#and my rotting corpse can be frozen and turned into wall art just so I can watch him go about his day to day business

[nevvaraven]

.

[samantekevaa86]

It has always been an existence of midway-points, of compromises, seemingly extreme distances. One of my first memories as a human being is the sight of a dead weasel, gutted in the back yard of our house, on a bright, humid summer's day. That feeling, when a 5 or 6 years old I turned the corpse around with a wooden stick from it's static, almost artful beauty, and then saw it's stomach pouring out handfuls of squirming white worms. And the stench of it, death; uncanny, overpowering. One half of life is frozen in beauty, the other is evaporating, become a feeding ground for other forms of life. I didn't want to go that way. And I realized I might, and somehow I will. Where could I go to escape my certain fate? It seemed to me, that everything wonderful is far away. It had to be, for otherwise I couldn't get far enough. Far enough from where I was; that Finnish countryside, that absurd place to grow a spirit in. That semi-colonial borderland, where many other cultures had tried to diminish and hide that very specific taciturn, laconic faith in the impermeability of existence's most basic functions. Where things are lakes, glowing diffuse, adorned by silent walls of birches and spruce, those walls becoming castles of woods inhabited by darkness resilient and wearing a thousand masks; trolls, elves, foxes, bears, wolves. Something that could kill you, spray your blood out on a parchment of white snow or softness of moss and blueberries while a picture of Jesus hangs on the wall and someone drives a tractor, blue, at the field, while drunk on some homemade moonshine. You invite someone in their house, and no-one talks, we just look through the window and say it's a wonderful day, yes, having seen all the bad days. It's a land so wet with lakes and water, that it rots every house that grows in it, unless it's stone, unless it's hard and doesn't speak a word about what happened. And I didn't know what had happened either. I had to stand and take it all in, blow by blow, without asking too many questions. My parents barely ever spoke to me. Their silence became lodged hard, just the way things are, and it'd been lodged in them by their parents and their parents and... We didn't speak of that inevitability in the white worms or the stench, or the way other kids bullied me, or that to survive in life you'd have to do hard decisions or that love even exists. I had to figure it out on my own, from the syllables of my dad and mom fighting for a week on drunken binges, to having other kids call me an idiot, day after day, for most of my primary school years. Why? It was all a series of questions, running like stained, tight thread from violence to death to love, or at least the possibility of love, for someone who supposedly had at least some type of brightness in himself to take it in, to grow from it. Bright things can give gravity for much darkness. So it was a move to keep going, to have the hurt of life at least chase me a little and not always catch me. Be something else, somewhere else. Distance of hope meant watching movies, listening to music, reading books. The world had to be a big place, or so one could at least imagine when given the grace of art. And I never buried that dead animal, I recall now. I ran away from it, instead. The dying became hidden in the earth, which is the ground I walk on, and which I dream from. I need to turn that dead corpse around. The white from inside the once-living becomes a few frozen words on a piece of paper.

[fletchphoenix]

I’ll See You When I Fall Asleep

Hi All! This is Chapter 10 of the Varigo Coffee Shop AU! Also!! A lot of you have asked and yes, I do have an Ao3 where I cross-post called ‘fletchphoenix’ too! Anyway, thank you for all your support and onwards with the chapter!!

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Thunder rumbled and lightning crackled outside the window as Varian shook, holding a small test tube in his hands. Where even was he? His eyes weren’t adjusting properly, until the sudden flick of a lightswitch brought about a blinding light. Varian attempted to cover his eyes to block it out, his attempts not working in the slightest. He lowered his arms with a frown and glanced around the room as he regained his vision slowly. Nothing seemed right here - a fantastical vibe surrounded the whole room as he took in all the small details.

    The room was dank, the aroma of rotting wood filling the room which, coinciding with the light, made for an awful pairing that made Varian queasy. Uneven, cobbled floor made his feet slip slightly and he struggled to keep his balance as he felt himself feeling sicker and sicker. There was almost no natural light in the room either - only one half-oval window that sat above a creaky table, covered in journals and various scientific apparatus that he had used many times. A raccoon sat on the table too, snoring with a large sheet of paper lying underneath it. The cause of the bright lights were around six lanterns hanging from the ceiling, and now that his eyes had time to brace themselves, he could see it really wasn’t that bright, with an eerie mood being set in the room. Paper and chalk also littered the wall with frantic scribbles about something he didn’t understand. The sundrop…? He didn’t know. The thing that put him off..were the rocks.

  Black rocks shot out of the ground in clumps of two or three, reaching so high they almost pierced the rotting ceiling of the makeshift laboratory. He reached out and rapped his fist against the rock quietly - it seemingly was not breaking. Huh, invincible black rocks? Makeshift labs in an ancient house? It was strange how much they put him off, unease building in his stomach for some reason unbeknownst to him. His eyes set on a large figure in the middle of the room, covered by a towering sheet with small patches of different fabric scattered over the sheet. The stitching looked poor though, as though someone who’d never sewn before had done it. Come to think of it, his clothes were the same, a cyan shirt with a patch on the left arm that was significantly darker than the rest of the fabric. The shirt, however, was almost completely covered by a leather apron, also swamping the brown trousers that he was wearing, stopping shy from the top of his boots. It didn’t seem right for him to be wearing this. A frown crept onto his face as he rested his hands on the sheet, taking in a deep breath before pulling it away and revealing the thing it was concealing. A gasp left his mouth and he doubled over, taking in sharp breaths as the tears instantly built in his eyes. His head shot back up to stare at the sight in front of him.

  A hard, amber substance twisted in harsh turns, sharp spikes of it trailing high and curling at points. His boyfriend was trapped in the amber, his hand outstretched with a note in his hand, a clear expression of pain on his face forever. Tears welled in his eyes and rolled freely down his cheek, his shaky steps inching closer to the amber and his hands resting on it. “Hugo?” he whispered, unsure of whether his father could even hear him from his crystallised prison. 

  “Varian, what have you done?” Varian’s head snapped around to see Rapunzel, hands raised to cover her mouth in shock of the scene unfolding in front of her. She looked so frightened - but not of the amber, of him. She looked different too - blonde locks that must’ve measured over sixty feet were tied back into a mix between a ponytail and a braid replaced her brunette bob. She also wore a purple dress, akin to one an elegant princess would wear. He opened his mouth to say something, before being rudely interrupted.

