 90 people.

Now let’s turn to Buffalo Bill. The characters were never directly inspired by real people but their crimes were. He was an amalgamation of other crimes with Ed Gein serving as the main inspiration. Ed Gein, most known for skinning his victims and wearing the skins, took 9 lives and would also inspire the character Norman Bates.

He would make clothing out of body parts, make soup bowls from dug-up skulls, and build chairs from human bones.

Ted Bundy even made another appearance in Buffalo Bill’s character in terms of how he lures his victims, acting hurt and helpless until the victim was just within reach.

You can buy this film on Amazon Prime for £8.

Scream (1996)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AWm_mkbdpCA

This satirical slasher redefined the genre, putting comedy firmly into horror as we know it. It follows Sidney Prescott, a preppy high school student, as she navigates high school drama and a rampant serial killer.

Just like The Silence Of The Lambs, the crimes witnessed in Scream had basis in reality. Daniel Rolling - the Gainesville Ripper - was an American serial killer who murdered 5 students in Florida within the short span of 4 days back in 1990.

Rolling would sexually assault, rape, threaten, and kill his young victims before leaving them in ‘sexual’ positions. He even decapitated one of those murdered and left the head on the shelf opposite the rest of the body amongst other vile acts. He later claimed his motive was to become a ‘superstar’ like Ted Bundy.

Yeah, that’s enough of that.

You can watch this on Amazon Prime for £2.50.

The Hills Have Eyes (1977/2006)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CUQd9OB75dw

It’s time to hear about another vacay gone cray-cray. In the middle of a roadtrip to California, a family’s car breaks down in a mysterious area closed off to the public and they encounter a strange community of cannibals.

Instead of being based on modern crimes that hit far too close to home, this film is based on a historic event - or the legend of Sawney Bean.

Bean was a mythical leader of a cannibalistic group of insurgents in the 16th century. He grew up in a community of witches and later began his own community full of his children which he expanded with rampant incest. They would leave traps and eat their prey in a cave.

The King of Scotland, James VI, even led a team to root the family out of their lair. According to legend they were burnt at the stake while others were hung.

This tale also bears similarities to urban legends from Russia: there is a trope in the Southern Urals which claims after the Chernobyl accident irradiated peoples would become savage peoples, echoing the nuclear testing themes shown by the film.

You can watch this on Amazon Prime for £2.50.

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1978)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BKn9QIaMgtQ

In this cult class gore-fest we see a group of friends visit an old homestead but instead run into a family of murderous cannibals.

Yet again the crimes of Ed Gein make an appearance. The friends walk in on a home full of furniture made of human remains and meet a man - Leatherface - wearing a mask made of human skin. We also witness various people butchered in different brutal ways.

But this film also has a more political inspiration. Tobe Hooper - the director, producer, and writer - pinned his inspiration on changes in the cultural and political landscape, focusing on misinformation that overran America during the 70s.

*looks into camera a la Jim from The Office*

Hooper pinned the claims of a true story onto the film, responding to how he felt he was being lied to by the government regarding things like Watergate, the 1973 Oil Crisis, and the Vietnam War. The news only confirmed the brutal acts of humanity.

"man was the real monster here, just wearing a different face, so I put a literal mask on the monster in my film".

You can watch this for free on Amazon Prime.

Well that was, uhh, fun?

If you enjoyed these traumatic discoveries - you know, that some of the most terrifying horror films of all time are based on real people and crimes - then make sure you like ‘n’ reblog to let me know.

I post a new article on horror and the paranormal every Saturday + a new real ghost story everyday so make sure you hit follow to tag along for the ride!

[thedaveandkimmershow]

When she was new, those birthdays were like dog years. The difference in who she was between the newborn we brought home from the hospital and the 1 year old who really didn't want anything to do with Santa Claus... was massive.

There was incredible change in who she was as a human being no matter how tiny. Newborn to 1. 1 to 2. 2 to 3.

And so on.

The thing was... we couldn't see it.

On a day to day basis... the change wasn't obvious. Most of the time it wasn't obvious. At least to me, her dad, yeah.

It wasn't obvious.

And it's because I was watching the process of growing up from too close. Every minute of every hour of every day.

Too close.

And I couldn't see the process for the details. The forest for the trees.

Now, right up through the year Linzy started Kindergarten, I traveled to Europe as a production assistant for Travels in Europe with Rick Steves and Smart Travels with Rudy Maxa. And after each week or two of being gone, I could see it. 

I could see the difference manifesting in my absence.

It's really a helluva thing to behold in a tiny human being.

It really is.

Fast forward a pair of decades. From the day we brought her home from the hospital, speed through eight thousand seven hundred sixty six days. Jump through hyperspace from then to now in an instant. From there... 

To here.

And yes, of course, the difference is insane. But as she's living her own life now, living in her own place, chasing down her own career... for me it's a little like those times I returned home after being away on the road. I can see that process of growing up ‘cause I’m not living the relentless day to day of parenting that I used to. Only now the growing up encompasses so much more than just learning to walk, learning to talk, or even learning that if you pull out kitchen drawers sequentially you can use them as steps to get up onto the counter from where you can actually reach the top of the refrigerator and pull yourself up toward that tin of cookies Mom put up there.

That last one was pretty impressive, by the way. 

But. 

The kind of growing you do once you set out on your own is even more impressive.

At the very least it's another of life's brutal character tests.

How tough are you in the face of failure?

How well do you manage massive plot twists?

Do you give up easily or do you hold on with fingernails and teeth if necessary?

How good are you on your worst day?

And how adept are you at navigating life without a map?

That all sounded maybe a little more grisly than I intended. I only mean to say that setting out in your own boat is a cinematic experience. It's your life... and what your life's gonna be under your command.

Under your.

Command.

As I'm watching Linzy steer her own ship, undertake her own life's quest with held breath sometimes... it's impressive to see the fullness of the person she's becoming...

As she's becoming that person.

It's definitely not an easy gig.

But it is a helluva thing to behold in someone who used to be so tiny.

🙂♥️♥️♥️

[barrysjumpsuit]

the killing in kildare - an outer banks/criminal minds crossover (jj pov)

this came to be thanks to a post by @pixelated-pogues and @poguesoftheobx and tbh my main motivation for this was jj being an asshole to feds

word count: 3k

warnings: mentions of (canon) abuse, some abuse/fighting, mentions of canon murder, this is purely unedited so prob typos and bad grammar idc

summary: following the murder of sherriff peterkin, our favorite BAU team comes in to assist the kildare county police department with their case

a/n: i hate this and rewrote it twice, but here ya go!!! couldn’t make it a true criminal minds bau type case due to the canon but i did my best. also there’s mayward if u squint

---

“We haven’t had a homicide here in ten years,” Deputy Shoupe was explaining as he led the BAU team through the police station. “All sorts of weird shit going down lately. We’re at our wits end.”

“And all this happened after Routledge’s disappearance?” Agent Hotchner asked, weaving his way through desks as Shoupe unlocked the conference room door. 

“Yes sir, his kid - also John Routledge, we call him John B - thought he’s out there, but we’ve officially deemed him dead after he didn’t show up after a couple months, now the kid says a local killed him. Have a seat.”

Shoupe gestured to the chairs surrounding the table, and the team sat down, Hotchner and Rossi near the head of the table. They all listened while Shoupe explained what went down over the course of the past year - Big John’s disappearance, which turned out to be linked to his hunt for the gold of the Royal Merchant. Word had it that a man named Ward Cameron, the elite of the island, was responsible, or at least involved. “That statement came from Routledge’s kid, so I’m not sure how true it is,” Shoupe explained. 

Turns out, Shoupe believed it was the younger Routledge who murdered Sheriff Peterkin. A local reported him running around, covered in blood. He had become involved in the treasure hunt with his friends, wreaking havoc around the island in the process. There were strange men who reportedly chased the kids, who later turned up dead in someone’s nets, sporting wounds from a gaff hook.

“And now Pete…” Shoupe continued, trailing off. “That kid’s on the loose. We haven’t seen or heard anything about him in a few days. We think he got away, but I still have officers out keeping an eye open.”

It wasn’t the type of case the BAU would normally take on, but it was interesting. A hunt for treasure, mysterious men and local residents turning up dead, and the murder of the Sheriff.

There were a few questions and a brief silence as the team looked over the photos and files they had been given. Morgan finally spoke up, his voice filled with determination. “We’ll find whoever did this.”

--

JJ laid on the dock, swinging his feet which dangled off the edge. The tips of his boots barely skimmed the water. In one hand, he pinched a joint between two fingers. His eyes were closed, and occasionally he sucked on the joint, enjoying the calmness that overwhelmed his system, easing the anxiety that had been overwhelming ever since he saw John B disappear the night before.

They had finally eased off the search once there was word of his escape. He was out of Kildare County, out of jurisdiction. 

With no more cops hanging around, JJ could finally return to the Chateau. He knew he couldn’t go home - his dad had probably realized that JJ had stolen the keys to the Phantom by now, and JJ would be a goner. Being at the Chateau was familiar and comfortable.

Both Kiara and Pope had returned home to be with their families. Ever since two nights before, JJ had been at the Chateau, Kiara having dropped off food from The Wreck to last him a few days.

JJ was too caught up in his thoughts to hear the footsteps making their way down the dock until someone spoke. “JJ Maybank?”

He knew the voice of a cop when he heard it; JJ bolted upright, immediately jumping into the water, his joint long forgotten as he plunged under the water and started swimming.

Arms suddenly wrestled him. “We just want to talk, kid,” someone said, and JJ threw an elbow their way. Whoever had jumped in and grabbed him was too big, and wrestled him back to the dock. “Grab him, Spence.”

Hands pulled JJ back onto the dock. “You’re not in any trouble, JJ.”

JJ struggled in his hold, but more hands were on him, and he knew he couldn’t get away.

“Alright, you got me, congratulations,” he said, throwing his hands up. “John B didn’t kill Peterkin, he didn’t kill anybody.”

“Hold up, kid,” the first man said. JJ saw that they weren’t dressed like normal cops, and the man soon confirmed his suspicions. “My name is Derek Morgan, this is Spencer Reid, we’re with the FBI. We just have a few questions.”

“Ask away,” JJ said, exasperated. He was cornered on the end of the dock by the two agents.

“We’d like you to come with us,” Agent Reid explained. “To take an official statement. You won’t get in any trouble and you’ll be able to leave whenever you want.”

“If your friend is innocent, we want to help him, all right? That’s what we’re here for.”

Maybe it was the weed, or maybe it was the fact that John B was gone and safe. Whatever the case, JJ nodded, allowing the agents to walk him to their SUV to take him back to the police station. He was more than aware of all the looks everyone gave him. JJ greeted them, in typical JJ fashion, and he was brought into an office.

A blonde woman was sitting at the conference table, papers and files spread out before her while she spoke on the phone. JJ recognized the photos of the two square groupers that were killed, hauled up in nets by some fishermen. His stomach turned at the memory of them breaking into John B’s house. 

The agent set the phone down onto the table before sticking out her hand. “My name’s Jennifer Jareau, but you can call me JJ. You’re a friend of John B’s?”

JJ laughed. “JJ, that’s a good name, I like it.” He smiled with satisfaction as Jennifer’s face flushed red. “Look at that, we even look alike, we’re both blond bombshells.” 

“This is JJ Maybank,” Agent Morgan interjected, a smile tugging on his lips, too. 

“Well, all right, JJ. Can you tell us what happened? From the beginning? We found that the officers here tended to have a… biased report, so sorry about that.” Her eyes shifted slowly towards Deputy Shoupe.

“Nah, it’s all good. I have a bit of a reputation here, so that doesn’t surprise me.” JJ couldn’t help but throw a wink towards Shoupe. “Ol’ Shoupe and I here know each other pretty well.”

There was a pang of satisfaction inside JJ as Shoupe sighed. “Just shut up and talk, Maybank.”

“Aight. So, JB’s dad was looking for this gold his whole life, ya know? He went missing at sea about a year ago. Then this month, after Agatha, my friends and I were out fishing and we found a sunk boat. It belonged to Scooter Grubbs, and we were like ‘oh, how did he get his grubby little hands on it?’” he paused, clearly proud of the joke he made. “Anyway. Scooter turned up dead and we found a compass in the boat. It was JB’s dad’s. So we were like ‘holy shit, it’s a ghost compass’. But after we found that compass we were chased by some guys, total square groupers - they tried to shoot us! Then they next day we went to ask Scooter’s wife about it but found the guys there, then they came to JB’s house looking for him and the compass. Then we found a map and tape recorder to John B from his dad in this creepy ass tomb the compass told us to go to, and we knew something was up.”

JJ paused for dramatic effect. Everyone, even Shoupe, was watching and listening intently, Jennifer scribbling down notes as a tape recorder played on the table. Agent Morgan was visibly amused by JJ’s storytelling.

He continued with the story. “So we found the shipwreck, right? But there wasn’t anything on it. So we were like damn, someone beat us to it. But then John B started mackin’ Sarah Cameron-”

Agent Reid made a confused face at his slang.

“Mackin’. You know, making out, dating, Sarah Cameron. Turns out, there was a letter left by Denmark Tanney. He was the sole survivor and hid all the gold at the Crain house. But this is where it gets good,” JJ said, leaning forward, as if the story wasn’t thrilling enough already. “Ward Cameron must have known that John B was looking for the gold. He had him move into his house and must have overheard him talking to Sarah about the gold. The gold was gone. Ward loaded it up in his plane. While this was happening, John B went to Lana, Scooter’s wife, and she told him everything. About how Big John and Ward were looking for the gold, and they were about to find the merchant, then Ward shoved John and split his head open and dumped him over the side of the boat.”

“We have agents talking to Lana Grubbs right now,” Jennifer said, and JJ nodded vigorously.

“Good. Oh yeah, JB said Ward took him fishing and tried to kill him with a gaff hook. That ring any bells?” JJ looked from Morgan to Reid, and then to Jennifer, who just nodded. “So turns out Scooter found his body and got the compass. Then he was coming back when Aggie hit. After JB found out, he was pissed, man, and we went to the runway to stop Ward from stealing the gold. He was taking it and Sarah to the Bahamas. JB went out to try to stop him. He said Peterkin showed up to arrest Ward, but then Ward’s kid Rafe - he’s a crazy motherfucker - shot Peterkin, John B ran because Rafe was gonna shoot him too, then Ward called our friend Shoupe and said John B shot her and denied everything.”

“Did you witness anything at the airport?” Morgan asked, walking to sit down beside JJ.

JJ shifted uncomfortably, filling with guilt. “No, we ran once Peterkin showed up. I’m on probation. I didn’t need to get caught out there. As far as I know, the only people who were there were Peterkin, Ward, Rafe, John B, and-”

He stopped speaking as Jennifer’s attention was immediately diverted, her eyes locked on something outside the window. JJ’s head whipped around, seeing the one person he never wanted to see ever again. All of his cockiness and charm was gone the second he laid eyes on his father.

“Reid, lock the door,” Jennifer said quietly as Shoupe and Morgan slipped out of the office, leaving the three of them. From outside, JJ could hear yelling, the voices of his father and Shoupe unmistakable.

“Don’t let him anywhere near me,” JJ said suddenly, almost pleadingly.

“Who is that?” Agent Reid asked, and Jennifer nodded as if acknowledging that she was thinking the same thing.

JJ muttered, “My dad,” wheeling his chair out of view from the window.

“We won’t let him near you, okay?” he heard the woman say, and JJ just nodded. “I’m going to call the rest of my team to see how it’s going, you can stay in here. It’s safe here. We’ll be back soon with some more questions for you.”

JJ nodded again, opening his eyes and watching the two agents leave the room, closing and locking the door behind them. 

He sat alone for a while before pulling out his phone. He noticed he had several missed calls and texts from Pope and Kiara; he called Pope back, greeted by the frantic sound of his voice. “Dude, where the hell are you!”

“Bro, the FBI is here looking for whoever killed Peterkin,” JJ said, not answering his question. 

“You’re talking to them?” Pope asked in a worried but hushed tone. “JJ, you’re actually talking to feds?”

“Hey, they wanna help John B, man. Help him and put away the Camerons.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“I told them everything, Pope. They’re talking to Miss Lana too. Who knows, if you or Kie back me up-”

“JJ!” Pope was yelling now. “JJ, do you know how many laws we’ve broken? No, JJ.”

JJ opened his mouth to say something, but quickly hung up the phone as the door opened and a two stoic, official looking men walked in.

“I’m Agent Hotchner, this is Agent Rossi,” the taller one stated. His tone was flat and hard, and JJ instantly didn’t like him.

“Are you here to take my story again? The recorder’s right there bro, I don’t even think she turned it off.” He pointed to the tape recorder, which was still running.

“No, we’re here to ask if you would happen to know where Rafe Cameron could be hiding.”

“His house? It’s really big, you might want to check everywhere.”

“We did a full sweep of the place,” Agent Hotchner said in the same disinterested tone. “Any friend’s place? Anything like that?”