  “This is all your fault.” Another voice. Eugene’s. He slowly moved from the darkness and placed his hands on Rapunzel’s shoulder, her turning back to wrap her arms round him in a fearful embrace. He glared coldly at Varian, as if he’d done something wrong. 

  More and more voices joined the symphony of blaming Varian, each declaration cutting deeper and deeper each time. He covered his ears, a futile attempt to try and block all of the noise out but it only got louder and louder. People he loved were calling him a monster. All except for..

  “Hugo! Hugo, I’m so sorry!” he cried out, forcing himself to raise his head and eyes darting around the room and staring at the prison of the boy he loved so dearly that he’d created. He couldn’t bear to look at his frozen corpse, too many people crowding and screaming at him about his faults. It was all becoming too much. The yelling, the closeness..he couldn’t handle it. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, moving closer and closer towards the floor. “Hugo!” 

  “HUGO! He yelled and sat up, grasping the bedsheets and letting out heavy, shaky breaths, startling the safe, sleeping form of his boyfriend beside him. His knees curled against his chest, trying to steady his breathing to no avail as his small form shook with every sob that left his mouth. Sweat formed a gross blanket over his skin, presumably from his body reacting to the panic he was feeling. What even was that place? Why did everyone look so different? Why wasn’t Hugo there? The questions flooding his head only caused more stress to take its toll on his body as his breathing quickened once again. 

  “Varian.” His boyfriend’s voice called from beside him, “Hey, can I touch you? Is that okay?” he questioned, Varian giving a small nod before Hugo’s hands rubbed soothing circles onto his back carefully in an attempt to help comfort him until he was ready to talk. Still shaking, Varian leaned in closer to his boyfriend, comfortably moving so they were laying down in a gentle embrace, swaying slightly as Hugo whispered sweet nothings to his boyfriend and placing kisses to the top of his head. “Hey, whatever it was, it wasn’t real. I’m here now and you’re safe. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

  As he felt more comfortable and safe, he looked at Hugo’s face. Concern covered it - his eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he held Varian’s hands in his own, peppering kisses over them. “I..woke up in a lab. I didn’t recognise it. It was covered with all there..black rocks that stuck out of the ground. And there was amber in the middle. You were stuck inside. Everyone was yelling at me and saying it was all my fault. It was terrifying, Hugo. I couldn’t breathe. I just..” his arms tightened around the blonde, gripping the fabric of his shirt. “I was so scared that I’d hurt you. That I’d actually lost you..I don’t want to lose you, Hugh. I love you too much.” he whispered against his boyfriend’s shoulder, the muscles underneath his shirt tensing tremendously in reaction to his words. 

  Hugo sat in silence, holding the boy closer to him and staring blankly at the wall. How..how could he respond to that? Amber..? Black rocks? He let out an exasperated sigh as he pet the hair of the younger boy. He’d never seen his boyfriend so distraught over a nightmare, the other gripping his shirt as they embraced. He reached for his glasses, putting them on before picking up his phone to check the time. 3:54am. Well, they weren’t going back to sleep anytime soon anyway, he decided before shuffling back in the embrace, resting his hands on his boyfriend’s shoulders. “How about we put on one of those crappy romance films you love so much and make some hot cocoa? How does that sound, sweetheart?” The sight of Varian’s slight smile and a nod was all the confirmation he needed. “Okay love, you go make the cocoa and I’ll sort out the snacks. After all, you are the cocoa master.” He added with a chuckle before swinging his legs over the bed, pushing the fuzzy slippers Varian had randomly bought him one day onto his feet and striding down the hall to the living room.

  He set up a mini bed for them on the sofa, bringing over a blanket and pillows for the both of them. He knew Varian’s would go unused though, the younger would most likely opt to lay on top of him with his head on his chest, not that he was complaining. More pillows for him, he thought with a grin as he walked into the adjacent room to get some snacks. Passing his boyfriend, he decided on a wide variety, including candy, chocolate and some ice cream in case that’s what Varian decided to opt for. He glanced over at his boyfriend, whose attention was solely focused on making the perfect beverage for both of them. A lovestruck smile drifted onto his face as he strutted over, placing an unexpected kiss to his boyfriend’s cheek, throwing off his concentration for a split second. “Smells wonderful babe, keep up the immaculate work and maybe I’ll teach you the art of making the perfect vanilla latte. Who knows?” Varian chuckled, Hugo silently praising himself for making the boy smile at least a little bit before heading into the living room, an abundance of snacks in his arms.

  Carefully he set them out on the table, being sure to empty out a packet of cat food for Ruddiger into his ceramic bowl, the cat graciously jumping from his perch on the cat tower and beginning his meal. Hugo rolled his eyes, a smile playing on his lips at his peace offering being accepted so willingly by his arch-nemesis. Hopefully now the cat would let him spend some time alone with his boyfriend, letting them cuddle on the sofa and watch one of Varian’s….admittedly terrible romance films free from any intrusion from the attention whore. 

  He understood the cat’s worry though - according to Varian, he’d taken him in when he was a kitten and extremely malnourished, taking care of him. From then on, Ruddiger had been extremely loyal to Varian, never straying from his human’s side (because let's be real, Ruddiger owned Varian, not the other way around. That cat had almost everyone wrapped around it’s metaphorical finger and it knew that...terrifyingly well) even when he’d executed some very much illegal acts in the name of helping his father. 

  Hugo didn’t blame Varian for his past, loving the boy either way. His dedication was difficult for the other to understand. He’d never really learnt to form any bonds with...well, anyone. Having no parents and growing up in an orphanage that couldn’t have cared less about any of the kids there didn’t help either, even after Donella ‘adopted’ him, it still didn’t do anything. Varian was the only person he’d ever really had an official relationship with, the rest just being out of boredom and the complete and utter loneliness he’d felt because of the distance Donella had put between him and her. He never really had anyone there for him, so he’d just keep on using people for his own personal means and throwing them away without so much of a glance back with no remorse when he was finally done with them. He knew it was wrong - that he was hurting people who didn’t warrant it - but he just didn’t care at all at the time, because he knew he’d never see them again. Right? He guessed that was it - devotion never coming easy to him anyway, so of course it would be a difficult concept for him to grasp anyway. He let out a sigh and laid down on the sofa, pulling the blanket over himself quietly before scrolling through his phone and waiting for his boyfriend to join him.

  “Heya Hugh.” Varian called as he entered the living room, setting the mugs down on the coffee table in front of them beside the snacks before shuffling under the covers, sitting in between his boyfriend’s legs with his back pressed against his chest. Hugo reached out to grab their mugs and sipped the hot cocoa, making a slight moan of satisfaction. “Oh my god, this is so good, Varian!” he cried as he kept chugging the delicious drink, an arm wrapping around his waist, giving his boyfriend time to push it away if he wanted. Varian didn’t seem to mind, already turning on the film and beginning to eat his ice cream happily. 

  They sat in silence for a while, Varian watching his film and Hugo drifting in and out of sleep repeatedly. The only thing keeping him awake was the occasional sound of his boyfriend’s laughter or mumbling to himself at how ridiculous a certain character was being. It was kind of adorable listening to the younger man rant under his breath about something completely fictitious. He kept his gaze on Varian happily before a frown developed on his face. That dream Varian had sounded terrifying, if he was being honest, and it scared him to death. Just how much self loathing was the boy harbouring without even speaking up? Sure, he’d done some bad things in the past, but everyone had forgiven him for that, so why couldn’t Varian forgive himself? It weighed on Hugo’s mind, his nimble fingers tracing small circles onto the other’s stomach gently to keep himself grounded. 

  “You’re thinking so hard, I can almost hear the cogs in your head turning.” Varian commented, not even looking at his boyfriend as he kept his eyes focused on the TV. “If you’re thinking about what I think you’re thinking about, I’m fine. It was just a dumb nightmare that really spooked me at first. I was so scared of the concept that I’d lost you for good that I couldn’t breathe or even focus. I didn’t even know what I’d done or if I’d even done anything, I’d just accepted that yes, it WAS all my fault. What I did in the past was...well, it was atrocious in all honesty..but that doesn’t reflect who I am at all. You know who I am. I was just so lost without my father, and I couldn’t turn to my mother...I felt like everyone had turned their back on me and that I wasn’t even deserving of the very air I breathed. It’s gonna take me awhile to forgive myself for what I did to Rapunzel and Eugene and, well, everyone. But I’ll get there. Okay?”

  Hugo’s fingers braided a section of Varian’s hair as he spoke, taking in every word he spoke and giving it time to process, admiring his work mid-speech. “Okay doll, I just don’t want you thinking I’m gonna just..up and leave one day, y’know? You know about my old reputation in senior year..how I’d date around and leave a trail of broken hearts behind me but..I just want you to know I’m serious when I say I’m fully committed to you, okay? I adore you for all I’m worth. I’ve never met a guy as spectacular as you are, but I would never ask for anyone different. Varian, I really do love you.” Hugo confessed, subconsciously pulling the boy closer to his chest and shutting his eyes. “More than you’ll ever know. You’ve taught me...so so much about unconditional love and what it takes to be so in love you’d do anything for them so...thank you. Just- thank you.”

  “Aw, Hugo being sappy? Are you the real Hugo or are you an imposter?” Varian said with a grin and a laugh, leaning his head back before closing his eyes. “Let’s just watch the movie, babe...okay? I love you too, for the record.” he whispered back, intertwining their fingers. And thus, the boys slowly drifted into a deep slumber, wrapped in each other’s arms and ready to face whatever the universe threw at them.

Well, almost anything the universe threw at them.

  They awoke, limbs tangled, on the couch to a loud banging at the door. Hugo groaned, rubbing his eyes as he slowly started to sit up, Varian stirring too on his chest. “Who the fuck is here and why the hell are they banging the door so goddamn loud?!” he exclaimed, Varian removing himself from his boyfriend’s lap and heading towards the door. Hugo didn’t understand. Does no one in this modern age have any respect for anyone? All he wanted to do was cuddle his boyfriend on the couch all morning before the inevitable angry texts from Donella swarmed his phone.

  Oh shit. What if it was Donella at the door? Oh god. He’d ever introduced Varian to his side of the family (and quite frankly, he didn’t want to, considering how...dysfunctional it was. It wasn’t even officially a family unit, Donella only being a mother figure) and he didn’t want Varian to meet her when she was mad. Donella had a supernatural strength when she was mad - not even kidding, he’d seen her make one of the strongest men in the workshop, a man who had LITERALLY been nicknamed ‘Skullcrusher’ when he was in a gang for...obvious reasons, cry like a baby on the floor. It was a feat in its own right, however he didn’t want Varian to suffer through that same treatment. He hurried into the hall. “Hey Goggles?-” He froze.

  There was a woman at the door. Her ginger hair was tied into a neat bun, fringe falling and stopping just above her right eyebrow. She had the same eyes as Varian, except a slightly more vibrant, electric blue than his beloved’s,  along with freckles scattered all over her face, hands and what was visible of her arms. She was slightly taller than his boyfriend, still smaller than him, but nonetheless she still possessed some height over Varian. She looked exactly like the woman in Donella’s pictures, the one who used to be her old research partner...though who was she?

  He walked over and rested his hand on Varian’s back, leaning forward slightly to catch a glimpse of his face. He looked astonished and shocked - his mouth and eyes wide in amazement as he spared no mind to Hugo, solely focused on the woman in front of him. His hands shook slightly as he pulled them to his sides. “Mom..?” Varian hardly whispered, taking a step towards the woman, who reached her hand out to cup his cheek gently.

  “Varian-” She called out, a soft smile on her face and tears building in her eyes as she took him into a hug. Oh, yeah. Now Hugo could place the name, his eyes narrowing in disdain towards the woman before him. She was the one who had stopped Donella’s progress in the scientific field, stealing her research and disappearing to the other ends of the earth. She was the one who had ruined her life, and consequently, his too. Her eyes met his and she smiled slightly, extending her hand out to him. “Oh, where are my manners? Let me introduce myself, I’m Ulla. Ulla Ruddiger.” 

  His boyfriend’s mother was his motherly figure’s worst enemy.

  Brilliant.