JJ sighed. “He’s this guy’s bitch. Some basehead named Barry. If my dad’s out there, ask him about where to find him, he buys coke off him. Rafe does, too. The two of them jumped me a few days ago.”

“Do you know where he lives?” the other agent asked, his voice slightly softer. “His father isn’t speaking, we’ve arrested him but can’t find his son.”

“Where’s Ward? I’d like to talk to him.”

“I’m afraid we can’t let you do that, son.” Agent Rossi pulled out the chair next to JJ and sat down. “Where does this Barry guy live?”

JJ sighed. “Shitty little trailer on the west side of Sunshine street. Ironic, huh? Dude’s full of sunshine.” He paused as Hotch watched him through narrowed eyes. “Second place south of the Dollar General, you can’t miss it, it’s a shithole.”

“Thanks, JJ,” Agent Hotcher said, and the two men left, closing and locking the door behind them again.

Sighing, he kicked his feet up onto the chair that Agent Rossi had vacated, rubbing at his temple. He had barely eaten since John B left, and barely slept. His high had worn off, leaving him tired and with a subtle yet persistent headache.

“I want this fuckin’ thing to be over,” he muttered to himself.

A voice made him open his eyes and walk over to the window. Ward Cameron was walking through the main space of the station, his large strides quickly covering ground, followed by two officers. He was yelling at Jennifer, the agent hardly flinching as he berated her. The glass muffled his voice, but JJ could tell he was pulling either the wealth card or the my-daughter-ran-away-from-home card on her.

“Hey Ward!” JJ yelled, pounding his palm against the glass. “Ward!”

The man’s head eventually turned to see JJ, and seconds later, he was at the pane of glass, yelling at him. 

“You’re a fucking murderer, Ward!” JJ yelled, ignoring the words Ward was throwing at him. Your friend could have killed my daughter. You ruined her life. You ruined my life. You’re a liar. JJ countered with words of his own. “You killed Big John! You killed those men! You tried to kill my best friend! Your son killed Peterkin! You don’t care about your family, Ward!”

The last sentence made him snap. Jennifer and two officers were trying to restrain Ward, but he shoved them off, picking up and chair and throwing it at the window.

Luckily, the window was made for scenarios like this. Ward couldn’t touch JJ, and both of them knew it. They kept yelling until they finally cuffed Ward, leading him out of view, JJ’s face still pressed against the window, his body shaking with rage.

He flinched as the door opened, and Agent Reid came in, standing in the doorway sheepishly. 

“What do you want?” JJ muttered, plopping back down in the chair he had been sitting in before.

The agent shrugged. “Just thought you might want to talk, is all. Nothing you’ll say leaves this room.”

JJ regarded him through squinted eyes, his arms crossed across his chest. “Why do you think I need a therapy session?”

Reid shrugged again. “Thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask. You’ve been through a lot recently. I can tell there’s more going on than what you told us.”

He sighed. “Everything just went to shit so quick. My best friend was framed for murder, he left, and now my dad wants to kill me the first chance he gets. And once they get the Camerons I’ll be expected to resume life as normal.” He threw up his hands for effect. “Life was never normal, life was never good. It’s fucked, man.”

--

JJ sat with Reid for another hour or two. The small talk had eventually drifted into an awkward silence, broken by more yelling.

“I didn’t do it!” JJ heard from outside the office. He could recognize Rafe’s voice anywhere, and it filled him with rage.

Reid had forgotten to lock the door. In one fluid motion, JJ was on his feet, throwing the door open, running and tackling Rafe, knocking him from the agent’s grasps. Grabbing his shoulders and throwing him against the ground, JJ collapsed to his knees, one on either side of Rafe.

He was helpless with his hands cuffed, and Agent Morgan pulled JJ off Rafe, restraining him. “Easy, big guy,” Morgan said cooly. “We’ve made the arrests, JJ, your friend’s name is cleared. You can get out of here.”

“What?” JJ asked stupidly, looking to a woman he had not yet met. She had long, straight black hair.

“You’re free to leave. Your story matches up with what Lana Grubbs told us, and we were able to recover a gun from the Cameron residence that matched the type used in the murder of Sheriff Peterkin.”

At that, she followed the others, leaving JJ standing in the middle of the police station. He could hear muffled shouts of Rafe, which dissipated after a door slammed.

It was over. JJ almost didn’t know what to do, so he just left.

A body collided with his, then another. He struggled at first, but recognized the arms wrapped around him, and melted into Pope and Kiara’s embraces.

“They made the arrests,” JJ found himself saying. “JB’s gonna be okay.”

tagging @jellyfishbeansontoast @pixelated-pogues @kookkyra @poguesoftheobx @shawnssongs @stargazingstarkey @letsgofullkook @jjmaybcnks @ims0golden @jjsmentalpolaroids @queenk00k @sortagaysortahigh @thegreatestofheck

[rosecorcoranwrites]

Klaus, El Dorado, and The Liar Revealed

Mediocrity vs. Cliches

Around this time last year, when we were young, innocent, and oblivious of the horrors of 2020, people in internet circles were loosing their minds over a movie called Klaus. You have probably never heard of it, but if you had, it would have been by stumbling across it on Netflix or from hearing a YouTube reviewer singing it's praises.

The main reason people loved it was that it was traditionally animated. In fact, it's director, Sergio Pablos, worked on several Disney Renaissance films, and it shows. The animation is gorgeous. The character designs are stylized and unique. What I found the most pleasing was the color palette, which I would describe as pastel watercolor. The film is set in the Far North, and the dour scenes feel cold and depressing while the heartfelt scenes look warm and cozy. The film was a visual delight.

The story? Eh, it was ok.

The reviewers I watched tended to focus on the beautiful return-to-form animation that we rarely see in the days of 3-D animated films while not noticing, or ignoring, that the story was kind of blah. It was a typical "rich-kid-layabout will get cutoff if he doesn't prove himself", with a heaping helping of "The Liar Revealed", which is one of the most annoying tropes in the history of narrative, but we'll get to that later. There's also a subplot that's basically the Hatfields and McCoys, and a randomly villainous matriarch who decides to keep being the villain because... conflict, I guess? Sure, there were a few original ideas—mostly involving Klaus's wife and the couple's struggle with having children—but overall nothing to write home about. The "feelsy" moments were unearned; I felt nothing.

Now, you'll notice that in the previous paragraph, I described many cliches, but I would not describe Klaus as cliche. I would describe it as mediocre. As I said, it was an ok story, but only ok. The problem was that it took its cliches and painted by numbers, which is why it could never rise above mediocrity. A film that knows how to play with cliches—not even necessarily subverting them, but just getting creative with them—can rise to greater heights.

Cliches as Genre: Road to El Dorado

Let's look at another gorgeously 2-D animated film: The Road to El Dorado. This film, too, is rife with cliches: Europeans being mistaken for gods by a non-western civilization, a witch doctor (basically), going native, the Leyenda Negra, and so on. It also features the cliche of two scoundrels going on what is basically a buddy-comedy adventure. The thing about many of these cliches is that they are part of the genre. That genre is as general as "Adventure fiction", where it's not unusual to encounter witch doctors and native tribes and such, and as precise as "Road to" comedies of Bob Hope and Bing Crosby, which El Dorado is unarguably a pastiche of. Simply read the "running gags" section about these films on Wikipedia and you have a blueprint for El Dorado.

And that's the point. El Dorado follows a number of cliches because those are staples of its genre. Cliches, contrary to popular opinion, are not only not an automatic flaw in, but are often essential to, a work, especially when those cliches are what make a story a recognizable example of the genre in question.

El Dorado, however, plays with it's cliches. Most notably, it portrays the natives as normal human beings, which, lets be honest, a lot of old-timey adventure fiction didn't do. Miguel, one of the two main characters, sees the beauty of the culture he and Tulio, the other lead, find themselves in. The "white men mistaken for gods" trope is also played with in that the chief of the tribe figures out rather quickly (or possibly always knew) that Miguel and Tulio are just normal men like himself.

Thankfully, the film never strays into noble-savage territory, which lesser stories stumble into in their attempt to make up for the racism of the past. The natives have personalities, flaws, and vices. Chel, the female lead, is a floozy and a thief who happily joins the con that Miguel and Tulio are pulling, which she sees through immediately. Tzekel-Kan, a priest of a human-sacrifice-loving religion, is not only a zealot, but also a murderer, in that he sacrifices his own assistant to summon up a Jaguar spirit to hunt down the two false gods (yeah, that happens. Seriously, if you haven't seen this movie, you're missing out!). The characters, both white and POC, are fleshed out and three dimensional.

Finally, there is the story itself, and it's conclusion. Let's compare it to Klaus.

Conclusions

For those who never saw it, Klaus ends with a Liar Revealed scene where the scheme of the main character, Jesper, is revealed, and all his friends frown at him despite him obviously having changed by that point. Then a chase scene happens so Jesper can prove he's really changed, then a reveal that there was no good reason for the chase scene to have happened, then the main character is forgiven for his honestly-not-that-bad previous lies.

The whole story boils down to rich-kid learns a lesson and opens his heart, giving up his richness for the true treasure of generosity. Unfortunately, a lot of that was derailed by the weird Hatfields-McCoys subplot, which felt cartoonish next to the heartfelt-ness the rest of the film was trying (and maybe failing...) to achieve. It felt forced, in that the film needed that subplot so the chase could happen, and they only needed that so the Liar Revealed could make up for his Revealed Lies. Bleh.

El Dorado was more organic. Miguel and Tulio, by the last third of the film, have grudgingly decided to go their separate ways, with Miguel deciding to stay in El Dorado (the city), which he has fallen in love with, and Tulio and Chel going off with a shipful of gold that they presumably sail back to Spain ("And buy Spain!"). These are not happy conclusions, as it means a break in their inseparable friendship.

But then, Cortez, the Big Bad, shows up! Note, unlike the Hatfield-McCoys in Klaus, he is introduced in the beginning of the film as an actual threat, and has an understandable goal: conquest and gold. Miguel and Tulio, knowing this, decide he has to be stopped. That's when Tulio—the objectively more greedy, in-it-for-himself, not-gone-native of the pair—realizes that the only way to save the city is to crash his boat into the columns at the city entrance. It's a good plan, but will mean that he has to sacrifice what he wants: gold. But he makes the sacrifice, because he has become more that just a guy lying about being a god for money.

But then the boat isn't going to make it fast enough because the sail is stuck! It's gonna crash, and not in the way they wanted! Miguel, who had fallen in love with El Dorado and was willing to part ways with his friend and treasure to stay there, as to ride out on his horse and jump onto the mast to unfurl the sail. He knows the ship will then whoosh towards the columns and the only entrance to his beloved city with be destroyed, stopping Cortez, but also blocking him from the city forever. But he makes the sacrifice, because he cares enough about the people in El Dorado to let them go, and enough about his friend to not let him smack into the columns and die.

The Liar Revealed: Why It's Bad

Those were the conclusions to each movie, but not the conclusion to this blog. We still haven't discussed why the liar revealed is so lame, and how to fix it.

First, what is it? Basically, Main Character lies about something—his motives, his identity, etc.—for a large chunk of the story, then somewhere around the third act, his lie is revealed! Usually, this means that all the other characters turn their back on him, literally and figuratively, because they can't imagine how he could do something so terrible. Then, he does something to prove his mettle and his heart, and then everyone forgives him.

And I hate it. I hate it for three particular reasons.

First, it is just a different version of the thing that happens in romcoms where the main couple should declare their love for each other, but because the writer wouldn't know what to do at that point, they introduce a stupid misunderstanding that could be cleared up in two seconds if the leads talked like grown-ups. The Liar Revealed is that stupid, tired trope, but for kids.

Second, the lie is sometimes understandable, or not even that bad. In Klaus, Jesper claimed to be trying to spread hope and good cheer by sending kids presents, but in reality, he was trying to rack up the number of packages/letters he sent to prove to his dad he wasn't a useless layabout. How... despicable? Is it though? And can't he do both? He literally did, and he could have said so, except that the movie pulled a romcom and he got seperated from his friends before being able to explain that it started out mercenary and then quickly grew into the real deal. Even if it hadn't, though, like... is wanting to prove that your not a gutless layabout a bad thing? I don't get it.

Third is when the lie might be bad, but it's too late to care. In A Bug's Life, the colony learns that the so called warriors that Flik brought them are actually circus performers, so they have a reason to be miffed. Then again, they learn this on the eave of the day the grasshoppers will come to murder them all, and as Flik says, his bird doohickey will work. Not only does the colony have no reason to doubt this, they have no better options. Get all frowny and turn your backs on him after you lose the battle tomorrow, cause you have no time for such romcom drama tonight.

The Liar Revealed: When It's Good

Now, just because the Liar Revealed is awful doesn't mean that we can't keep having liars who eventually prove that they've changed in our fiction. But we don't have to follow the same tired trope.

For example, Over the Hedge has the Liar of RJ the Raccoon be Revealed, but saves the fallout between him and the other animals for a later action sequence, with hilarious results. Watch Schaffrillas Productions's video “Why Over the Hedge is Surprisingly Good” for a more detailed explanation of how this trope is dealt with in this film.

Or we have Tangled, where Eugene, by rights, should follow the Liar Revealed trajectory. He starts off scruffy and selfish, then slowly falls for Rapunzel and her good and pure outlook on life. He goes to give the Stabbington brothers the swiped crown that he no longer desires, but gets conked on the head by Gothel, who tells Rapunzel that he left with it cause he was just using her. We have a misunderstanding; we have a Rapunzel sadly walking away from the "liar"; we have the trappings of the last act of a romcom. But then, the real liar is revealed: Mother Gothel! And as soon as Rapunzel knows this, she never doubts Eugene, because that would be boring and nonsensical.

Finally, we have Road to El Dorado, with two liars, Miguel and Tulio, who are pretending to be gods to get wealth and adventure. They change over the course of the film to care about something more. They prove this change in a climactic scene We have all of the Liar Revealed, except for the reveal. There is no scene where everyone in the city frown and turns their backs, because that's not needed. The story isn't about the characters earning the forgiveness of the community like in Klaus, or proving themselves like in A Bug's Life. It's about two dudes who are scoundrelly friends going on an adventure, becoming a little less scoundrelly, and remaining friends. In the end, they both gave up what they wanted, but that's ok, because they have each other. Is it cliche? You bet! But that's way better than being mediocre.

[possiamo-andare]

No More Divisions - Chapter One: Helping Out a Friend

JJ x Original Character

Hey everyone, this is my first ever piece of writing ever so please give your feedback really appreciated. I'm hoping to maybe do another chapter since JJ and Callie (my oc) barely get to talk in this. I just wanna set up the story first. Thanks.

MASTERLIST

~

Living on the Kooks side of OBX did have it's perks. For one, Kooks had generators. This meant that when the storm hit a week earlier, it almost went unnoticed in my house. I had slept through the storm and I slept through the generators picking back up in seconds after the lights went out. A generator, which most Pogues went without, was not even a luxury where I lived. Another thing that I didn't see as a luxury but actually was is the air conditioner. I was deeply unaware of the Pogues situation when it came to sleepless nights because of the ghastly heat. I never knew what it felt like to not be able to sleep because you felt as if your body was on fire. I even slept with blankets on because the air conditioner was making me cold.

Although I had these luxuries growing up, I had one thing money couldnt buy; true friends and real life experiences.

Since my family was wealthy, I had never needed a job. I soon came to realize that if I was ever going to learn about discipline or build on a work ethic, I was gonna need to get a job. I knew Mr. Heyward needed an assistant since his son Pope had recently become unreliable during this summer so I applied for the position and got it the same day I applied. I actually loved working for Mr. Heyward. Although a bit standoffish at first, he is a complete marshmellow once you get to know him. The other thing I got to know was how much he loved Pope. Mr. Heyward suffered greatly to provide his son with the skills he needed to get a scholarship. While we worked, he told me of his sacrifices as a father but also as a person with dreams. I told him that one day his dreams would come true and Pope would help him. For someone who's father rarely shows any semblance of interest in them, it was so touching to see Mr. Heyward talk about his love for his son.

As for the friends, I couldn't make friends at the academy and I knew it was for one reason; surfing. I had been obsessed with surfing since I watched the movie Soul Surfer when I was a kid and had been eager to hit the waves ever since. With lots of lessons paid for by my parents, I was a natural now and spent most of my free time surfing. Many of the Kooks at my school could care less about surfing and more about material things so I got along with virtually no one at school.

That is, until I met Rafe. Rafe was in my science class and very polite to me when we first met. He was the first person to talk to me as if I hadn't just came to OBX from outer space and I actually enjoyed our conversations together. Eventually, after many conversations in science, he invited me to sit with him at lunch. This is where I met Sarah, my now best friend. Sarah and I quickly became thick as thieves; Sarah and I's love for the environment what was initially brought us together but not long after we met we began talking about everything. And eventually, I told her about my crush on Rafe. And she told me his crush on me.