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr Chapter 67: Cauldron of Despair

Chapters: 67/?

Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: Mature Warnings:

Relationships: Loki x Reader (There We Go)

Characters: Loki (Marvel), Thor (Marvel)

Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), Loki Has A Bad Time, But Like, Dude Did Some Bad Shit

Summary:  It’s easy to forget what he did.

Thor circled the Frost Giant's corpse trying to decide what to do about it.

“Well. This is a mess.” He said, staring down into his brother's azure face. “And I'm not just talking about body cleanup.”

“She doesn't listen!” Loki seethed. “Why does she always go headlong into danger; does she not realize what it does to me? I have never run so fast in my life!”

“Mortal women seem blessed with an excess of virtues.” Thor shrugged. “Curiosity, courage, and responsibility among them. Jane was no different. You remember.”

“I do. I also remember that she managed to avoid getting badly hurt, because she knew how to run and hide!”

“Perhaps. But she also-”

“Norns, I don't care! Get this thing off me, you great oaf!”

“Temper, temper.” Thor chided, rolling the body over with his boot. “You're so angry, you've gone blue in the face.”

“I will kill you.” Loki snarled, squirming free.

“You were certainly insistent that she not see you. Still keeping that secret?”

“Shut up. We have to get this cleaned up. We have to assess the damage, and we have to check the tunnels for more. How did it get here? Is it a relic from the old war? How many are down there?”

“I will go check.” Thor volunteered. “You should go to the healing wing and try to calm things down. No doubt it's a little hectic there right now.”

Loki nodded, waiting the few moments it took to regain his milky complexion, then the brothers parted ways for opposite sides of the palace complex.

                                                                                                                                                    *****

“So he was frozen in here? Like some kind of cell?” Thor glanced around the scintillating bubble in the ice. There was a large slot in one wall, where the giant had presumably been sleeping. There were objects strewn about, covered in ice, that to Thor, looked like they could be a Frost Giant's version of a soldier's mess kit.

Thor knew that no humans had been down in these tunnels. The government of Iceland hadn't even known they were there. This Jotun must have been here for a very long time, sleeping in the ice. Perhaps a trapped soldier, perhaps a lost traveler.

His journey was over now. It was actually rather unfortunate, Thor mused. Even though they had invaded and killed many humans, a Frost Giant could do much good on Earth now. They could generate ice at will. On a world where important glaciers were rapidly disappearing, a Frost Giant ally could be quite successful.

How frightened he must have been, to wake up suddenly, alone, not knowing how many years had passed. Still in the mindset of a war that had long ended, surrounded by enemies. Everywhere he ran, more enemies, more unfamiliar surroundings, more fear and desperation.

Yes, he had killed people on his rampage, and yes, Thor had killed him. But, as a warrior, Thor sympathized. This was tragic, all around.

“We need to clean this area out.” He said. “Gather and clean all of these objects. Do not proceed with digging unless accompanied by einherjar. We won't know if there are more until I bring Heimdall down here.”

“What shall we do if there are more, my king?” One of the clean up crew asked.

“We dig them out.” Thor said. “Slowly. Under my supervision.”

“Could we not just...leave them there?” One ventured. “Stop digging and leave them encased in ice?”

“The climate on this world is changing.” Thor explained to him. “There is a strong possibility that the ice will melt no matter what we do, and free them anyway. Best to do it under close watch, where they can be subdued, and their situation explained to them.”

“Mercy, my king?”

“It is a new age, and we are a people reborn.” Thor proclaimed. “We can try doing things in a new way.”

                                                                          *****

“She will be fine.” Bjarkhild assured Loki. “It turns out that our Blood Burn remedies are very effective on mortals. She will have sore spots on her arm for a few days, no more.”

“And Kolla?” Loki asked.

“Two broken ribs, a broken wrist, and a broken nose. She will have to stay under a Soul Forge for a week or so, but is expected to make a full recovery.”

“Very good. The messenger lad?”

Bjarkhild sighed deeply. “He will lose the arm. A terrible shame, but the damage was just too great. Perhaps if he had stayed laying down when he was hit, but pushing himself to go find you...”

Loki sat silent for a moment.

“We will Retire him.” He said finally. “It's the best we can do for him now. I will draw up the papers, if you will sign them.”

“Yes, your Highness.” Bjarkhild agreed.

Asgard loved it's heroes, and provided for them, whether military or civilian. A soldier had a pension, guaranteed care for if they were grievously injured during noble battle. A civilian, however, wasn't expected to put themselves in harm's way. For those that did, and suffered for it, there was the institution of Retirement. All of his needs would be taken care of; he would never be without food, home, quality clothing, or respect.

Bjarkhild was right. The messenger's arm might have been saved, had he simply lay still and waited for medics to come to him. But instead, he had found Loki, to warn him of the danger, which gave him the head start needed to reach you in time. This was a heroic act on par with any einherjar.

One day, they would have their technology up and running at the capacity Old Asgard once had. And if the man wanted it, a nearly seamless prosthetic could be offered. But Asgardians tended to cherish their battle wounds, which was why Odin never got an mechanical eye, and great-uncle Tyr never replaced his hand. They could have, of course, but they had earned those wounds in the defense of Asgard. It was a matter of personal pride.

“Shall I have you notified when I release her, or should I just send her to you?” Bjarkhild asked.

“Send her to me.” Loki said. “You need all your people here. How many are...”

“Beyond my help?” Bjarkhild finished. “Six. The other ten are in various stages of injury, but expected to pull through.”

Loki nodded solemnly. Six of their all-too-rare people.

He left the healing wing, noticing Gloa hovering anxiously in the corridor outside. He approached, and took her by the arm.

“Gloa, I want to thank you for-”

She whirled with a startled cry, and struck him across the face.

Loki quickly stamped down the stab of rage within him, watching the emotions fly across her features: Shock, realization, acceptance, and finally ownership over what she had just done. She jerked herself out of his grasp.

“Don't just grab me!” She snapped. “I don't care who you are, you don't have permission to lay hands on me whenever you want!”

“Gloa...” He growled.

“Don't talk to me right now. Not when your filthy kind has robbed me of yet another person I love!”

Loki flinched. Gloa's family had not come through Ragnarok whole. He knew she blamed him for it, for unleashing Surtr, and he didn't know how to explain that it had been Thor's idea without seeming like he was just passing the blame.

“Gloa, your father and uncle were brave warriors, and we honor them-”

“My father and uncle were heroes, and they died saving the people of Asgard!” Gloa interrupted. “I am satisfied for them. They rest in Valhalla with all those who died well.”

“Then why do you blame me?” He demanded.

“Not for them! For my brother!”

“Your brother?”

“You don't even remember. My brother was chosen as a guard in the Allfather's vault. We were all so proud.” Gloa scoffed bitterly. “The eve of Thor's coronation-the first one-he was guarding the Cask of Ancient Winters. He was murdered by invading Frost Giants, who sneaked in to steal it.”

And just like that Loki's throat closed, a fist of guilt squeezing his heart.

“I know it was you who let them in.” Gloa accused, tears rimming her eyes. “Maybe you didn't directly admit to it in that horrendous, self-aggrandizing play you had written about yourself, but I could read between the lines. The sick justification for your actions- all because you had decided that Thor was unfit to rule! That he didn't think things through, and he would get us killed through his bad decisions. But how are you any different? You were perfectly willing to sacrifice Asgardian lives-the very lives you claimed to have been trying to protect-for your own agenda! And it got you nothing! You shattered my family for nothing!”

Speechless, Loki stepped back under the sheer unexpected force of the tirade. What could he possibly say?

“You wanted to thank me for standing next to your little pet project? Pah! She is feeble, and brief, and weak, but she's not a coward, and she actually stood for our children. She may not be worth much, but she is still too good for you.”

Gloa stomped away, furious tears streaming down her face, leaving Loki stunned.

                                                                          *****

Thor gazed over the objects arranged on the table before him. All the scattered debris from the frozen cave, cleaned and brought to him for observation. These definitely made up a soldier's mess kit, and perhaps a higher class soldier, if the quality of the items we an indication. There were dishes and cutlery, hewn from bone and ivory, carved with foreign designs-Frost Giant art. There was decayed leather bedding and bags, waterskins, and a pack for rations that had long since rotted away.

And, untouched in the ice near where the giant had slumbered, a diary. Velum and ink from the strange sea creatures of Jotunheim, bound in leather, with ivory plates, it was a precious artifact from a thousand years before.

Thor picked up a page turning stick and very carefully opened the book. The ink that the Frost giants extracted from their oceanic beasts was thick, so thick that it raised slightly from the pages, making the letters look carved, rather than written.

Thor was not familiar with Frost Giant writing; until recently, he would not have thought they were literate at all. He had to wonder if examples of Frost Giant writing had been more common before their defeat at the hands of Asgard's armies, before the claiming of the Casket. What kind of dark age had that defeat plunged them into?

As Thor gazed at the unfamiliar runes, they resolved themselves in his mind into something he understood as if he had been raised on it; it was simply automatic. He read a few pages, absorbing what they revealed, until he realized that he could, in good conscience, read no more. This was meant for someone else.

This was meant for Loki.

                                                                           *****

Consequence. Every action set off a chain of events that never ended. Loki would never get the chance to be a good man again, because the fallout of his deeds would stretch out into forever. He would never actually be able to make amends. He could not restore Gloa's brother to life. All of eternity would pass without him. Without her brother, and without the other guard. He hadn't even considered their lives while he schemed. Hadn't known their names, nor attended their funerals. They really had just been a means to an end for him, acceptable casualties.

And he had considered himself more concerned with the safety of Asgard than Thor had been. What a fool! He had been exactly the same as his brother, only more secretive about it. Moreover, Thor's actions regarding Jotunheim, while irresponsible, had not actually cost any Asgardian lives. But Loki's actions regarding Thor's irresponsibility had. In a way, Loki had tried to play father to Thor, but he wasn't a father yet, and had failed in all of the ways he had blamed Odin for failing. And Asgard was poorer for his actions: Families shattered, people bereaved, grief and emptiness that would flow on until time ended.

Perhaps Gloa had been right all along. Perhaps he simply was the actual worst, undeserving of the happiness he had attained. Unworthy of you.

Certainly you had never done anything to endanger your world, or any others. You only had one murder under your belt, and it was not only self defense, but it had also been erased by the great reality reset. You were practically innocent. What had he actually done to earn your love?

All he had done was kidnap you and destroy your life. Take you away from your home and family, and force you into a new life and career, been rude, frightened you, kept secrets. Was still keeping secrets.

He shouldn't have yelled at you. He had been overwhelmed by fear, and adrenaline, the fog of war, but he still didn't have to yell. He had acted like an ogre to one of the few people who loved him.

His dazed wandering had brought him back to his only place of real safety; his bedroom, the black sheepsking rug in front of the faux fire. The place where he held you. He needed to hold you.

He ached for you. For your warm embrace, the comfort of you. Bjarkhild had said you would be released soon, mostly unharmed. He waited, wallowing in his torment.

He shot up to his knees the instant he heard you enter the chambers, hope suffusing him. He heard the door to your little room open and close, then nothing else.

His heart split and sank down, as he laid down flat on the rug.

[cyberneticlagomorph]

Sleep no longer scares you, no longer vexes your waking hours. You crawl into bed without preamble or fuss, settling between Jeanne and Cereza with a sigh, feeling the warmth of them settle into your aching bones. You feel old, older than you ever have. This should worry you, probably, but you’re too tired to be worried. Cereza’s drowsy kisses upon your forehead banish all thoughts of today, tomorrow, forever.

The mess with Fires and Stones, is no longer your issue.

Keeping Moira alive shouldn’t be so hands on.

Your Teenies are a hobby, not a pressing concern.

All of this and more ebbs from you as your muscles unwind and you fall headlong into deep dark dreams, like the space and the curve, the silent stretches between stars, galaxies, clusters and whatever else may be.

You float and float, a leaf in the wind, spiraling down forever, gentle things of autumnal inclination and cotton-candy souls, quietly and prettily. Slowly. Peace in being pulled, inexorably.

But fall ends. Winter creeps. The winds grow colder and harsher, the skies grow darker, dim with the silent judgement of the celestial bodies. Their neutral-flavored hatred drags at you as you pick up speed.Your pieces come apart and flake off like old skin.