Rafe and I dated for 6 months, which is long when you're 16 and never had a boyfriend before. This was the old Rafe. The one before he graduated and started changing. Before he started sniffing crack and hanging out with drug dealers. We had been having problems towards the end of our relationship, right after he graduated, and I was naive to believe that maybe it was my fault. When I saw him snort crack for the first time at a party, I knew for sure that it was him and not me. I broke up with him that night.

I didn't tell Sarah about the drugs. I wish I did but it never felt like the right time and although I was getting over Rafe, I still felt obligated to hold onto this secret for him.

Sarah and I continued to be friends and we were the closest we'd ever been. Until she met John B. I had nothing against Pogues but Sarah had been with Johm B. for most of the summer on a wild goose chase that turned into a summer romance, and I was getting tired of being the third wheel. For too long I had been cast aside and stood up. Whenever we'd make plans, it was always another lame lie from Sarah. First it was that John B. and Sarah needed to get onto the ferry to read the archives, then John B., his Pogue friends and Sarah needed to sneak into a house to find hidden treasure. I knew that all of her stories were too preposterous and that there was no way in hell that any of these stories were true.

That is, until the night Sarah called me from her house.

It was 8pm when she had called me and I was just catching up a show I was watching. When I looked at the caller ID, and I saw Sarah's name, I almost didn't want to pick up. She had neglected me so far this summer I almost felt as if I should teach her a lesson. This mentality didn't last long because I had already accepted the phone call before I could talk myself out of it.

"Hey." I stated bluntly, secretly hoping Sarah was calling to apologize for lying and blowing me off for the beginning of the summer.

"Hey Callie, I need your help."

"Really? You need my help -" I was about to go in on her for ignoring me and lying but then I heard her cries and I stopped.

"I'm sorry, but I really need you right now."

So Sarah explained everything. Most of what she had told me was the actual truth and not a lie like I thought. They had found the $400 million in gold and before they could retrieve it, John B. had tried to kill her father on a boat. He had come to her and tried to tell her that her father was lying but she was so upset and confused she couldn't hear it at the time. Now, two hours later, Sarah was starting to have her suspicions and needed my help.

"Well, what do you need my help for?"

"You're helping Mr. Heyward with the landing strip tomorrow right?"

"Yeah, we're supposed to make it longer because the plane is heavier." I answered, confused on what this had to do with John B or her father.

Sarah gasped. "Of course... heavier."

"Sarah, what's wrong?" I couldn't understand how the plane tied into all of this.

"Callie, I need you to get to John B. tomorrow. I'm supposed to get on that plane tomorrow but I can't. I need you to get to John B. and tell him where I am and I need you to stall the plane from taking off." Sarah spoke quickly and quietly, almost scared that someone could hear her.

"Okay, I'll find John B. and stall the plane. But Sarah, what's on the plane that's making it heavier. I got to know?" I'm almost one hundred percent sure I already know the answer.

"I think you know Callie. Bye."

And I did know. Sarah's dad got his hands on the gold.

~

When I finally got to the land strip the next morning, everything was in order and ready to go. We only had to wait for Sarah and Ward Cameron, her father. I tried to think of ways to stall the best I could. Mr. Heyward entrusted me and was long gone by the time I arrived. At least he wouldn't be here to see all the mischief I would create.

As I watched the dozens of men starting to transfer the gold onto the plane, I stared off into the distance and planned. As I stared off, something caught my eye. A hundred yards away, behind a fence and trees was a wagon with four passengers. One had binoculars on, watching me. Or more specifically, the plane getting loaded on. I recognized the wagon immediately as John B.'s and dropped my clipboard and ran to him.

I remembered Sarah's words. I knew this was my chance to help her and be the friend I knew I could be. She had told me this was between life and death and the way she said it made me believe it.

As I got closer to John B., his friends and the fence, I could see them start panicking and back away from the fence. The last thing I wanted was for them to get nervous and drove away so I decided to shout at John B and his friends.

"Hey! John B.!" I looked at John B.'s friends. I noticed a girl from my school. "Kiara!" Then I looked again and noticed Pope Heyward, my boss's son. I then looked one more time and saw a blond boy I didnt know the name of. He was the only one not backing away. It was almost as if he knew me but I didn't know him.

As soon as I said their names, they stopped and watched me approach the fence. Once I reached the fence, John B. spoke first, mostly because I could see he recognized me and didn't see me as a threat.

"Callie!" He smiled and waved, walking closer to the fence. "Where's Sarah?"

"She's coming here. Ward is putting her on a plane with the gold and they're leaving today." I panted, trying to catch my breath from running all the way here.

"I knew it!" Pope was gleaming with joy.

John B.'s face wasn't as happy. "We have to make sure she doesn't get on that plane."

"I don't know how to stop it." I shrugged my shoulders and then looked again at everyone. "Any ideas?"

Kiara gasped and pointed to something behind me. "We don't have much time to think. Sarah's here."

I turned and saw Sarah getting out of her dad's car. She had a short conversation with him then walked off towards one of the men loading the gold onto the plane. Before I had time to react, her father was pulling her onto the plane as she screamed for help.

"Back away from the fence!" John B. screamed as he ran back into his car and started it.

I did as I was told and watched as John B. put his car in reverse and then drive forward as fast as he could into the fence. I was surprised when he knocked it down in one blow, but then again I wasn't so surprised. John B. was very determined.

I turned to Kiara, Pope, and the blonde haired boy who, on closer inspection, I determined had to be the hottest guy I've ever seen. He had a chiseled jaw and two slits for eyes. He seemed in a perpetual state of his eyes being in slits that I thought either he needed sunglasses or he was upset too much. He was watching me watch him and before anything could get too uncomfortable, Kiara spoke up.

"Sarah told us about you."

"Really?" I was so surprised. There was this little, annoying voice in my head that told me that Sarah might've been embarrassed of me. Sometimes I could be embarrassing.

"Yeah. She said how amazing you are, just that you couldn't believe her at first."

I smiled awkwardly. "This is all just very hard to believe."

"Sarah!" I heard a scream from behind me and I whipped my head around.

Now, John B. Had his car in front of the plane, blocking it from leaving the strip. He was trying to get Sarah out of the plane but Ward had gotten out first and was yelling at John B. and pushing him. Sarah had then emerged from the plane and was trying to calm both of them down. Before anything could get too physical, police sirens were heard from a distance and I looked back to Kiara, Pope and the blonde haired boy.

"I got a scholarship..." Pope said as he looked to where the sirens were coming from.

"I just posted bail." The blonde haired boy said, chuckling to himself.

Kiara looked to me. "Go help John B. and Sarah. John B. knows were to find us after. I'll get these guys outta here."

I nodded and gave each person a little salute before running off, heading into the dragon's den. As I got closer, the screaming got louder and before I knew it, I was in the middle of a fight I had no place being in.

"Callie?" Ward said to me, surprised to see me here even though he knew I worked for Mr. Heyward.

I ignored Ward right now. Mostly because I was mad at him. If all of what Sarah has told me she thinks is true, Ward is a terrible human being. Now I know where Rafe gets it from.

"Sarah, are you ok?" I asked, touching her should.

She smiles and nods at me. "Thanks so much. I love you." She grabs my hand and squeezes onto it. I squeeze back.

John B. was too into yelling at Ward right now that he didn't acknowledge me. I didn't blame him though. If anything, this was very normal way to react when knowing the information John B. did.

"You're gonna pay for what you did!" John B. yelled again, stepping in front of Sarah and I too protect us. Even in time like this, John B. was selfless. I regret not getting to know him better.

"You hear that? Those sirens are coming for you John B.!" Ward yelled back, turning around to point at the Sheriff's car driving to a stop behind Ward.

As the Sheriff gets out of the car, Ward calls out to her and starts pointing fingers at John B. "That's him, Sheriff. He almost tried to kill us!"

"That's not true!" I yelled, now getting angry with Ward. What makes him think he's charismatic enough to lie when there are witnesses here?

"Callie..." The Sheriff calmly raised her hand at me to silence me. "I know who the culprit is."

She raised her gun in the air and pointed it at Ward. "Ward Cameron, raise your hands in the air. You're being arrested for the murder of Big John Routledge."

Sarah and I gasped. Although we all had our theories, seeing this all unfold in front of us was another level of surreal. I grasped onto Sarah's hand tighter as she cried into my shoulder and as John B. looked to us for the first time. I could tell he was holding back tears. I could not imagine what he was going through. After all this time...

"Get on your knees," The Sheriff warned and Ward did as she demanded, slowly turning around and kneeling in front of us.

I couldn't believe I had slept in the same house as a murderer. I tried to count the number of times I had a sleepover at Sarah's in the last year. It was too many too count. And the whole time, something sinister was happening through the cracks of the walls.

I was almost she glad to see something so traumatizing for Sarah happen because at least a murderer was getting put away for good. I was so wrapped up in how Sarah, John B., and myself felt that I didn't notice, as the Sheriff was reading Ward's Miranda Rights, he had turned around and tried to over power the Sheriff. Before anyone had time to react quickly enough, a gunshot was fired from the Sheriff's gun.

I had closed my eyes after the shot was fired and I imagined Ward's body dropping to the ground. I felt the gravel shake as a body fell to the ground but when I heard John B. gasp, I had a sickening fear it wasn't Ward's body that was falling.

When I opened my eyes, my suspicions were proven to be right. In front of us lay the Sheriff's slowly dying body, a bullet wound from her chest bleeding out onto the landing strip. Sarah was screaming and John B rushed to apply pressure to the Sheriff's wound. I, on the other hand, could only cry.

I cried because of the Sheriff's wound and of the death of John B.'s father and how Ward, a man I trusted and looked up to, killed him. But I cried mostly because it wasn't Ward holding the gun. Ward hadn't shot the Sheriff. The guy standing in front of me did.

Rafe, sweaty and eyes bubbling over with tears, was holding the gun that shot the Sheriff.

[thecrownnet]

weekendmagsocial  The Diana we’re desperate to meet. The return of The Crown [...]

*Spoilers Alert*

*Spoilers Alert*

The Diana we’re desperate to meet. The return of The Crown will feature assassinations, avalanches and the tension between the Queen and Mrs T. But the most anticipated entrance has to be Diana’s. Today Weekend tells how they’ve captured her charisma

[...] The upcoming fourth season will take Diana from her early days as a shy kindergarten teaching assistant to a fairytale princess and an iconic global figure, as well as explore the early days of her disastrous marriage to Prince Charles.Her entrance comes when it returns to our screens in November or December, almost exactly 40 years after Nigel Dempster revealed in the Daily Mail in 1980 that Charles had found his ‘future bride’, having transferred his attention to Diana Spencer from her older sister Sarah.

Like Diana at the time, the actress playing her in The Crown is also a young unknown. Emma Corrin, 24, is a privately educated Cambridge graduate, who didn’t go to drama school.

By coincidence she’s originally from Sevenoaks in Kent, where Diana went to West Heath School from the age of 12 to 16.

Aware of how challenging the role would be for any actress, the producers started their search with a desperate call for ‘a mesmerising new young star with extraordinary range.’

The brief added, ominously: ‘She has to play charming comedy, flirt and social exhibitionist on the world stage, desperate and lonely self-harmer at her lowest ebb and the kind of psychological intensity of Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby.’

It would obviously be helpful too if she resembled Diana, and in some of the new scenes, as the kindergarten teaching assistant, and wearing a pink polka-dot dress on her 1983 tour of Australia, the likeness is uncanny.

Emma’s co-star Josh O’Connor, who plays Prince Charles, agrees, saying it was ‘spooky’ how much of a ‘breathtaking spitting image’ of Diana she was.

But Emma says she has never been told she looks like Princess Diana before – although strangely her mother, who works as a speech therapist, has been! ‘I have never had that,’ she adds. ‘I get told I look like a young Jodie Foster.’

Emma spent more than two hours a day in the make-up chair to achieve the Diana look, accentuating her doe eyes, and with several wigs re-creating the journey from ingénue to one of the most stylish women in the world.

Amazingly, she was still working hard for her final exams at Cambridge when she went through the auditions for The Crown.

‘They actually offered me the part in person,’ she says of her last audition. ‘It felt like I’d just been proposed to; it was the best moment of my life. There’s a lot of pressure, but I’ve been glued to the show since the first episode and to think I’m now joining this incredibly talented acting family is just surreal.’

Peter Morgan, the creator, writer and producer of The Crown, has complete confidence in her. ‘Emma is a brilliant talent who immediately captivated us when she came in for the part.

'As well as having the innocence and beauty of a young Diana, she also has, in abundance, the range and complexity to portray an extraordinary woman who went from an anonymous teenager to the most iconic woman of her generation.’

Like all the cast in this heavily researched production, she was given a large bundle of written material and documentaries to watch, and she spent hours on perfecting the princess’s distinctive high voice with a vocal coach and learning how to re-create her particular habit of glancing up from under her fringe, as well as her graceful way of moving.

It’s not an impression, I’m going for essence - Emma Corrin, who plays Diana ‘Something they have been making clear from the  start is that this is not an impression,’ says Emma.

‘I am going for essence. Any movement and voice work we have done has been figuring out why she talks the way she does, and how she was a massive departure from the Royal Family, a bit like Meghan is now I guess, by bringing something different in the way she talks.’

Season four brings back memories of naive young Diana, with a re-creation of that first photo, at the Pimlico nursery school where she worked, which showed her holding two of her charges while the sun shone through her skirt, revealing her shapely legs.

And it follows how she becomes hardened into a mature but troubled woman who is the toast of America.

The retelling of the royal romance starts with a traumatic event: the assassination of Charles’s beloved great uncle Lord Mountbatten (Charles Dance) who was killed, along with a grandson, a local boy and his son-in-law’s mother, by an IRA bomb hidden on his boat in Ireland in 1979.

Diana recalled how she’d watched Charles at the funeral on TV and when she saw him ten months later – the families were friends – she told him: ‘You must be so lonely? You know, it’s ghastly. You need someone beside you.’ He quickly decided he was in love.

Diana was turning 19 when she got together with Charles. He was 31. After 13 dates they were engaged. The rehearsal of their 1981 wedding at St Paul’s has been filmed in Winchester Cathedral with Emma wearing a replica of the blue floral dress Diana sported before the big day.

A later scene shows the joyful day when Diana, pregnant with Harry – with Emma sporting a fake baby bump – enjoyed an Easter Egg hunt at Buckingham Palace, chasing toddler William in the gardens.

The new episodes also focus on key moments – and key looks – from 1989, three years after Charles is thought to have resumed his affair with Camilla.  

In one scene Emma is seen outside The Savoy hotel in London, re-creating Diana’s appearance at the Barnardo’s Champion Awards.

Emma wears a floral one-shoulder dress, reflecting one of Diana’s favourite silhouettes – a style which suited her immensely but which the Establishment is said to have hated, deeming it ‘not royal’.

Having played Charles so sensitively in season three, Josh O’Connor, 30, says the heir to the throne will be portrayed in a harsher light this time. ‘Well, it’s the Diana years,’ he says.

‘If series three was to make people feel empathy for him, I guess we’re going to pull the rug from under him. We all have a set position on the dynamic between Diana and Charles. It’s been great to have the ability to either fight against that or, at times, acknowledge it and to challenge any question of, “Did he ever love her?” Personally, I think he must have done.

'There’s a wealth of layers to Charles and Diana, and I have loved seeking that out.

'I think Diana wasn’t completely innocent – I’m talking fictionally, in our story – so there are ups and downs. There’s the difficulty with Camilla and the whole family, so it’s going to be, hopefully, an interesting arc.’

Josh says they all enjoyed delving into an era which is so crucial to the modern Royal Family. ‘Everything changed when Diana came onto the scene,’ he says.

‘I think she changed the game, and modernised them, and made them relevant again.’

Also returning are Emerald Fennell as Camilla and Erin Doherty as feisty Princess Anne.

The real Anne revealed recently that she’d watched early episodes of the show, which she found ‘quite interesting’.

Peter Morgan says, ‘So many people asked me, after she first appeared, to put more of her in there.

Anne’s often overlooked. But Erin’s portrayal means that everybody has fallen in love with her. I read that searches about her on Google went through the roof, she’s now one of the most popular royals.’

Prince Andrew’s romantic life is set to come under the spotlight too. His most famous affair was with actress Koo Stark, who is said to have threatened to sue producers if the portrayal of her is negative, while the period covered in this series also sees him marry Sarah Ferguson.

Meanwhile, Edward is seen growing up and going to university.

There was a rush to finish filming before lockdown was announced.

It meant one key scene of an avalanche had to be moved from the Pyrenees to Ben Nevis.

The incident is likely to be a re-creation of the fatal moments in 1988 when a skiing party including Charles was caught in an avalanche in Klosters.

Major Hugh Lindsay, a former equerry to the Queen, was killed and Charles was seen weeping as he was helicoptered off the slopes.

The bizarre affair when Michael Fagan broke into the Queen’s bedroom in Buckingham Palace in 1982 will also feature in this run, but the 1987 It’s A Royal Knockout embarrassment, when the lesser royals dressed in medieval garb to play games for charity, is mercifully absent.