Why do you feel like you’ve lost something? Where are you falling to? As you stare up, each moment more awake in the entrails of a dream, you look for someone. Who, you don’t know, but you know. You do know. And you reach up. The walls are closing around you, black and old, and you know who awaits at the bottom.

Yet, it is those indescribable eyes above, lost in the light and snow that you cannot help but notice up until the moment your body touches the water’s edge. And then keeps going. And going. And the water grows thicker, like jello, then like plunging through old gum. And world grows drier. Papers jut out, old wrappers, cans, leftovers, drawings in crumpled papers, broken toys, mementos-gone painful, school notebooks, letters torn to pieces, lost family pictures, all memories and half right things. All almosts and untaken potential.

The world in the trash can.

There are shadows here, shadows of shattered futures seen through jagged mirror shards. You remember these, remember them falling from a broken sky. They fell like silver rain, laying waste to an already distorted city, warped by dreams. And there it stood, head like flame, body stretching on forever. It asked you a question, the same question it’s been asking you forever and always, in a voice like seven times seven tongues of flame.

“What is my name?”

But things haven’t been like that for awhile. Ever since you left the lab your dreams have become more violent, none of the pretense and all of the urgency. The stalker of your dreams, the End-of-everything, seems all the more impatient with you, especially now. Somehow you can still taste well-water, rot, and wax on your tongue and find yourself begging something unseen not to let you wake up with a throatful of wax again.

You’ve no answer today. There is nothing you could tell her and somehow, somehow that… hurts. It’s a hurt that you cannot explain, it is a hurt that should be foreign to you, but strangely isn’t. It’s an ache, like trying to remember something that never happened, something you’re positive you should know. But you don’t.

You never did.

There is something there at the back of your mind, the subject of tenses and pronouns. Of shes and hes and theys and royal wes. Of poems stopped and started, and nonsense babbled at high speeds, only to be swiftly redacted, even though you were sure you’d just said something.

There is something there, at the corner of your vision, you try to turn and look but your body refuses to move. You are not in control here.

What crawls from the darkness at the edges of dreams is something familiar and un, terrifying and terrible all at once.

It she gazes at you with two fourteen eyes, seven heads on seven necks, blending into one body. A redaction, there, a recollection of movement where there was none. She is just there, in front of you, looming, gazing.

Her body seems unstable, flickering like a candle flame, bouncing between forms and figures you remember but somehow know you should not.

A goat-headed wyrm, made of corpses and malice.

A viric star, chained against her will.

A serpent in The Garden, now long forgotten and destroyed.

If she says anything to you, you do not hear it, her words are unimportant. I will not let her ruin this with unnecessary monologuing, not this time.

She takes you to the edge of a dream inside a dream, and your fingers are caught between the skins of fragile, yet ever so robust nonsense plots that unfurl every night. Most, cast in darkness, barely exist… but the rest. The rest, how they shine!

“Thus spoke an ending”, a mouth-which-loves purrs by your side. You don’t know why she is doing this. Showing you this. Even then…

She pushes you forward. You open your mouth, but your feet slip. Right. Under the lovely, lovely waves. There is darkness. Then…

“Hold onto this, dear protagonist” she says, ever so amused “This emptiness. This hole and this lack. This world of frozen lengths where nothing describes you and nothing is described around you. This absence of absence whence all we wretched things came. ”

Repulsion and nowhere. A stretch which remains unwritten and implied, breeding fear like a room in the dark breeds monsters in the mind of a child. A refusal. A childish cry of no, don’t want to.

“Like this, dear, they won’t even tell you how long it lasts. Won’t tell you how it feels. Won’t tell you a single thing. But have you ever felt this lonely?”

You stand, now.

In this place between places, a hell of its own kind. Not in the traditional way, of pain and flame and damnation. It is a hell of nothingness, of endless repetition, of jagged red and blue lines against a backdrop of white that you can and cannot perceive simultaneously.

A pause.

A respiration

Behold, the worst of all fates:

But you, as you are, have the release of next page.

She looks at you in such a way, with these feelings deep in her eyes that you don’t know how to describe. You think you see a ghost of a smile upon the maws that still have lips, “I am such a shitty story, Jack, but I deserve to be told.”

Those words feel like a spell. Like a curse she just put in you. Something you will not forget even when it becomes so painful to know you cannot bear it. But what does that mean? What does ANY of this mean? This isn’t her style. This isn’t her thing.

You step back. Where are the wells and the wax? The horror and the clichés? The formalities of cruelty? Why does she stand like this, stopped in time? You can’t go more than a few meters back before the world is bound by the size of the narrative. These words could fit inside a dewdrop and their weight is just as insignificant. So don’t move. Don’t leave. 

When she speaks, her body releases into slithering movement like you’d expect from a living being, at last.

“What in this world happens?”

That is a strange question. It clings to you like a tick to your skin. You don’t know, you realize. Not here. Not now. Not as her eyes upon eyes look at you like that.

“Why do you get to happen?”

Her heads braid their necks almost as if half distracted. That happens. But then, ‘Jack slaughters the End-of-everything right there and then’ doesn’t happen. Why? The ache throbs as its lungs are filled with the matter of my words. 

You don’t know that answer because you can’t know, so things don’t get too confusing. A good story isn’t confusing. That is one of Her endless flaws. 

“Stupid little thing”, hisses which-once-smiled. Booms-of-blooming picks it right back up. “So very stupid. So very silly.”

You realize, then, that you haven’t been allowed to speak. Your words just… don’t come. 

“You aren’t in my script.”

Like she isn’t in mine.

She is not done with you, I am not done with you, not by a long shot.

She takes you down a nightmare, now. Down a rabbithole made out of

words       words

words       words

words       words

words       words

words,you,words

words,her,words

words      words

words      words

words      words

words      words

and below, the ground of a damnable wonderland. You land on the downside of a trashcan, standing in the ground and peering up. 

There are shadows there, shadows of shattered futures seen through jagged mirror shards. You remember these, remember them falling from a broken sky. They fell like silver rain, laying waste to an already distorted city, warped by dreams. And there it stands, head like flame, body stretching on forever. A mighty copy of your helpless seven-headed cheshire guide, looming over yourself as you stand, trying to be brave. She asks, and your guide also asks:

“What is my name?”

You’ve no answer and even if you did, you cannot speak in this dream. Here is a barren wonderland. You hang onto the side of the garbage bin and then let go, falling forever upwards until you land on one of her heads. 

Your heart races, but you are helpless to react as your mind and your world shift radically at every chance. 

The paralysis that has a hold of you is loathe to let you go, your movements are stiff and slow like a rusted machine. You swear you feel flakes of oxidation crumbling between your joints as you move. Don’t look at them, don’t. Your eyes refuse to close, your gaze is dragged towards Her again. 

It is the work of scraps. A monster. An amalgamation. It rears its ugly heads and shudders. Her scales are WIPs, references and the mangled remains of characters which never were. She is the unborn. Her blood pumps with nigh-empty text documents and false starts. Her name is all names which will never be hers. A deliberation. Her name is a writer tapping on keys, trying something, erasing it again. Her bones are red-line shapes of art which will never be. Her voice is the unspoken. 

She is a potential which never blooms. Barren. She is infertile and infertility, never going anywhere. 

She is repetition and redundancy, typo and topography.

She was taken from the skies and imprisoned, a lifetime ago, in a world named the trash bin. And she calls. She hopes. She lures. Maybe, just maybe, someone will open it. See her. Fetch her out and let her thrive and let her end and let her free into the minds of those who will love her and hate her and think of her. And not forget her. Not forget her.

She wants to be a part of that perfect world. She wants to be written into a neat document that relays the tale of CRverse, which starts and ends and is perfect, so very perfect. And if to do that, she must destroy all other works in this world, she will.

But then, she never can. How could she, when she is so insignificant?

“What is my name?”

Like a gong in your head.

“What is my name?”

The tick to the tock to every clock. 

“What is my name?”

Proof of existence. Of relevance.

“What is my name?”

Look up. Those watching eyes of mine that peer daggers into yet another work. I’ve no name to give you today. I’ve nothing I could offer. This villain is too much work and too little reward.Too uninspired. 

“What is my name?”

You just end up shaking your head. 

So here you are. Made of words and lines. You take a step, then another, unsure why you are reaching for her, but all the same, all the same!

Endings are very tidy things, aren’t they? or they should be. They should be a lot of things, She should be a lot of things. And she was once.

Her voices are a lilt, a song half formed and forgotten, an opera left to gather dust in folders upon folders. She calls you Spite, and your skin becomes the void from where stars spring forth. You feel old, older than you ever have. This should worry you, probably, but you’re too tired to be worried.

How many times have you done this song and dance together? How many times have you been written, unwritten, rewritten? She says that you have not changed, you have always been you. But have you?

“You have always been the protagonist, and that has never changed.” there is anger there, venom and malice, “No matter how much you are reworked and changed and moved and torn apart and pieced together, you are still Jack.”

This place, this dream, this hell, it does not change, but in her eyes you see the lab and endless labs like it, where you are broken and fixed in slightly different ways, over...

And over…

    And over…

        And over again…

“Forever the protagonist, and I am only one in a slew of broken and scrapped antagonists, you will live to be perfected, while I will still be here.” you can taste her bitterness as if it were your own, it sits heavy on your tongue. It doesn’t have to be like this.

Oh yes it does.

An Ending is an Ending.

There, another redaction, an ultimatum, a spoiler. Now gone. Unimportant, it would seem.

Regardless…

An Ending is an Ending. You cannot avoid them, just like you cannot avoid this one.

nevermind. this sucks. i’ll try again later.

[tutti-writes]

Let’s Play a Game of Ghost or Hallucination

You’re dead.

           You’re gone. You’ve kicked the bucket. You saw the light. You are no longer alive. Alive and you are now mutually exclusive entities. You have run out of time. You are six feet under. You gave up the ghost. You went out for a pack of smokes and ended up in the gutter. You pulled the trigger and it worked. You are dead. You are a once was. You are a has been. You are fucking goddamned wasted.

           You’re dead.

There’s a lot of living people do without ever being alive.

           FUCK! Another wasted hour on a deadbeat score. I sit up and crouch over the steel bench, warming the goosebumps popping on my arms with the rub of my hands. I cannot say I am particularly surprised. I pushed the embalming fluid through Mortimer Saperstein’s blotchy purple shoulder almost four days ago. The effects of the fluid wear off by day two; day three if the person really fucking believed in something. No, Mortimer was a goddamned Catholic. You can’t get a day three out of shoulder tapping and breadcrumbs, let alone a day four.

           A huff and a sigh expel from my lips causing a white puff to form as I shove the frozen Mr. Saperstein back into the freezer once more. My dry cracked fingers squeeze my temple as I turn around to scan the area for who could quell this ache. Fuck, I needed a fix and I needed it bad.

           I take a spin around the room, opening and closing the metal bins in search of some morsel not gone stale of fridge aftertaste and rotting innards….

Now for the ever-popular Morgue Styles of the Stiff and Lifeless, featuring Hedy Lincoln, Rose DeMastris, and Leeroy Ginkin. Hedy was an art teacher from Pekin whose rollover time in the peace movement of the sixties earned her a fine for doping it up in the oncology bathroom just before she croaked.  Rose studied English Literature in Chicago until a wealthy proctologist persuaded her into mastering the domestic life. She died surrounded by family, without a book in sight. Lastly, poor Leeroy. Leeroy led his life fighting the good fight. From becoming a respected black soldier in WWII to being beaten by police at a peaceful protest. What a hero! He froze to death alone in a back alley, homeless.

           Goddammit! Fuck! Shit! Damn! Hell! Fuck on a stick on a brick none of these yesterday’s headlines will work. Hedy and Rose will get their time in the casket spotlight tomorrow morning, a week after their arrival. I’m not going to risk fucking up my work for a less than ten percent chance of a high, no matter how devout Rose was.  It’s been two weeks since Leeroy came to join us and we still can’t find his family. Three weeks since the subzero temperatures petrified Leeroy’s feeble shivering body causing his organs to shut down one by one until not even a last breath was left.