Once this series is over, an older cast are preparing to take the lead roles, with Imelda Staunton as the Queen and Lesley Manville as Princess Margaret.

They are due to start filming next year, and die-hard fans will be cheered by Peter Morgan’s recent change of heart, when he announced in July that there will be a sixth series to come.

The Crown will return to Netflix later this year.    

- Source: Daily Mail August 14, 2020

*It has just been announced that Jonathan Pryce will portray Prince Philip in season 5 and 6.

[ezrinsprose-edda]

The Sound of the Great Prose Edda

1. Erst was the age when nothing was: nor sand nor sea, nor chilling stream waves; Earth was not found, nor Ether-Heaven, -

A Yawning Gap, but grass was none (Sturluson 16).

What do you see? It is the endless black void, the absence of existence. In the beginning, there was the Yawning Void, otherwise known as the Ginnungagap in Old Norse. The song chosen for the start of the film is light and airy, yet empty as it has no lyrics. Only the sound of synth music and white noise fills your ears as you stare into the nothingness.

White Noiz - Akira Yamaoka

2. Out of the Ice-waves issued venom-drops, waxing until a giant was; Thence all our kindred come all together, -

So it is they are savage forever (Sturluson 18).

The foul race of Rime-Giants are born of venom and ice. Disdained by the gods, they are evil creatures. Now so powerful in their brute strength and numbers, their chaos will soon come to an end. The song chosen for the birth of the giants may sound as if it were from the perspective of the giants themselves as the chorus says, 'You see I cannot be forsaken because I am not the only one. We walk amongst you feeding, must we hide from everyone?' They gloat in their newfound power and use it to wreak havoc.

Forsaken - David Draiman

3. Untold ages ere earth was shapen, then was Bergelmir born; That first I recall -

How the famous wise giant on the deck of the ship was laid down (Sturluson 19).

The sons of the first man Borr slay Ymir the giant. Similar to the following song's title, Ymir's blood drowns the entire race of the Rime-Giants. The flood's only survivor is Begelmir, who boards a boat with his wife and continues the bloodline of the Rime-Giants. However, Ymir's violent death becomes the birth of a new universe. The following song's chorus is 'Bleed me an ocean, let me lie beneath the sky.' Just as Ymir lost his mortal form, his corpse becomes the foundation for the earth and heavens like the song's lyrics: 'I was sexless in clouds again, I was chasing a cold, cold wind. I've become bored with flesh and bone again.'

Bleed Me an Ocean - Acid Bath

4. Of Ymir's flesh, the earth was fashioned, of his sweat the sea; crags of his bones, trees of his hair -

And of his skull the sky (Sturluson 21).

The sons of Borr fashion Ymir's corpse into the earth, his skin into the land, and his skull into the heavens. As evil as the giant was in life, he still serves a purpose for the greater good in death. The earth and sky are now his monument, like in the following lyrics: 'Who felt entitled to hold a place on the earth as a grave for their remains. But no monument for me, please I am not one of them. I didn't need it in life, I won't need it in death. Kiss my ashes goodbye.' This song includes many shifts of tone and speed throughout its 11-minute runtime, from sullen and pessimistic to more hopeful. Ymir's downfall to the creation of the universe has similar tonal shifts.

Kiss My Ashes (Goodbye) - Woods of Ypres

5. How does he govern the course

Of the sun or of the moon? (Sturluson 23)

The children of Mundilfari, Mani and Sol (Moon and Sun) are put into the heavens by the gods. Though they may seem contradicting, they lead the sun and moon across the sky with their chariots. Mani determines the moon's waxing and waning. Sol bestows her warmth on the earth. However, the brother and sister hasten their pace and live in fear of the wolves who vow to seize them one day. On that day, it would mark the beginning of the end, the beginning of Ragnarok. The song chosen for the introduction of Mani and Sol is a tranquil acoustic song with a gentle rhythm that emulates the softness of the sun and moon's light. The artist speaks of the morning sun as a saving grace as well as the anxiety of feeling watched or followed for many years: 'I'd see the light in the shade of the morning sun, my morning sun is the drug that brings me near to the childhood I lost replaced by fear.' There is a darker tonal shift later in the song that parallels the siblings' fear of the wolves and their impending doom: 'That's the price that we all pay, our valued destiny comes to nothing.'

True Faith - Lotte Kestner

6. The moon's taker in troll's likeness. He is filled with flesh of fey men. Reddens the gods' seats with ruddy blood-gouts;

Swart becomes sunshine in summers after (Sturluson 24).

The wolves who prey upon Sol and Mani are Skoll and Hati Hróðvitnisson. Skoll wishes to overpower Sol, and Hati runs after Mani. The wolves were born of an old troll-woman in the forest of Ironwood. The strongest of the wolf race is Moon-Hound, who vows to devour the moon and rain blood upon the heavens. On that day, the sun will lose her light and the roaring winds will be ceaseless. The following song focuses on the predatory pact between the cruel Skoll and Hati as they pursue Sol and Mani until the end of time: 'We fought the daylight, any battle, any war, the call for blood worth dying for. We prayed for twilight, side by side, we stood as pack.'

Where the Wild Wolves Have Gone - Powerwolf

7. The gods made a bridge from heaven and earth

Called Bifröst (Sturluson 24).

There is a bridge that connects heaven and earth called Bifröst. It is made of the strongest material of magical craftsmanship and is multi-colored like a rainbow. However, as seemingly indestructible as the bridge may be, it is destined to be destroyed by the sons of Múspell when they trample Bifröst with their devastating mighty horses. The following song focuses on the bridge's colorful build and the pathway into paradise: 'Take me to the sun, I feel I'm chasing rainbows. Now into your lonely paradise! Are we just dreaming in the city that never sleeps? 'Cause I can't be seeing what my eyes tell me.'

Chasing Rainbows - Bring Me the Horizon

8. What did Allfather then do

When Asgard was made? (Sturluson 25)

Asgard, or Ásgarðr in Old Norse, is the dwelling place of the Norse gods. Allfather allowed the gods to gather and hold counsel there. The town where they dwell is called Ida-field. The house they built is called Gladsheim, and it is entirely made of gold. The house of the goddesses is called Vingólf. In this land, all is made of gold. Here, the gods are seated in their thrones and grant judgement to all. The song chosen for the introduction of the renowned gods is the equally legendary song "Stairway to Heaven," where the lyrics speak of a beautiful place in the heavens where an alluring woman resides, resembling the beauty and light of a goddess. The lyrics say: 'There walks a lady we all know who shines white light and wants to show how everything still turns to gold.'

Stairway to Heaven - Led Zeppelin

9. Then strode all the mighty to the seats of judgement, the gods most holy, and together held counsel -

Who should of dwarves shape the peoples (Sturluson 26).

After establishing their town and council, dwarves begin form underneath the earth like 'maggots in the flesh' (Sturluson 26). The gods decreed that the dwarves will be 'shaped in man's likeness.' From Ymir's flesh, the dwarves were created from maggots of the earth to intelligent humanlike beings. The dwarves now assist and build weapons for the gods, hailed for the brute strength and warrior skills. For the introduction of the mighty dwarves, the song chosen is a heavier rhythm with a faster pace and overpowering guitars and vocals. The following lyrics have to do with the dwarves' perspective of being given new life and owing their lives to the gods that pulled them from the earth as maggots, now in man's image: 'We are the new diabolic, we are the bitter bucolic. If I have to give my life, you can have it, we are the pulse of the maggots!'

Pulse of the Maggots - Slipknot

10. The Ash is greatest of all trees and best:

Its limbs spread out over all the world and stand above heaven (Sturluson 27).

Regarded as 'the holy place of the gods,' the Ash of Yggdrasil is the tree of life (Sturluson 27). Its roots reach different parts of the Nordic universe, such as the land of the Rime-Giants, Niflheim, and Æsir. The Ash is the origin of the universe's wisdom, knowledge, and life force. The following song has a gentle, hopeful tune with a fully orchestrated band and choir-like singing. The lyrics speak of knowing all of the past, present, and future and inner-workings of the world but being unable to change them: 'All the balances are clear. Now that our time is here. In our perfect present tense, through our wide rose tinted lens, when the words have all been spent, will we still have learnt it?'

Season Song - Blue States

11. All know I, Odin, where the eye thou hiddest,

In the wide-renowned well of Mímir (Sturluson 27).

It is fabled that underneath the root that leads to the land of the Rime-Giants is the legendary Mímir's Well. The well and its keeper Mímir hold the universe's wisdom and knowledge. The Norse god Odin craved this wisdom, but it would be given to him not without a sacrifice. He gave up his eye to drink from the well. It is a tale of forbidden wisdom. With all this newfound knowledge, Odin may have felt overwhelmed by this drastic change in his power: 'I watched a change in you. It's like you never had wings. Now, you feel so alive, I've watched you change.'

Change (In the House of Flies) - Deftones

12. He convulses so violently that the whole earth shakes – it is what is known as an earthquake.

He will lie bound there until Ragnarök (Sturluson).

The God of Mischief Loki is taken into a cave and tied underneath a large poisonous serpent for his crimes. The snake drips his venom onto Loki's face, causing the earthquakes whenever he writhes in pain. He will bound to the cave until the beginning of the Norse apocalypse Ragnarök. Ragnarök, or the 'Doom of the Gods' in Old Norse, is a series of battles that take place between demons, gods, and giants. This is the end of reign of the gods and the life of man on earth. Gods will die like mortals and the sky will vanish. With it, the sun and stars will be swallowed by darkness and the earth will plunge into the sea. From this destruction, will come a new age. A new earth will be born from the despair. The day that the wolves Skoll and Hati catch Mani and Sol will mark the beginning of Ragnarök. The blood of the sun and moon will stain the sky and the hungry wolves will rejoice in their killing. The final song that concludes this film is a haunting dark industrial melody with dooming lyrics. As if it were from the perspective of the wolves themselves as threatening towards Mani and Sol: 'You're still up in the air and loving your wings. What's gonna happen when you come down?'

Clown - Switchblade Symphony

[thorne93]

The Softest Fire (Part 3)

Prompt: Rosaline Vaughan had it all: fame, money, power, glory, a high status job. Until, one day, she woke up, and realized something was missing from her life.

Word Count: 2091

Warnings: dealing with animals(??), language

Notes: First Fantastic Beast fic! I could NOT have done this at all without @arrow-guy​​​. They have created a counterpart to this fic, writing it from Nora Vaughan’s perspective (Rosaline’s cousin/adopted sister). Fic aesthetic done by @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo​​​.

1921, that’s when I began my journey with Newt. Now it was 1925 and Newt had declared that he would be traveling alone for a year. Together, we’d amassed far too many creatures to keep safely together in the suitcase. They needed proper room to run and proper room for me to treat them. That’s when we expounded on his basement, creating small worlds, environments for the creatures to inhabit, at least until they were ready to be freed. 

Newt said he would take Frank to Arizona during one leg of his trip, making me ecstatic. I would be heartbroken, and miss him dearly, but ultimately, he deserved to be free and happy in the wild.

While he would be gone, it would be up to me to care and feed for the animals. Being that it was a full time job, Newt stated I would be allowed to stay at his flat, in case anything went wrong, I would be right there to tend to them. 

Before he shipped out though, we had four amazing years together. Oftentimes, I’d be at his home already tending to the creatures in the basement, feeding, washing, healing. He would be working upstairs, working on the book, or out at the library gathering information, or up at Diagon Alley purchasing books or things for travel. If I knew he was on his way home, I’d run up and make a quick meal or snack for him. Something he never asked for, in fact, he had no clue what it was the first time… 

“Rosaline!” he called downstairs.

“Yes?”

“Did you make something to eat?” he questioned, confused.

I jogged up the stairs, wearing trousers, of all things. I still felt foreign in these darn things but, Newt had insisted I wear something more proper to chase down critters in the wild. “What? Oh, yes, I did. Not for me though, for you,” I explained, gesturing to his small table. “Is that alright? It should still be warm,” I noted, rushing towards the plate and removing the aluminum foil. 

“No, no that’s fine. I just… didn’t know. This is… great. Thank you, I haven’t eaten all day.” He sat down, pulling up to the table and tucking a napkin in his collar. “Well, wait, what about you? Have you eaten?”

I waved him off. “No, no, but I’m fine.”

“What? Nonsense. It’s eight o’clock at night, and you haven’t eaten. Come, sit with me,” he encouraged, pushing a chair out next to him. 

“No that’s your dinner. That’s fine. I’ll be okay. Thank you though. I’ll go take care of the firedrake.” 

“Rosaline, don’t make me pull rank,” he slightly teased. “Please, some company would be nice.” 

I smiled gently at his kind request and finally acquiesced and sat beside him, grabbing a fork. “Alright, but only because you begged, remember that,” I joked. 

That night was a rather good indicator of how our nights went. I made him a small dinner or snack if he was out late, and he’d return to happily feast on it. Sometimes I joined him, sometimes I went home to my own flat, other times, he did the same. I would arrive in the morning and he already had coffee waiting for me on the table, made just the way I like. 

Life for us felt right this way. Taking care of each other, and the creatures. I hardly ever really missed the Ministry. On rough days with a wild animal, or days that we ran into trouble from other wizards, I longed to be back at my simple job, for a split second, but ultimately, I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. 

Nora and Theseus popped in and out on the regular. Nora would come down and help me with feeding if I had a little too much on my plate or needed to take a second to tend to Newt’s dinner. Theseus and I sometimes shared a cup of tea, waiting for his brother to return home. In this time, I got to know him well, much better than at the Ministry. 

Learning how different the two brothers were was highly amusing to me. Newt was so much like Nora. Always up for adventure, never one to let anyone tell them what to do, never afraid to back down from a fight. They’ve always been brave, incredibly knowledgeable, always on a new book each week. Nora and Newt were both eclectic, going against the grain.

Theseus and myself seemed to share an interest in politics, current events, studying magic to its fullest extent, following rules, playing by the rulebook. Both of us calm, soft spoken, traditional. 

Today marked the day that Newt would set off for his voyage. One year, around the globe, without me. I was sad that I wouldn’t get to help him in his adventures, but we both knew and agreed I really needed to hold the fort down here. Nora promised to stop by at least twice a week to make sure the Kelpie we rescued hadn’t drowned me. Not that he would, he was a gentle giant, but anything could happen with these beasts. 

He was all packed and ready to go.

“Okay and you know the augurey has a wound on its head--”

“Yes,” I assured as Newt was backing towards the door with his suitcase. 

“And the thestral needs to be cleaned.”

I nodded. “Yes, I know. Every Friday.” 

“Yes and--”

“Newt!” I stopped him, soft pleading in my voice. “I can handle this, alright? I’ve spent the last few years with you, day in and day out with these animals. I think I know my way around. Everything will be fine, I promise.” 

He made an apologetic face and bobbed his head. “Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry I just--”

I nodded, quietly responding, “I know. It’s fine.”

A small smile came onto his face. 

“You better go before you miss the boat…”

“Right… Well… I’ll be off then…” 

The two of us stood there awkwardly for a moment. Newt went for a handshake, but I leaned in for a hug. Then we switched, pulling his hand back to go for a hug but I suddenly shot my hand out. The two of us were blushing messes by now. Typically, we only waved to each other at the end of a day or bid each other good night. But this was different… He would be gone for a year and I had no idea what dangers or issues he may face. He was a brilliant wizard of course, but it was in my nature to protect and lead. 

“Hug?” I questioned finally, wanting to be past this.

“Yes,” he agreed, laughing before we finally embraced properly for a few seconds. 

“Alright, better catch your boat now…” 

“Right… I’ll write you.”

“Yes, of course.” I nodded and he was finally out the door, on his way, taking with him my usual warmth and happiness. I heaved a sigh and turned around to head down to the basement for the morning feedings.

-------------------------------

“He’s been gone five months, Nora,” I complained as I sat down one of the bowls on the table. She’d dropped by for lunch and I had been feeling pretty down lately and as soon as I saw her, for some odd reason, the floodgates that were my mouth opened. 

“Yes? Well he is on a year long journey, Rosaline, you know this.”

“I know, I know. But I haven’t heard from him in three weeks either,” I fretted before checking the gravy and then adding it to the table. 

“He might not have time. He is busy. He’s working. He may also be writing you when he gets the chance. Maybe mail is slow.”

I shot her a stern glance at her excuses. “Never this slow. Is he okay?” 

“Yes, of course, it’s Newt. He’s perfectly capable. Why are you so distressed?” she questioned, peering up at me before taking a sip of her tea. 

I sat across from her, now that lunch was fully prepared. “I--I don’t know. I just… Ever since he’s been gone I’ve been a ball of nerves, worrying. That’s just not like me…” 

"When did this worrying start?"

"The moment he left," I said, pulling my brows together.

"And how do you feel when he writes you?"

"Um, elated I suppose. I'm beyond happy to know he's okay and that he's doing what he loves and getting to gather more information for his book.... Why would I be anything but happy and excited?"

"Had you been working for, say... I don't know, Theseus. Would you have the same reaction? Would you still be just as excited to get his letters ?"

I laughed, shaking my head. "No, no... No... Theseus is fine and all but he and I aren't close like Newt and I are."

She let a chuckle escape her lips. "Sounds to me as if you've caught a love bug, sweetheart."

I gasped, shocked. "Newt? Newton Scamander? No... Haha.... No. That's ridiculous. He's my boss, Nora!"

"You've spent practically every day of your life over the past five years with him, watching him treat those animals like his children. He's gentle and kind. I can't blame you for falling for him."

"Nora, this is preposterous. You and I both know men have never, ever been on my list of things to concern myself with. Why, out of all people, would I be falling for Newt Scamander?"

"Just because it's never been at the top of your list of concerns doesn't mean you weren't falling for him. You find what you want or need most when you're not looking, Rosaline."

"You're a sap."

"And you're oblivious."

"Nora, please. Can you honestly see me loving him? You were his assistant before I was, does that mean you're in love with him?" I accused, pointing at her.

"Can't say it does. Mind you, he's nearly eight years younger than me, and I never spent as much time with him as you did." She raised her eyebrows at me. "And if I'm remembering correctly, you had a soft spot for him while you were in school."

I screwed my mouth to the side, becoming defensive. "That was merely a reaction to the injustice that occurred with Leta Lestrange. If it were anyone else I would've done the same thing. He was an excellent student and classmate. He never caused any issues. He's sweet....”"

She leaned forward, a mischievous look on her face. "He's sweet, and...?"

"And what?" I snapped playfully, getting up to refill her tea and do anything to avoid addressing this.

"You're arse over tits for him, dear cousin. No shame in it!"

I nearly dropped the teapot I was holding at her words. "Eleanore Vaughan!" I gasped.

She cackled, throwing her head back. "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. You know your secret is safe with me."

"You think just because I miss my boss and I eagerly await his return, and I can't help but think of him all the time, and yes he may possess all the qualities of a husband, if I ever desired one, and he's funny and kind and talented -- " I stopped and glared at her.

Grinning and wiggling her eyebrows at me, she leaned back in her seat. "Need I say more?"

"Okay... Then what do I do with this information?" I questioned uneasily sitting down. "I've never... you know... "

"If you want to tell him, do it. If you don't, I'll support you either way."

I stared at her, my mouth open. "That's it? That's your grand advice? Where is your gusto when I need it?"

"You think I have any kind of experience here that I can apply? My longest relationship has been with the kneazle that wandered into my shop one day and didn't leave."

I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. "Yes but... how do I even go about this? I can't just blurt out my feelings, can I? Isn't that a little... faux pas?"

"How would you normally bring up something important with him?"

"Approach him in between tending to the animals. Just... say 'Newt, I need to discuss something with you'."

"Then do that. If it doesn't work out, then wait till the time feels right and tell him."

"You make it sound easy," I muttered.

"But I never said it would be."

I sighed. "I suppose I have news then, when he returns home."

She grinned. "Perhaps you do."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[docfuture]

Princess, part 11

      [This story is a prequel, set several years before The Fall of Doc Future, when Flicker is 16.  Links to some of my other work are here.  Updates are theoretically biweekly. Next chapter is mostly done so I’m going to try to get it out later in August.]

Previous: Part 10

     Five days after Speedtest.  Three days after the isotope exchanger had worked enough for Flicker to restart her body chemistry.  Then a scramble of pain, healing, and memory triage before, finally, sleep.  She'd awakened, mentally fogged, to start a messy program of biological recovery and physical therapy, complicated by the need to spend more time in the isotope exchanger to reduce her not-immediately-lethal-but-still-a-problem radioactivity.  For her minds, a fuzzy time of finding and patching connections, habits, and memories that were temporarily broken, misplaced, distorted, or newly intrusive.  For respite, ghosting to Antarctica, gliding in the low sun over ice and cold air, never near anything living.  Sleep remained fitful.       Evening.  The last really needed isotope exchanger session done.  Body and mind were now holding together, even if neither were yet anywhere Flicker was particularly happy with.       Talking to Doc in his lab.  He frowned at a brain scan, some graphs, and a schematic of a cybernetic inductor.       "I checked in on your medibots, because you mentioned your start routine this morning was still rough.  Looks like your mind work was okay despite that, though?"       "Caffeine helped," said Flicker.       "And you can drink it again, and eat.  Progress.  I'm concerned at this scan though.  It still shows signs of cybernetic interface withdrawal.  I don't know how long that will last, given everything else.  How bad is the ennui and poor appetite?"       "Caffeine helped.  A little."       "Hm.  Not much we can do other than wait.  I had the Database forward the medibot scans and other information to Dr. Reinhart's partition."       "Thanks.  But I have a question."       "Yes?"       "You agreed to all of Dr. Reinhart's terms, including Database access, even though she's got a really questionable background, and doesn't want to meet or talk to you.  Her last message mentioned it wasn't an encouraging sign, because it meant I needed help pretty bad."       "Well, you do.  Frankly, I'd be more worried if she was cheerily optimistic.  And the Database picked her as the best choice.  Fortunately Jumping Spider knew a bit about her, and was willing to do that interview.  So I'm satisfied for now."       "I guess I don't get how you're okay with the uncertainty about a mind control expert."       "I did verify that she wasn't gaming the Database threat index.  The correlations are suggestive of a mission-oriented vigilante targeting actively harmful individuals with power that have little or no likelihood of being stopped or removed by other means.  Plus a few covert operations agents trying to kill her.  The threat index understates her effect, because she operates in realms where data is sparse and of poor quality.  As for the alleged mind control, it may just be a combination of psychological manipulation and some kind of hidden influence.  But there is no question she uses her reputation as an effective tool."       Doc waved a hand.  "And I have a reputation for being paranoid about mind control, which isn't going to make her more eager to meet me, is it?  Our security protocols may not be compatible, and I can think of several other potential good reasons for her to stay away.  But ultimately it doesn't matter.  She doesn't want to talk, so that's that.  She owes me nothing.  I wouldn't mind discussing mind control defense with her, and I don't like uncertainty any more than you do.  But I've had a couple more decades to get used to it.  I know I can't solve all the world's problems myself.  Priorities."       A crooked smile.  "Now, none of this means that you should accept everything she says uncritically, or that you should strive to emulate her, morally or otherwise.  And I'm sure she'll drop some unpleasant surprises on you.  But she agreed to help, and she certainly understands the stakes.  Are you having trouble with social boundaries again?"       "When did this become about me?"       Doc just looked at her.       "Okay, yeah."       "Boundaries are a difficult problem for you.  So I hope your work with Dr. Reinhart is productive, and that you eventually have an opportunity to discuss them with her."       *****       The next morning had certainly started off productive.  And difficult.  Flicker had been very much looking forward to finally recovering enough to talk--physically talk, with real air, vocal cords, sound, and hearing--to Dr. Stella Reinhart.       Flicker faced Dr. Reinhart in her office.  Stella.  She said to call her Stella.  She was in her late twenties, about 170 centimeters tall, with dark hair and green eyes, and wore jeans, boots, a leather jacket, and a work shirt.  She looked dangerous because she was dangerous, and had the sort of intent, purposeful expression Flicker had learned to watch for when evaluating an emergency site at high speed--if someone like that was running, it was a very good idea to find out why.       The office was bland, more often used by the assistant who handled paperwork for Stella's consulting business.  But there were comfortable chairs.  Stella sat in one, not behind the desk, after saying a few words about subconscious framing and symbolic barriers.  A cable ran from her laptop to the now thoroughly guarded office net connection and from there to the Database.  DASI was on duty, capital S for Security duty, with subtle and wide-ranging countermeasures.  Excessive?  DASI didn't think so, nor did Stella.  One less thing for Flicker to worry about, which helped.       The office was in a half empty building in a not particularly prosperous location, but it did have sliding doors opening onto a patio.  Dr. Reinhart had left them open to accommodate Flicker's claustrophobia.  Flicker had set up a portable force screen to keep out weather and complete the veil of security.       Flicker's speed mind idled, handling just alerts and safety.  She was talking with her physical body and brain only, entirely at human speed, about something stressful, with no help from speed mind.  Holding back was hard.  More so in the aftermath of Speedtest--her old problems with self-interrupting and awkward blurting had returned.  She chased thoughts and sentences faster than her mouth could complete them, as clumsily as when she was thirteen.       Embarrassment intruded as she veered and rambled, but Stella had suggested this starting test, after initial introductions.  Every verbal issue, every bit of awkwardness that she normally compensated for, everything she smoothed over, eliminated, or hid with speed, visor and Database--all that was data, that told Stella how the human half of Flicker's mind worked.  And Stella could use that as a baseline to probe how the high speed half of Flicker's mind worked, and how she coordinated.  So she endured.       Flicker stumbled to a stopping point.  She'd managed a partial, excessively wordy, and not entirely coherent description of her problems and goals.  She had digressed from and mangled her text summary, but talking out loud, in her own words, from her own mind, without notes, had been the point.       She took a calming breath and tried to untense.  This was the only part where talking was essential.  I can switch to text now if I really have to.       Stella smiled and thanked her, then turned to type at her computer.  Her exact words escaped as Flicker's speed mind started a flurry of mental replays and second-guessing, but the Database flashed 'Break time' on her visor.  Relief.  Out through the doors, speeding past land and human complication to the Pacific.       Slow coasting, well under 0.01c, while the two parts of her mind reintegrated.  A wordless reckoning that normally went one way--slow mind to fast on waking up, and back before sleep.  Tides flowing predictably over the sands of short term memory.  Now the flow went both ways, boats loading and unloading as both minds took turns at 'Let me put that in a better place...'       Still less stressful than the talking had been.  Even deciding when to breathe had been awkward--speed mind had smoothed that for so long she'd almost forgotten.       Fifteen minutes of waves and sunlight and motion.  Coasting along crests and troughs.  Manta rays breaching, sudden unexpected joy, a reminder that the world held marvels still happening.  It helped.  When she got the message to return, she was much calmer.       Back at the office, a quick smile from Stella.  "I have good data, and some preliminary assessments.  I'm afraid we're unlikely to complete your priority list any time soon.  One thing is clear; mind isolation during treatment is not a viable option.  Your 'speed mind' is essential to your functioning and current identity, even at normal speed.  So we'll work towards better coordination.  But I have some serious concerns."       A glance at her screen.  "I should emphasize my disclaimer:  This is a compassionate personal intervention in the absence of a qualified specialist.  I am not a clinician, my research methods would give an IRB heart attacks, et cetera.  And I have some reservations about the process by which I was selected.  I sent the full text to your Database earlier.  Did you read it?"       "Yes," said Flicker.  "I understand why you might need it for legal protection.  Also if you're, like, a serial killer who eats souls, I have Officially Been Warned."       "That works.  I still go to conferences, and I create enough controversy on my own.  It would be inconvenient to be widely banned from international travel.  But I imagine you still have some questions."       Flicker shrugged.  "I'm curious about a few things.  But if you weren't already doing weird superhero-adjacent and spyworld stuff,  I don't think you'd have the experience to help without researching me for a year first.  Anyway, go ahead."       Speed mind shifted and reversed, back in her normal mental dance, speeding up and slowing down to aid stability and coherence.  The desire to clarify and add to her awkward presentation to reduce social embarrassment was strong.  But it was time to listen.       "For your difficulty speaking," said Stella, "I agree with your Database AI that most of your returned problems should fade with social practice.  You appear to have optimized your verbal coordination in order to present as a neurotypical human, so any change would cause temporary issues."       "Because squishy brain is autistic.  And yeah I did.  It's a real pain to get strangers to listen if you don't talk 'normal human'."       "Your distress is understandable.  You do have traits in common with individuals with Asperger's and ADHD, but given your unique mind, it's probably best to view them as suggestive analogies--you have similar problems with similar coping mechanisms.  'Non-neurotypical' is as far as I'd go, and much of the cause may be consequences of the connection to your speed mind.  Other issues are clearer."       Stella leaned back in her chair.  "Such as PTSD.  You have layered coping mechanisms, but your Database stress history indicates that you tend to overwork or otherwise push yourself back to a ragged edge whenever you manage to achieve progress in reducing its effects."       Stella clasped her hands in front of her face.  "I doubt that dealing with the underlying issues will be an easy or quick task, but this is something you need to mitigate.  I'll try to help you set realistic expectations when I understand more.  One particular note.  I can't speak to Doc's own mental health.  But the elements of his work and life habits available for study indicate someone rather unhealthy for a PTSD sufferer to emulate.  And whatever he might say, you took early cues from what he did."       Stella frowned.  "Your memory problems...  I'm going to defer judgement on some of them until you've had more time to recover from your recent incident.  And there are a number of other potentially serious long-term conditions that I now consider less likely, but can't yet rule out.  But I am concerned that your Database AI already warned you about everything I've brought up so far, and some other issues that are more recent.  I'd recommend revisiting your heuristics."       Flicker spread her hands.  "I didn't ignore the Database.  I just couldn't do anything useful.  I patched what I could and kept going."       "That invites trouble when a new problem disturbs your patches."       "Well, yeah.  I get angry at things I can't fix.  So I put them out of my mind to stay sane."  Flicker looked away.  "At least out of my conscious, human mind.  Part of me remembers.  And stays angry."       She looked back and tried to smile.  "I sometimes joke that I haven't lost my mind; I keep backups.  Doc always retorted with how arduous it could be to try to restore from one.  And that a mental backup doesn't bring things back the same, because the world has moved on.  He was right.  I had to try to restore a few things I misplaced during Speedtest and it was a pain.  It stirs everything up, and I kept running across crap I'd stashed away because I couldn't deal, and I still couldn't deal because it was hitting all at once during a restore."       The smile probably looked more like a fixed grimace.  "So don't tell me about trouble and patches right now.  I know."       "Good," said Stella.  "I will be going over things that seem obvious.  People make tradeoffs, and mistakes, and I'd rather annoy you than miss any.  But I also understand that this session has been stressful for you, and you aren't fully recovered.  I can give you some initial recommendations and we can be done for the day, if you would like."       Flicker took a deep breath, then let it out.  "I'd like to keep going, now that I have my minds working together again.  It's just... I should have reworked my priority list after you told me how you wanted to start, and put my anger issues higher on it.  And there's this book I read, called Practical Power Dynamics..."       An alert flashed on Flicker's visor and she sped up.  The Database needed her override approval to resolve a convoluted permissions problem, which she granted.  Stella's base permission level was only equivalent to a trusted outside academic researcher, so approval requests were going to be common for a while.  Flicker slowed back down again to listen.       "Where did you get the edition you read?" asked Stella.  "It doesn't look like it was from the Database."       "No.  There was a version, but the Database didn't let me read that one.  There were a bunch of hazards and warnings.  The version I read is there now, I scanned it then locked it down.  Doc doesn't know about it.  I got it from Journeyman.  He said he traded a bibliomancer to reconstruct an original text copy.  Then let me read it, because he was worried and thought it might help me."       Stella put a hand to her forehead and studied her computer display.  "I see.  What that alleged bibliomancer did should not be possible.  But never mind that now.  Was your visor recording when you discussed it, and if so, would you be willing to share a transcript?"       "Sure."  Another bit of access granted.       Stella spoke slowly while scanning her screen.  "I'd like to ask a favor of you.  Please do not reread Practical Power Dynamics, or try to use any of the techniques, before I've had a chance to make some annotations for you.  And assume it's more dangerous to you than the author intended.  You read what appears to be an early draft that was never distributed."       Flicker frowned.  "How do you know that?"       "I wrote it."       "Oh, that's great!  I had a lot of questions, but I couldn't--I mean it was still dangerous.  But you can tell me what to watch out for.  I loved the humor, the way you made pieces fit that everyone just seems to assume or ignore.  And the parts about anger were..." Flicker trailed off.  "You don't look happy.  What's wrong?"       "Well, at least you weren't completely blind to the danger," said Stella.  "I started writing what became Practical Power Dynamics when I was about your age, at a time when I was not managing anger well.  I would not write that way today.  I need to see what I can do to defuse some hazards to you.  I wrote it as a vector for social engineering, and I didn't devote enough attention to second-order side effects in atypical individuals.  Even after I toned it down."       Flicker thought about that at speed for a while.  It made sense that Stella was worried.  Doc spent a lot of time worrying about extending methods to new domains, and the false sense of security you could feel because you were doing familiar things you'd done many times before.  The methods might only be safe because most of the unexpected failure modes had already been found--but a new domain could bring new ways to make horrible mistakes.  You just couldn't be sure.  That had been one of the main points of Speedtest.  There were a lot of things going on in Practical Power Dynamics, and Flicker's mind was a new domain for many of them.       "It didn't feel like it caused damage," she said.  "I didn't try any of the active techniques because I was warned about traps, but the insights helped."       "I can certainly understand why you liked it.  I wrote it to resonate, but that doesn't mean it helped."  Stella smiled wryly.  "The text you read has the potential to magnify a number of problems.  And even the distributed version was never intended for someone like you--I did not consider the psychological impact of absorbing the whole thing in under a minute.  Not to pry into restricted details, but have you by any chance experienced an episode of unjustified arrogance or megalomania recently?"       A sudden chill.       "...I know that feeling, it's Now I Am Invincible, it's incredibly dangerous for a superhero..."       "...maybe."  No, be clear. This is safety information.  "Yes."       "The book definitely didn't help with that."       "My partner thought it would help with something.  He wouldn't just..."       Stella frowned.  "It might have seemed appropriate as a form of disaster aversion.  A 'break glass in case of emergency' psychological reset to forestall something worse.  But not as a long term solution, and he'd know that."       Flicker closed her eyes.  "It wasn't and he did.  He's gone.  We aren't patrolling together anymore."       Flicker had been managing to compartmentalize up to that point.  Journeyman hadn't returned to Doc's HQ while she'd been recovering, or sent any message other than a brief note wishing her well.  She'd set aside awareness of that, and their last conversation, pretending he was just temporarily away again.       But their load-bearing social fiction had collapsed, leaving nothing but rubble.       Speed up.  Shift focus in speed mind.  Ignore her human emulation, it was working all too well.  Try a different perspective.       Consider the positive.  She'd learned too much during her time with him for reflexive avoidance of memory to be appropriate.  She had her own strength, her own self, her own plans, where he was but memory and data.  That could be a placeholder, a way to consider him as Flicker adjusted.  It was definitely less disruptive than an emotional shutdown.       Now slow down and return.  Emotion and context flooded back, but she had a reference point.       Her visor was beeping at her.  She opened her eyes, and saw the alerts--the reason for the beeping.       Warning: Situational awareness lost, Alert: Emotional crisis reaction signs, Alert: Potential dissociation trigger, Alert: Database permission upgrade request for Dr. Stella Reinhart--crisis context information.       She virtual typed to grant the permission.  Then straightened, her face under control.  This was her problem, not his.       The book dedication had been perfectly clear.  For Doc Future.  It's a trap.  She'd read it anyway.       So had Journeyman, but at least he hadn't ignored three blocks, eleven warnings, and 47 advisories, like she had.       Tap.  Tap.  Tap.  Stella was glaring intently at her laptop display and speedreading--a page for each tap.       Flicker took the opportunity to do breathing exercises and calm herself.       "What a mess," muttered Stella, as she continued to read.  "Flicker?"       "Yes?"       Tap.  Tap.  "I'm sorry, clinical detachment and academic objectivity aren't going to be sufficient for everything.  How do you feel about 'Angry woman on your side'?"       "That sounds nice, actually."       Tap.  Tap.  Tap.  "Good to know.  Also, do not ever underestimate your Database security AI.  She was on the phone with me for all but five seconds of the time between when you started to read Practical Power Dynamics and when she interrupted your fight with Journeyman to announce my tentative willingness to help.  And she called Jumping Spider to secure an emergency override in there, too.  I have a theory about that, but it's probably not something she's allowed to admit.  I'll see if I can sort through it.  Along with everything else.  This is going to take a while.  But..."       She paused in her paging.  "I'm curious about the last few months before you became partners with Journeyman.  The Database records are somewhat opaque.  You were patrolling sporadically, and it's clear you weren't very happy, but I'm wondering to what extent that was due to PTSD."       "I don't think about those months very much anymore," said Flicker.  "Doc tried a couple of things to try to get me to cheer up, like asking if I wanted to partner with Jetgirl.  I said no.  I mean, she's a good friend, and we have an arrangement where she can call me for support when she needs it, but she usually doesn't, so it would have been more like being a sidekick.  And I didn't want that.  Journeyman actually needed my help, so I could accept his as an equal."       She looked down.  "I wasn't feeling very connected during that time--not continuously, anyway.  I remember specific events, but I'd have to check the Database for a lot of the dates and chronology.  Everything after the Japan quake.  That was just before I turned fifteen, and... I didn't do too well."       Stella raised an eyebrow.  "The Database evaluates your actions as saving more lives than anyone else.  And it's not close."       "Well, but you should really account for speed.  I mean, if you scored a flower-picking contest just by numbers, I could win with speed, but that doesn't mean I'm good at it.  And... I don't like to talk about the quake.  There were some media bits trying to turn me into a hero of the response and... No.  Just no.  Not respectful.  They're still rebuilding and recovering and it's not my story to tell.  I usually keep it compartmentalized.  Mostly what I remember is to be wary of arrogance."       "Mm.  Would you be willing to tell me your viewpoint?  Your personal experience is most definitely yours to share."       "I suppose."  Flicker took a deep breath and looked back up.  "It wasn't bad for me personally.  I didn't get hurt.  It was just...  There'd been some warnings, but it was confusing because of foreshocks, so no one could really tell how bad it was going to be.  I got the alert from Breakpoint before the main quake hit--his Danger Sense went off and he wasn't even in Japan, so I knew it was going to be bad.  I didn't know where the epicenter was going to be exactly, so I just went off the Database's best estimate, and went up and down the coast writing giant kanji for 'Earthquake' in the air so people would know.  My plasma flash and shockwave boom actually helped there, because it got people to look out windows and see.       "Then the quake hit, and went on and on, and the estimates kept going up: it's 8.4; no, it's 8.6; no, it's 8.7; no, it's 8.8; no, it's fucking 9; it eventually turned out to be 9.1.  And then my Database com started dropping signal because my visor couldn't synchronize my position for tight beams any more.  I was used to really accurate position data, and everything had moved.  Everything was still moving.  Ground level wasn't ground level, and everything had literally gone sideways.  GPS was messed up, and the Database kept trying to correct for shit and it wasn't enough.  There was one error that caused trouble for a while that was from the Earth not rotating on the same axis any more.       "So, I'm running around with intermittent comms, stopping external debris and ripping the roofs off of buildings that were collapsing on people, then making the choices for intermediate floors for the big ones--do I rip it out?  Will that hurt the people who might ride it down more than having it fall will hurt the people below?  And can I get the debris out of the way fast enough without blinding and deafening everyone?  What kind of building is it?  I knew very little Japanese, and my visor translator was shit without Database support.  The hospitals were solid enough that I let them take their chances, because there just wasn't much I could usefully do, but a few of the nursing homes and big apartments with lots of old people were pretty bad.  I'd pulled collapsing buildings apart before, and it was like that, except... two thousand buildings at once.  And seeing all those scared people.       "And finally Doc got a message through, telling me I needed to punch a hole through to the ionosphere with rocks, because the Volunteer was on suborbital coming in as fast as he ever had and needed me to get the air out of way so he didn't kill anyone with his shockwave on arrival.  So I went up to a place called Fukushima and made a pathway for him, so he could keep a bunch of nuclear reactors from melting down, then went back to ripping apart buildings.  Until I got another message from Doc telling me I needed to let them go and start taking the edge off the tsunami."       Flicker looked out the doors.       "I thought, fuck that, I'll stop the tsunami.  It's just a wave, right?  Moving water, way offshore, no humans near, I could use all my speed and power.  Energy and momentum.  None greater than mine."       She shook her head.  "It wasn't just a wave.  A whole huge section of seabed had been stuck bent over like a big flat sheet of wood, then released.  One end went up like seven meters.  All the water above it went up too, and the surface was now above sea level.  And all that water had to go somewhere.       "It wasn't just a wave.  Water flows downhill.  Doc knew.       "I started with the lateral plasma sweeps and the shockwave hammer loops and the entrainment runs while I had the Database figure out just how much damage I'd do if I vaporized enough of the excess water to stop the tsunami.  Database took a long time."       She looked back at Stella.  "I could vaporize enough to stop it.  But--best case--it would kill five million people with a shockwave of plasma and superheated steam.  More likely fifty.  And fuck up the weather over the whole Northern hemisphere for months.  The floods from the rain alone would... anyway.  Stopping it was way worse.  So I just had to take the edge off as best I could.       "It was enough to let the Volunteer stabilize the reactors.  And I thought it would be enough for almost all the people, I really did.  And then the Database had enough data finally to tell me it wasn't."       "Why not?" asked Stella.       "The other end of the board.  A big stretch of the coast of Honshu dropped when the seabed rose.  What had been sea level--was now a meter below sea level.  And the ground above it, and the people on that ground, were now a meter lower.  So what looked safe--wasn't."       "I went back one last time to write more Kanji.  'Run.'  But not everyone could run.  And not everybody who could would leave behind the ones who couldn't."       "I did as much as I could," she said.  "Maybe too much, some places--reflections and a change in the shape of the seabed meant I likely made things worse in one spot.  But 'only' about two thousand people died in the tsunami.  Plus maybe fifty or so I killed trying to stop it.  Most of them in boats in really bad places, but they might have lived, except my shockwaves meant they didn't.  I couldn't... it was just 'Sorry, it's not your day, ever again'.       "Even after it started hitting I kept running around, clearing debris, trying to give people a little more time.  And then, finally, it was over, ebbing back, and Hideki and the Japanese superheroes were arriving, and Golden Valkyrie's Choosers, and all the emergency responders.  And all the ordinary people who helped.  If anyone was heroes it was them.       "I went on autopilot for a while, just followed Database instructions after my com was back, not trying to process, because I couldn't.  There was a weird voice yelling on my com whenever I saw bodies for a bit until I figured out it was me and stopped.  And... Well, I don't really remember much after that.  You can read about it in the Database if you want."       She waved a hand.  "You know what?  You want a hero?  K'Krowl the Younger.  Kaiju from the Deep Kingdoms.  Big lizard.  Lived up near the Aleutians.  He was headed south along the coast, on his way to attack Tokyo, when the quake hit.  He was underwater, I didn't know he was there.  And there was this boat.  Just... in the wrong place.  K'Krowl felt the quake and knew what it meant.  He headed inshore and surfaced, and just before the biggest wave hit he picked up the boat.  And held it in his arms.  Except I was coming down on a lateral plasma run, chopping away at the wave.  I'd seen the boat, and they were just... I mean, they weren't gonna live.  I had a massive entrained stream of plasma, steam, and seawater behind me.       "K'Krowl crouched over, and tucked that boat under his chin, and took the wave on his chest and my plasma on his back--I burned him bad, his upper back was just cooked.  But he kept his footing, and protected the people on the boat.  From the tsunami, and from me.  And when it was all over, he put the boat down at the shore, and waved to them, and went back into the water.  He decided he didn't want to attack Tokyo that day after all, and went home to heal.  Hardly anyone saw him except me and the people on the boat.  And with everything going on, no one else knew until the people he saved contacted the Deep Kingdoms embassy, and they ended up with a ceremony, and gave him a medal, and if anyone ever finally resolves the Tokyo Compromise, and turns the attacks into, like, ceremonial visits or something, it'll probably be him."       Flicker shook her head.  "K'Krowl the Younger.  That's a hero.  Not me.  I didn't get hurt, and mostly ran around a lot.  Nothing bad happened to me.  Not bad bad.  Just memories."       *****       Eventually, Flicker realized she'd been staring at the 'Low Situational Awareness' advisory on her visor for a long time, and came back to the present.  There was a text from Stella:  Let me know if and when you're ready to speak aloud.       Flicker focused on the room again.  Stella was frowning thoughtfully, tapping at her computer.       "I'm ready," said Flicker.  "Did you have questions?"       Stella looked up.  "I was a little curious where you got those death numbers.  They don't match the Database, and that's very unusual for you.  The death toll from the tsunami appears to be closer to 1,500, and you can only get close to 2,000 if you also include everyone in the area who was killed by the quake, went missing, or died for any other reason for the next week.  Or use one early, inaccurate media estimate."       She tapped her chin with a finger, still frowning.  "And I don't see any clear evidence to indicate that you were responsible for any excess deaths while mitigating the tsunami.  There were people you didn't save, but that's not remotely the same.  The only way I can get to your estimate of 50 is to take everyone dead or missing who started on a boat in the tsunami region, and everyone missing in the region who started on shore, but who had a boat that also went missing, and assume they were all alive before your intervention, all dead afterwards, and all would have survived if you'd done nothing."       She locked eyes with Flicker.  "There was exactly one boat that definitely had live people on it, was in your path, and could have been destroyed by you while they still had a possibility of surviving.  That was the boat K'Krowl picked up."       "Does it really matter?" said Flicker.       "Yes.  You're guilt-maximizing, and you need to stop.  It's not healthy.  Don't want to be a hero for this?  Fine.  But you helped."       Stella waved a hand.  "I'm not a hero.  I've done far worse things than you.  But I still try to help.  You really didn't want to talk about this and you want to stop, so we'll stop.  Perhaps sometime we can come back and get you a little better perspective.  But not now.  You're in worse shape than I thought."       "Well, I was technically dead for two days last week, so I suppose--"       "Not short term.  Long term.  You're better at compartmentalization, coping, and masking than I expected.  That means you've been better at hiding worse problems.  But it just means more work, for a longer time.  One thing I strongly recommend--no patrols for a while.  No going 'on duty'.  You can intervene in events classified by the Database as 'major disaster' or higher, or a serious threat to someone you know personally.  Otherwise find something else to do.  You need to recover, and not just from being dead."       "But--"       Softly:  "No.  Patrols."       Stella sighed.  "Are you familiar with boiling liquid expanding vapor explosions?"       Flicker blinked at the change of subject, then got the analogy.  "Yeah.  Can't always stop them so sometimes I just rip the tank to control the direction and shape of the explosion.  But I'm not close to blowing up.  I know how to reduce the pressure."       "I understand.  But we need to do some work the slow way--reduce the temperature first.  There are other things that might increase the pressure."       "You want more of a safety margin?"       "Yes.  I am reasonably good at giving advice, but bad at providing comfort," said Stella dryly.  "I'm not neurotypical either, and certain choices and events in my personal development shape my approach.  I have no desire for it to increase your difficulties."       "You seem pretty functional to me.  And--"       Stella shook her head.  "If I weren't able to convincingly project normalcy, I'd already be dead.  But I do have a talent for constructive distractions.  So, why don't we leave off diagnostics and recommendations for a little while and have something to eat instead--I took the precaution of preordering takeout.  Perhaps we can discuss a few things you might find interesting and less stressful."       "I'm not..."  Think, don't just react.  "Okay, that does sound good."       They ate, and talked, and it helped a little.  It was a start.

Next:  Part 12

[myhauntedsalem]

Horror Movies Based on True Events

Open Water (2003)

When a couple goes scuba diving in Open Water, their boat accidentally leaves them behind in shark-infested water. It’s based on something that really happened to American tourists Tom and Eileen Lonergan, who were left behind by a diving company off the Great Barrier Reef. By the time the mistake was realized two days later, it was too late, and they were never seen again. A shark attack seems not to have been the cause of death, however, as the couple’s dive jackets were eventually found. The jackets weren’t damaged, which suggested that the Lonergans likely took them off, “delirious from dehydration,” and drowned.

Borderland (2007)

When three friends head to a Mexican border town to have some fun in this movie, they get mixed up with a cult specializing in human sacrifice. The concept loosely stems from the life of Adolfo de Jesus Constanzo, a drug lord and cult leader who was responsible for the death of American student Mark Kilroy.

A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984)

The iconic baddie Freddy Krueger kills teenagers via their dreams in Wes Craven’s franchise-launching film. Craven told Vulture that the idea stemmed from an article he read in The Los Angeles Times about a family of Cambodian refugees with a young son who reported awful nightmares. “He told his parents he was afraid that if he slept, the thing chasing him would get him, so he tried to stay awake for days at a time,” said Craven. “When he finally fell asleep, his parents thought this crisis was over. Then they heard screams in the middle of the night. By the time they got to him, he was dead. He died in the middle of a nightmare. Here was a youngster having a vision of a horror that everyone older was denying. That became the central line of Nightmare on Elm Street.”

Black Water (2007)

Set in the swamps of Australia, this movie sees a group of fishers attacked by a humongous crocodile. It was inspired by an actual crocodile attack in the Australian outback in 2003 that killed a man named Brett Mann in an area that his friends said they’d “never, ever” seen a crocodile before.

Dead Ringers (1988)

In David Cronenberg’s movie, Jeremy Irons plays twin gynecologists who do messed up things with patients and ultimately die together in the end. Cronenberg adapted the movie from Bari Wood and Jack Geasland’s novel Twins, which was inspired by the lives of actual twin gynecologists Stewart and Cyril Marcus. TheNew York Times noted that the Marcuses enjoyed “trading places to fool their patients” and that they ultimately “retreat[ed] into heavy drug use and utter isolation.”

Deliver Us From Evil (2014)

The movie follows a cop and a priest who team up to take on the supernatural. It’s based on self-proclaimed “demonologist” Ralph Sarchie’s memoir Beware the Night, in which he tells supposedly true stories, such as the time he found himself “in the presence of one of hell’s most dangerous devils” possessing a woman.

Poltergeist (1982)

In Poltergeist, a family’s home is invaded by ghosts that abduct one of the daughters. The film was inspiredby unexplained events, such as loud popping noises and moved objects, that occurred in 1958 at the Hermanns’ home in Seaford, New York.

Psycho (1960)

Alfred Hitchcock’s essential film traces a woman who embezzles money from her employer and runs off to a mysterious hotel where she is (58-year-old spoiler alert) murdered by the man running it, Norman Bates. Bates is said to have been based on Ed Gein, a Wisconsin man who was convicted for one murder in the 1950s, but suspected for others. He also was a grave robber, and authorities found many disturbing results of that in his home, including bowls crafted from human skulls and a lampshade made from the skin of someone’s face.

Scream (1996)

The classic ‘90s slasher flick uses dark humor to tell the story of a group of teens and a mystery man named Ghostface who wants to murder them. But the real story ain’t funny. The movie was inspired by the Gainesville Ripper, real name Danny Rolling, who killed five Florida students by knife over a span of three days in August 1990.

The Conjuring (2013)

The movie stars Patrick Wilson and Vera Farmiga as ghost hunters helping out a family in a haunted 18th-century farmhouse. The hunters, Ed and Lorraine Warren, are real people, as is the Perron family that they assist. Lorraine was a consultant on the movie and insists that many of the supernatural horrors really happened, and one of the daughters who is depicted in the film, Andrea Perron, says the same. She recalled an angry spirit named Bathsheba to USA Today:“Whoever the spirit was, she perceived herself to be mistress of the house and she resented the competition my mother posed for that position.”

Annabelle (2014)

The creepy porcelain doll from The Conjuring gets her terror on in this spin-off of The Conjuring. The ghost-hunting Warrens have claimed that there was a real Raggedy Ann doll that moved by itself and wrote creepy-ass notes saying things like, “Help us.” The woman who owned it contacted a medium, who claimed that it was possessed by a seven-year-old girl named Annabelle who had died there.

The Disappointments Room (2016)

Kate Beckinsale stars in the movie as an architect who moves to a new home with a mysterious room in the attic that she eventually learns was previously used as a room where rich people would cast off disabled children. It was reportedly inspired by a Rhode Island woman who discovered a similar room in her house that she says was built by a 19th century judge to lock away his disabled daughter.

The Exorcist (1973)

Two priests attempt to remove a demon from a young girl in this box office smash. The movie was based on a 1949 Washington Post article with the headline “Priest Frees Mt. Rainier Boy Reported Held in Devil’s Grip.” Director William Friedkin spoke about the article to Time Out London: “Maybe one day they’ll discover the cause of what happened to that young man, but back then, it was only curable by an exorcism. His family weren’t even Catholics, they were Lutheran. They started with doctors and then psychiatrists and then psychologists and then they went to their minister who couldn’t help them. And they wound up with the Catholic church. The Washington Post article says that the boy was possessed and exorcised. That’s pretty out on a limb for a national newspaper to put on its front page… You’re not going to see that on the front page of an intelligent newspaper unless there’s something there.

The Girl Next Door (2007)

The movie follows the abuse of a teenage girl at the hands of her aunt, and it was inspired by the murder of Sylvia Likens in 1965. The 16-year-old girl was abused by her caregiver, Gertrude Baniszewski, Baniszewski’s children, and other neighborhood children, as entertainment. They ultimately killed her, with the cause of death determined as “brain swelling, internal hemorrhaging of the brain, and shock induced by Sylvia’s extensive skin damage,”

The Possession (2012)

Jeffrey Dean Morgan and Kyra Sedgwick star in the movie as a couple with a young daughter who becomes fascinated with an antique wooden box found at a yard sale. Of course, the box turns out to be home to a spirit. The flick’s “true story” basis came from an eBay listing for “a haunted Jewish wine cabinet box” containing oddities such as two locks of hair, one candlestick, and an evil spirit that caused supernatural activity. The box sold for $280 and gained attention when a Jewish newspaper ran an article about its so-called powers.

The Rite (2011)

In The Rite, a mortician enrolls in seminary and eventually takes an exorcism class in Rome, where demonic encounters ensue. The movie was based on the life of a real exorcist, Father Gary Thomas, whose work was the focus of journalist Matt Baglio’s book The Rite: The Making of an Exorcist. A Roman Catholic priest, Thomas was one of 14 Vatican-certified exorcists working in America in 2011. He served as an advisor on the film and told The Los Angeles Times that in the previous four years he had exorcised five people.

The Sacrament (2013)

In the movie, a man travels to find his sister who joined a remote religious commune, where, yep, bad things happen. It was inspired by the 1978 Jonestown massacre, in which cult leader Jim Jones led 909 of his followers to partake in a “murder-suicide ceremony” using cyanide poisoning.

The Shining (1980)

Stanley Kubrick’s horror masterpiece is about a man who is driven to insanity by supernatural forces while staying at a remote hotel in the Rockies. The movie Derives from Stephen King’s book of the same name, which was inspired by the Stanley Hotel in Colorado, where plenty of guests have reported seeing ghosts. The Stanley wasn’t actually used in the movie, however, because Kubrick didn’t think it looked scary enough.

The Silence of the Lambs(1991)

The Oscar-winning film tells the story of an FBI cadet who enlists the help of a cannibal/serial killer to pin down another serial killer, Buffalo Bill, who skins the bodies of his victims. FBI special agent John Douglas, who consulted on the film, has explained that Bill was inspired in part by the serial killer Ted Bundy, who like Bill, wore a fake cast. Ed Gein is also believed to be an inspiration, what with the whole skinning thing. And per Rolling Stone, 1980s killer Gary Heidnik was a reference for how Buffalo Bill kept victims in a basement pit.

The Strangers (2008)

Three killers in masks terrorize the suburban home of a couple (played by Liv Tyler and Scott Speedman) in this invasion thriller. Writer-director Bryan Bertino has said the film was inspired by something that happened to him in childhood. “As a kid, I lived in a house on a street in the middle of nowhere. One night, while our parents were out, somebody knocked on the front door and my little sister answered it,” he said. “At the door were some people asking for somebody that didn’t live there. We later found out that these people were knocking on doors in the area and, if no one was home, breaking into the houses.”

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974 & 2003)

Ed Gein also reportedly inspired elements of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and its remake. The movies are about groups of friends who come into contact with the murderous cannibal Leatherface. The original film memorably features a room filled with furniture created from human bones, a nod to Gein’s home.

The Town That Dreaded Sundown (1976 & 2014)

The original film follows a Texas Ranger as he tracks down a serial killer threatening a small town, and the 2014 sequel of the same name essentially revives the same plot. Both are based on the Texarkana Moonlight Murders of 1946, when a “Phantom Killer” took out five people over ten weeks. The case remains unsolved

Veronica (2018)

The recent Netflix release follows a 15-year-old girl who uses a Ouija board and accidentally connects with a demon that terrorizes her and her family. The movie’s based on a real police report from a Madrid neighborhood. As the story goes, a girl performed a séance at school and then “experienced months of seizures and hallucinations, particularly of shadows and presences surrounding her,” according to NewsWeek. The police report came a year after the girl’s death when three officers and the Chief Inspect of the National Police reported several unnatural occurrences at her family’s home that they called “a situation of mystery and rarity.”

[chibivesicle]

Golden Kamuy chapters 233 & 234 - creepy candymen and a sexy pirate

Chapter 233 picks up with Asirpa, Sugimoto, Shiraishi [and Vasily] in search of Boutarou the pirate and following up on the lead about a tattooed candy peddler.  The cover page for this chapter is unrelated to the action and instead has Sugimoto and Shiraishi admiring the spring wild flowers.  Therefore, it is now at least a year since the start of the quest for the gold.

My read on this is it is a call back to “simpler” times in the quest for the gold.  Before they found Wilk, before Kiro was killed and all of the action on Karafuto.

The chapter starts out with Sugimoto trying to develop a plan for finding Boutarou as he asks Shiraishi what he knew about him.  Shiraishi makes it quite clear that hiding as a candy seller pretty much goes counter to the pirate’s mode of action and likely if there is a convict selling candy, he’s someone that Shiraishi never knew or saw.

Sugimoto as usual thinking he’s a great natural leader decides to investigate the candy sellers with an ill formed plan as usual.  He approaches the puppet man with the octopus and flat out tells him, he’ll buy some candy from him but that he needs the man to take his clothes off for him.  This plan clearly backfires as the man questions his motive and he becomes more upset as he states that even if Sugimoto just paid him to see his nipples, that he’s not that cheap!  Asirpa simply looks perplexed at the man’s response, it seems he may have an actual history of being paid for such acts in the past as he’s making it clear his nipples are worth much more than candy.  I’d say this is a hint that these men may be linked to less legal activities.  If he were just a candy seller he wouldn’t have stated such things, he would have just likely ignored Sugimoto’s request.

In contrast, Shiraishi is much smater about things as he tosses some water on the other candy seller and makes it clear that he’d have to change out of his wet clothing - something Shiraishi has numerous experiences with.

However, he gets an elbow to the face and the two men decide they are business rivals and they chase them off.

For reasons 100% unclear to me, somehow Shiraishi is hiding in a storm drain/sewer and is able to get more intel as though he were the creepy clown from Stephen King’s “It”.  I’m not a fan of King so I really don’t get it . . .

But he is able to ask a kid for information about the candy seller with weird tattoos.

Interestingly, the next time they approach a potential target, Shiraishi takes the lead, as he asks the man if he’d sell him some candy.  He shows Shiraishi his creepy pop-up puppet, saying that it would be the candy.  Then Shiraishi finally asks him straight up that he’s got some strange tattoos.

The man hesitates before Sugimoto then inquires about them and wanting to see them.  He then reveals his face smiling.  His eyes are very interesting as well.  He’s got black pupil/irises but with a vertical white streak through the center.  What on earth does this even mean about his inner personality?

Thanks the the through translation notes at the end of the chapter by EHS scans, it was determined that his tattoos come from all parts of Japan, he has an obvious Ainu tattoo on his chin, but he has some from as far away as Okinawa, and others from various parts of Honshu.  To me this indicates that he has traveled far and wide though Japan.  Is he fleeing from various places where he was convicted of crimes and tattooed in each location? 

Yet, he quickly confirms that he did them all to himself.  I honestly think he’s lying but then again, this is GK, he may have done them to himself.  Shiraishi is clearly nervous in response to that statement as he has a past history with the system of punishment in Japan.

What’s better is how absolutely disgusted and disappointed Sugimoto is, he can’t even look at the man in the face when he concludes it is a huge waste of their time.  The two panels with the man looking quizzical and then shifting to a smile indicates he likely knows that they are looking for.

No one makes a smile like that unless they’ve realized something.  What I’m also curious about is what happened to the kid he led off into the woods in the previous chapter. It was like “watch this man do something creepy and then not resolve it.”  Thanks Noda.

The man breaks into a fit of laughter when it is so obvious he wasn’t what Sugimoto was looking for.  They almost politely leave him and they update us that their river searches haven’t yielded anything.  The Toppu river and the Sorachi river haven’t given them any new info so they ponder going to the Saru river.  Sugimoto considers changing their search to Sapporo for the current serial killer a good candidate and Shiraishi considers that might be a good idea. 

As they are discussing this Asirpa is hanging back, I guess she really doesn’t care about them making plans without her input, but it reveals an interesting aside as she over hears the man talking to himself.  That boss Wakayama had a great facial expression when he was disappointed as well.  Asirpa then makes the connection that if Wakayama was his boss he was a part of his yakuza gang.

Unfortunately, some train cars with coal roll by separating them.  His voice then calls out from a train car as he declares that they will never be able to find the gold.  Thus he knew exactly what type of tattoo they are looking for. 

Asirpa calls out to Sugimoto to find him, but they are unable to find him in the rail yard near the coal mines.  All we know now is that this tattooed candy seller was one of the men working for Boss and that he is more in the know than he appears. I’m sure he will pop up again in the future.

The action then shifts to an Ainu kotan near the Toppu river.  Sure enough the pirate is doing his own information gathering following up the leads that Heita found.  He is trying to pay off an older Ainu man with rice.  He’s already given 3 bales of rice and it is clear than he’s ordering his man to bring another 3 bales.

He is quite direct, he states that he knows that the man knows about the buried gold and that his brother was one of the people involved, specifically he was one of the men who was killed.  He is able to confirm that the gold was moved after his older brother was killed and he likely won’t find anything there.

So Boutarou has to grease the wheels so to speak by revealing how much information he knows.  He confirms that he’s fine with the fact that the gold likely isn’t there anymore, he still wants to know the location.  His assistant seems to doubt talking to the man due to his reluctance. 

He’s being quite clever as he has not revealed what he knows about the gold.  He is able to ask the man to confirm information that he already knows to give him the next place to start looking for the gold.  And of course the Ainu elder confirms what he already knew - the four rivers that the gold came from

With the confirmation he is looking for the place where it was stored so that he could trace where it was moved to and narrow down the location to search.

Overall, Boutarou is an interesting character, we know he has a violent history yet, when it comes to looking for information he is paying for it and being relatively chill about things, he clearly doesn’t have a thing for unnecessary violence.

Chapter 234 has a color cover, featuring Sugimoto and Asirpa, and the name of the chapter is steamboat likely a key to how they will travel to their next destination.

The chapter starts off with Shiraishi again developing a plan for them to get to Sapporo to look for the other possible convict.  He suggests they take a steamboat to Ebetsu which is the most efficient way to currently travel.  If they continue by horse along the roads it will be muddy and slow due to the thawing out of things.  As we know he was in Kabato prison, he also knows that convicts were used for labor to clean up the river.

The idea was that a steamboat/paddle boat can travel on a shallow river much more easily than a propeller driven boat.  This leads to a nice 2 page spread of the paddle boat and Asirpa seems happy and excited to be on the boat.

cue some sort of Mark Twain reference here . . . . Asirpa then expresses concern that Vasily; hood guy in the english translation, hoodie-chan via Shiraishi in the original, is hanging back with their horses instead of riding on the main boat.  Of course Vasily is still in full sniper mode, he’s keeping an eye on things from afar with his binoculars.

Sugimoto then states he’s likely hanging back as he is waiting for Ogata to show up.  Specifically, Ogata is after Asirpa and then he realizes if that is the case, Vasily is using Asirpa as the bait to draw out Ogata. 

Wow, just wow.  Sugimoto - projecting much?  He seems to have forgotten how Vasily already used Shiraishi as bait for Ogata once before when they were in Karafuto and now he’s disgusted by such behavior.  Again, he is making the assumption that Ogata will stop at nothing to steal Asirpa when his attempt to get Asirpa to give him the code failed and then Ogata pretty much wanted Asirpa to kill him.

Really, Sugimoto’s read of Ogata is so flawed that well, I don’t get why Asirpa and Shiraishi haven’t said something about what they learned on Karafuto more.

Of course, they don’t have a simple journey as the pirate spend all of his stolen loot on paying off the Ainu man. So he’s going to rob the postal deliveries from the steamboat.  There is even a postal deliveryman who is protecting money that is being sent via registered mail, making him an easy target.

The steamboat captain manages to hit one of the boats as he won’t go down without a fight.  Of course the pirate has to live up to his name.  He swims under the ship, and pops out like a dolphin on the opposite side.  To use his revolver, he blows all of the water out of if before cocking it for use as he holds up the ship’s captain.

These panels really highlight that this man is a sexy badass.  Of course Shiraishi and Sugimoto have rushed to the deck to check out the action when he recognizes Boutarou and he recognizes Shiraishi!  He seems amused and excited to see Shiraishi, and the crew members are wondering what is happening as the captain decides that they must be working with the pirate.

So, definitely a poor choice of action by both Shiraishi and Sugimoto.  Thankfully, Asirpa was asleep on their traveling bags so hopefully she is still asleep.

As with this Sugimoto becomes an accidental accomplice to the pirate.  As the one man goes to grab his rifle he notices Boutarou prepare to shoot the man. So he realizes he has no choice but to remove the security men from the crew by tossing them off of the boat.

Thus, Sugimoto becomes a tool for the pirate as he saves the men from being shot by tossing them off the boat.  In the action as he judo tosses the men over board he drops his rifle.  The rifle falls outside of the passenger cabin and how Sugimoto is without the use of his rifle.

Now Sugimoto lacks his rifle and there is no Ogata to scold him.  I think back to when Ogata retrieved his rifle for him.  This will come into play in the future action as now all Sugimoto has is his loved and trusted bayonet.

Recall that during the silent kotan arc, Sugimoto placed his rifle against the wall of the house while Ogata clearly kept his rifle within reach.  When the fake Ainu were exposed, one of the yakuza dove to grab Sugimoto’s rifle and Ogata shot him square in the back.

After shooting him, Ogata quickly is able to grab the rifle and then he feels the need to teach Sugimoto a lesson.  As he throws the rifle to him, he warns him, “never take your eyes off your weapon, private first class.”  We only see Ogata’s eyes looking at him as the rest of his face is obscured and Sugimoto doesn’t even look back at Ogata as his eyes are shaded by his cap and the rest of his face is shaded.  It is clear that Sugimoto doesn’t like the fact that Ogata is right.

Later on when Anehata steals Tanigaki’s rifle, Ogata will remark that he keeps telling people to keep an eye on their rifles.  The Ogata lesson is simple - use your brain in potentially dangerous situations.  You have a rifle - it doesn’t mean someone else will use your rifle. 

Soooo, any predictions for what will happen due to Sugimoto lacking a rifle?  With no Ogata, will Vasily step in?  We will have to wait for the next chapter to find out.  The loss of Sugimoto’s rifle to me is like “cue Ogata” and in the absence of Ogata cue Vasily.

The chapter then ends with Boutarou commending Shiraishi on having such a great underling working for him.  Clearly, Boutarou respects Shiraishi and sees him to be a more intelligent than normal convict.  I don’t think this is a jest from him, he seems to be honestly impressed.

The excitement of this chapter is about to step it up a notch as the pirate gang notices another steamboat is heading upstream and opposite of them.  And that it has soldiers on it!  Perhaps members of the 27th under Tsurumi’s command?

I don’t have many deep thoughts on these two chapters.

It is clear that Shiraishi is a better planner than Sugimoto and their group needs someone to kick some sense into Sugimoto.

The candy seller with the face tattoos will come back. 

Vasily is not the Ogata replacement and he continues to be treated like an random dude by their group.  Sugimoto really doesn’t understand that embracing the enemy of my enemy is a poor idea when you can’t communicate with him.  Asirpa is again starting to think about including him in their group but is much more hesitant after Ogata’s meltdown on ice.  We still don’t know if she told anyone about that really happened and she really does need to talk about what happened.  I would guess Shiraishi knows more about what happened, but Sugimoto still doesn’t take him seriously all the time so it is a moot point.

Hopefully, we will get more interesting action in the next few chapters to see where things are going with the pirate.

[brooklynislandgirl]

Beth and WOD!Billy - ❤♡❥ღ💕💘💝💓💌💟💙💚💜💛

This || Not Accepting

❤: who is more affectionate in public? in private? 

In public Billy becomes a distant shore. Too far to reach no matter how hard she swims, how much sea water she ends up swallowing, how far she stretches out her fingers to reach him. To hold his hand, to press her cheek against his arm, to take umbrage in the shelter of all that he is. He reminds her there are cameras everywhere. There are covert agents like himself, there’s research assistants, Extraordinary Citizens. That are all on the Front Lines ready to devour any mistake he makes. To bring the whole thing crashing down on their heads, and that as radiant as he finds his older sister, that she is not exactly shy about flying her Deviant flag, is she?

It crushes some of her spirit and Billy regrets having to do it, but it’s for the Greater Good. He always tells himself that but alone, in his own sanctum, those beliefs are starting to crumble. One part of him wonders if this is all a test of his truest loyalties to his convention, carefully constructed in the Ivory Tower by Control. Forcing him to choose between humanity and three very high value targets. If capture and indoctrination is the plan, or eradication if he doesn’t manage to bring them over. Another part of him, the one that is still fur and fang and not quite the eidolon of his Enlightened Genius shakes its head in shame. Billy should know better. He should remember that dying light in her eyes and swear to make it up to her, no matter the cost. Maybe this is malfunction. Maybe this is what madness feels like. ♡: who is the bigger romantic openly? secretly?

There’s a movie she’s made him watch, that she’s seen a dozen times, enough that she doesn’t miss the words, doesn’t need them to flash across the screen. She curls up against him and jokingly tells him the main protagonist is clearly an Ecstatic ~one of her so called Nine Traditions~ and that she thinks the paradigm contained in it is beautiful.

He enjoys it because it makes his apartment feel less lonely, less sterile. It leaves the ghost of her as an impression against his skin. The scent of popcorn and the coconut and sandalwood and cinnamon that always clings to her skin will now linger on his. She’s soft and curved and quiet, all the things that his world is not. And he has that weird feeling that she somehow bypasses his circuitry, his implants, even though that should be impossible, to dig a place inside of him that she can fit.

But even when she’s gone, a line from the film sticks with him. One he can’t shake, so he hides it in an internal file buried so deep that even he will have trouble finding it again.

"Have you never met a woman who inspires you to love? Until your every sense is filled with her? You inhale her. You taste her. You see your unborn children in her eyes and know that your heart has at last found a home. Your life begins with her, and without her it must surely end." 

❥: who is more likely to plan something big for valentine's day?

He’s going to punch the other two dead in the face when they get back. Because it can’t be anything less than a conspiracy between the three of them that he goes to sleep in his own bed, all algorithms in suspend mode, only to wake up to the sound of waves lapping against the wood and fibreglass of the hold, the sea choppy and cold and grey. Like the sky if he bothers to look out of a porthole.

The bunk is a little cramped for his liking, not exactly built for a man of his stature and construction. The benefit of hypertech enhanced limbs is that they don’t exactly ache for the narrowed confinement. The space beside him still holds the ghost of her warmth, her scent, and it isn’t hard to imagine the sheets wrapped around her lithe frame. Hair spilling over his arm like a dark flood. But it’s her voice that teases him awake.  “So since we no can do da whole public kine,” she murmurs, “I t’ought I’d surprise ya. Ren’ned one boat for couple days. An’ bonus... my friends who helpin’ us out... says dey know of a crew a pirates dat need t’ be... how ya say it? Sanitise?” He winces at the word, and how close it is to the reality of it. He raises a brow, loath to interrupt her when her voice is still raspy from sleep, and because everyone else is used to discounting her, cutting her off. “Cause dey fangy-fangy/bitey-bitey.” She makes comical fangs with her fingers curled in front of her mouth. He slides out of bed and into a slumped seating position and she comes over, sits beside him. She presses a mug of scalding hot tea into his hands. It’s dark. Slightly sweet. It doesn’t matter when she smiles. “Happy Volentimes day. An’ good mornin’.” He presses his nose into the crown of her hair. “Mornin’ Izzy.”

ღ: who is more likely to initiate hand-holding in public?

Standing on the upper deck, face in the wind, eyes closed, Billy can hear it. The distinct creak of timbre. The whip-snap of the canvas in a gale, his hands weathered and calloused as he climbs the shrouds to secure a ratline. Everything is heavy with sea spray and the acrid smell of spent powder. The rush of having overtaken a heavy vessel. The pounding of his heart after a successful boarding action. New men aboard. Supplies and wealth taken and secured below. He can see faces and hear names that were long since dead, maybe never existed at all.  There’s a word on the tip of his tongue but when he reaches for it, it vanishes. It tells him he doesn’t really want to know because Billy doesn’t really forget, does he? He doesn’t. And so the only person standing against him is himself.

He blames her with her talk of pirates and her gift of the open sea past the international dateline. Gives him fanciful day dreams, that’s all it is.  He stiffens when he feels skin on skin. Rudimentary procedure tells him it’s her before he even opens his eyes. Which he chooses not to. Instead he curls his fingers around hers; too small, too delicate. Afraid he’ll crush them if he isn’t careful. Afraid he’ll crush her. 

💕: who is more likely to make huge declarations of love in front of other people?

“I will NOT have you shaming the family, Elizabeth!” For a moment with his voice roused in anger, Andy sounds exactly like their father. And she stands there, taking the brunt of it, doe eyes full of a shame and grief that did not come close to being able to be described. She is reduced to something less than herself, something barely more than a child the way she twists her fingers into the waist of her skirt, head tilted toward the floor where maybe that gaze could burn a hole into the wood floors. Shoulders forward and down, all of her making itself as small as possible. Perhaps protectively, perhaps because it cannot hold up the heaviness of Andy’s anger. “....m’ sorry.”  Barely two words, slurred into one.

She hadn’t meant to do or say anything wrong. She hadn’t meant to make a scene at the party. Hadn’t meant to make Billy chase her into the room. Of course, there’s a lot of things she doesn’t mean and it makes it so hard to breathe sometimes.

She can’t say she really understands why he’s mad. Why he’d waited until everyone, including Billy had left, why Baz’s half-hearted interference from the kitchen where he’s cleaning up... “Leave’r ‘lone, Andy” ... goes unheard. “May I be ‘scused?” “Go to bed. We’ll deal with damage control in the morning.” Beth decides then and there, she hates Halloween.

💘: who developed a crush on the other first?

It’s called the Westermarck Effect. A psychological hypothesis that people who live in close domestic proximity during the first few years of their lives become desensitised to sexual attraction with one another. And when a brother and sister, for example, are brought up separately, never meeting until they reach adulthood or adolescence they might find one another highly sexually attractive. The science clearly bears out.

But he wants to hear it from Andy’s own mouth.  The source of his bitterness, his distance, the rage that has him lifting hands and laying them on his little brother. Panting, he looks up from where he’s crouched. Jaw hard. Back of his hand swiping at the lick of blood on his lip. He hitches himself to his feet and reaches out a hand, waits until Andy reaches back and helps pull the other man to his feet. An honest dust up that’s gotten most things out of the way so that they can actually talk. “So tell me, Andrew, is it that she’s makin’ eyes, or that it’s not at you?”

💝: who spends more time (possibly overthinking) what presents to get the other?

The adverts on the telly and radio and every bit of media give off suggestions. Every kiss begins with Kay. De Beers A Diamond is Forever. It’s all part of the carefully cultivated stratagems of the Syndicate. A means to control the economy based on the products it chooses to endorse, and which they decide to bury.  But the problem isn’t his fellow conventions, but rather the fact that Beth isn’t that kind of woman. She doesn’t want for material things, not in the way that can be neatly wrapped up in a box with a bow. She wants for the sea in her soul. She wants for a quiet acceptance. She wants for the soft kisses and hands pressed to hearts vowing forever at the end of the fairy tale. She wants an end to the War or at least an escape from it. She wants all of humanity to achieve this mystical Ascendance of hers, that reminds him of a song from the 70s or something What can you give a woman like that? You don’t exactly. You can’t. It means switching sides. It means becoming a traitor to your own. Not that she’s ever asked. Not that she has to, what with everything that is changing within him. She’s shown him things that he never contemplated before, things he’s never hoped to experience. For the first time, he’s starting to question the party line. And that’s dangerous. “Let me see the other one. The one with the pearls.”

💓: who initiates most physical contact?

She tucks her feet under his leg when they’re cold. Which is always. Her fingers find a home intertwined with his the moment he stops typing. Even if there’s a mile of couch, she tries to climb into his lap at every opportunity. She talks with her hands and smiles with her eyes and her lips at once. Small kisses on the back of his neck. Somehow she’s always brushing against him as she walks by. She’s always been the physical type. It’s a language as well as a form of affection and he thinks he’s starting to figure it out. Or at least he thinks he has, but then she changes the rules.

Suddenly she doesn’t quite meet his eyes. How she finds a way to not be in the same room even if they are seated right next to him. When she dances with him it feels like they’re on other planets.

For all that he wants to give chase, he doesn’t. Gives her space. Hopes that’s enough to bring her back around because he’s starting to miss the little things. Teeth has other things to say about it but you don’t always listen to your not so imaginary weasel.

💌: who is more likely to send cutesy texts to the other?

Sheryl from R and D eyes him when he laughs out loud. He waves a hand and recites the pithier parts of an Onion article he’d read weeks before. All while staring at the face she’s making, rubber glove on her head like a cockscomb. She’s always sending him little things. A picture from the ER. Something silly she saw on the way to or from work, depending on what shifts she’s taken. Corny little jokes he knows has taken her weeks to come up with. Things he memorises and deletes because he doesn’t want a single trace of her that can be caught by the higher ups. But that doesn’t mean that he wants her to stop. In a lot of ways it speaks volumes that she cares enough about him, that she thinks about him as much as he does her, that she sends them. His favourite so far is the Giraffe prodding a duck with one enormously long leg. He normally doesn’t send anything back, no channel completely secure, but he does make a point to mention it when he gets back to his place. Which reminds him, she’s been spending an awful lot of time there.

💟: who spends time reading their zodiac compatibility?

She sits sprawled on the floor. There’s books and charts, some ancient and some new, all around her. She has graph paper, pencils and pens, a compass and slide rule, all the trappings of higher mathematics. But she’s not solving complex equations or a new hypothesis for string theory. “It’s complete rubbish!” he laughs, stirring the garlic green beans around the wok with a touch of sesame oil. “The stars aren’t even in the same position as they were back then, some have burnt out, the gravitational axis of-” “Nu-uh!” she counters, just as amused, just as passionate. “Astrology one of da very firs’ sciences, William. In fact, ya very own Celestial Mastahs-” Void Engineers, Beth. They’re called the Void Engineers. “-spoke wide an’ advocated it in academic circle. Related it t’ astronomy, alchemy, me-meat- “Meteorology.” “Yeah, dat. An medicine. Da Greek, Chinese, Mayans, Egyptians, Macedonians. All’a da big civilisation. Even in da political circles of literature, li’dat Dante Alighieri an’ Chaucer, Shakespeare, Lope De Vega, Calderon de la Barca, who I don’ t’ink was related t’ Hannibal but mebbe. No was til da nineteen century when you guys edged forward wi’ da Sleepahs-” “Beth?” “Yeah?” “Could you come here a second?” She rises like a very strange Polynesian Venus from her sea of pseudoscience and pads her way over to him. He leans down and kisses her gently on the lips. She pulls back from him and shakes her head, flashing him her shark-smile. “See? See dat? Spoken li’ true Libra.”

💙: who is more protective?

He watches her from near the treeline, crouched down low, one set of knuckles in the deep loam offering himself balance. She rabbit runs and for a moment he is consumed more in her motion than watching the surroundings. Shapely legs and perfect little feet fleet, flashing their tawny hue in the sun. Braids bouncing down her back. Go, girl, go. She almost makes it. But on her blind side there’s a blur. Taller than her. Near twice as broad. Intends to take her down like a lion on the Savannah. Billy sees red. Literally. And he springs. Primium laced muscles and bone primed and pumping at optimal levels. Gives him a deceptive speed and the length of his stride eats up the earth at his feet. He clips the body at the waist, drives him to the ground. Makes him drop the weapons at hand that break harmlessly open. There’s a struggle. Of course there is. Half-powered punches that gain his victim no leverage, a rolling tussle where he keeps coming on top, shoulder crashing into chest until he turns and coughs. Gasping for air. Body changing to something harder than flesh, but slow. He gets in one more good punch.

“Billy.” He looks up. Andy’s standing there. Pinning her in his arms. Her feet dangle off the ground, her eyes wild. One of his hands wrapped around her throat. A short jerking twist and she’d-- ”Let him go.” He blinks. Looks down at Baz, sees him for the first time. Realises the weapons are water balloons. And Beth? She still has the football in hand, because she’d crossed the finish line. Their point, then. He still doesn’t understand all the rules to this combination flag {American} football and water balloons and trivia game. Billy hitches to his feet. Offers an apologetic hand to Baz who declines. Politely. When Baz crosses over to Andy’s side, Riley lets her go. Gives her a little shove toward Billy. There’s a fading hand-print around her neck, but she smiles and kneads her head into his chest. He puts an arm around her and glares at the other two who are checking each other over.

Riley will learn one of these days that he’ll keep his hands off her. And he’ll learn it a broken bone at a time, his or someone else’s.

💚: who tends to get sick more often? who is better at taking care of the other?

She stitches his skin. He feeds her soup. They sleep like the dead.  She tends to his scars the way he shepherds her dreams. They work.

💜: who said "i love you" first? or, if neither has said it yet, who is more likely to say it first?

He said once, the first time. She rejected it out of turn. She repeats it later. They never speak it again. But they do everything to make it manifest. Every touch and every look everything they do for one another.  But the words sit in their throats. Haunt their eyes. Loud. Shrieking. How the rest of the world doesn’t hear it, he’ll never know. She’s asleep now, and his fingers trail through her hair. She looks so innocent, so untouched by anything, even him as her chest rises and falls with quiet breathing.

How many times are they going to spiral around each other?  As many as it takes. Until they can howl down the heavens.

💛: who believes in soulmates?

Nails dig into the back of his neck as he holds her fast. One arm around her hips. One climbing the trellis of her ribs like ivy, fingers resting in the space between her shoulders as she arches back. His face pressed into the wide valley between her breasts. The harsh echo of his panting breaths, the sweeter song of the guttural moan he’s dragged out of her throat, her throat exposed, mouth parted in a rictus of pleasure-pain. She calls it the Lotus position, the way she’s seated in his lap, and he’s buried to the hilt. Legs wrapped like chains around him as the last twitches and jerks bleed him dry inside of her. She calls this tantric. Finishing together. Raising power. He calls it love and his is hers and hers alone. And there’s only one way that will ever end. “Death first, Izzy.” He writes the words across her sweat soaked skin. “Always.” She answers and swans her neck into his shoulder where her teeth draw blood.