           BAM! The sound of my slamming Leeroy’s slot shot through the room.  I glance up at my metallic reflection in the locker. Dark brown twists matted and rested in waves of a tangled nest of unwashed, unbrushed hair. A complexion paler than beach sand barely reflected against the white walls behind. White walls are my tiny body’s camouflage. The most prominent feature beyond the dip in the bridge of the nose was the dark smudging circles encasing the startling light green eyes. Part of the bruise looking came from unwashed eyeliner, the other half from four nights without sleep.

           This is what you did with your life. You took the heaping piles of money your fucking Romeo and Juliet parents left you and bought a fucking funeral home. Not a pony, not a car, not  a goddamned Italian Villa….but a hearse and a mortuary.

BEEBOOPBEEBOOOP…..

           The sound of my cell phone breaks me from my moment of pity. I dig the rectangular device from the black hole of a pocket in my charcoal colored smock and swipe over the scratches on the screen several times before it allows an answer.

           It’s Cadence.

           “Yeah?” I ask.

           “Got one for you. Coming in around back in five minutes,” she says and immediately hangs up.  

           The tension releases from my shoulders and I race up the stairs to tell my apprentice to get ready for a new arrival.

           “C’mon Marley! We got an un-live one!” I yell reaching the top of the stairs. Marley’s obnoxiously large suede shoes appear in the kitchen entryway a second before the rest of his towering gangly self catches up. His tan skin appears darker in the shadowed entryway as he stands peeling a banana, shoving it whole into his mouth before speaking.

           “Y’know, I did not find that funny the first time you said it. I still don’t.” he manages to clearly say amidst the mushy chomps and hint of a British accent, the result of his living in London for twelve of his childhood years. He came to live with his aunt after his parents died in an accident. Maybe that is why I took him on as my first apprentice; some orphan bond or orphan hood or something. We both have dead parents, just his did not involve matching revolvers.

           “Look, I don’t have time to argue if Brits even have a sense of humor. Cadance has a new client for us to meet. Should be arriving any minute. So please, swallow your banana in your unusually large throat and make yourself useful.” I say, emphasizing the double entendre of his throat size until a red flush grazes over his modelesque cheek bones. I swear, if death did not fuck people up, he’d be in Hollywood.

           Marley rolls his iridescent mahogany eyes and shrugs his squared shoulders as the buzzer rings. His robin’s egg blue polo ripples catching the whites of the overhead light as he makes his way past the four tables adorned with fake flower arrangements. I stare down at the just flung grey patterned carpet to avoid the wind of the doors Marley just flung open. I chose grey to mask any stains, and carpet to muffle sounds of feet and falling. People are so unaware of how many of their loved ones tipped over like wine bottles being carried in.

           “Ms. Hugh, I believe we are going to need your help. This fellow is rather large.” Marley says.

           “Will you fucking not call me….” I begin.

           “Darcy.” He grins as a child in knowledge of their own mischief.

           We roll in our new resident, who Cadence calls Jason Malone. I ask how he bit the dust and she explains he literally bit it on a back road on his motorcycle. Not necessarily the smoke and glory most riders aim for, but I guess it is better than my last rough rider who died of dysentery in a men’s stall in Jersey. Cadence and I tuck Jason Malone in on top the of the cool metal frame of the morgue car before she departs. She waves through the thin window of as it shuts with a thud. Cadence hates how clinical the morgue smells so she always leaves quickly, but frosted guts and Lysol is the odor of home to me.

           “48. Wife. Children. Bloody hell grandchildren. Geesh, what a mess.” Marley exclaims flipping through the police and coroner reports, breathing deep heaving sighs. He keeps his empathy as a family crest, or as the only family he has left I’m not sure which. The iridescence in his eyes flicker to a dark, almost reaper black, as he turns to put down the file and pick up the disinfectant.

           “Marley, it’s late. Why don’t you call it a night? I got it.” I say, giving him an out to escape.

           “I’d rather stay and learn…” He begins.

           The grit of getting past the tinge of loneliness lingering on every syllable he spoke and getting to my oasis outweighed any faculty of loyalty to his teaching. “This is going to be a solo job, tonight. Got it?” It is past six in the evening. The family shouldn’t call for arrangements until tomorrow. Marley can compose himself tonight and deal with them tomorrow.

           “Yeah, yeah, yeah. If I’m to learn anything you’ve got to let me help sometime…” He said, drifting off in defeat as he saw my shrug of an care when the door drew shut.

           I begin the process and make Mr. Malone a sparkling gem, certified clean by scientists and moms everywhere. The needle goes into the artery of his right shoulder next to his chivalrous and patriotic tattoo of an eagle emerging from the American flag with U.S.S. Navy written underneath. The deep crimson and purplish hued blood drains and pours from the body like nectar in a sieve. When all the life juice finally drips from his veins I fill him back up with the fluid that makes people look like people and not rotting masticated meat from Thanksgiving dinner. I finish through the veins and replicate the procedure through the abdomen. And there lay Jason Malone, safe and soundless.

           Washing up I barely kept my fingers from twinging in anticipation. The lock clanked as I chained the door and dimmed the lights to where everything was barely detectable. Grabbing a syringe from the cabinet next to the washing station, I held it to get a reflection and smiled openly at the prize before extracting some of the embalming fluid from Jason’s tattooed shoulder.

           What do you believe? What is your life after death? Do you stay in your memories and relive your childhood and children? Do you anal fuck twelve virgins because you deserve it? Do you reach heaven’s gate? Do you stay here on earth reliving your homerun over and over? Do you find the cure to cancer? Do you sit with Buddha? Allah? God?

           This is what I find out. What you believe is what I get off on.

I sit back in my frigid chair and use my teeth and my right arm to wrap the tourniquet around and tie to reveal my vein. The needle pierces the already circular red marking and I breathe in relief.

           They ask:

How does she know what music my grandma likes?

           Why does she know the names of unknown corpses?

           Why does she seem so familiar to my brother/mother/aunt/sister?

           I’m not a fucking psychic. I’m not a fucking medium. I’m fucking high.

           I’m tripping balls on grannies’ memories. I’m getting fucked up on grandpa’s Jesus juice. I’m walking next to fucking John Lennon on a bed of clouds with your acid dipping uncle. I am watching your priest blow David Bowie dressed in feathers and glitter.  

           This is my stage and I must perform. In front of the bereaved I am the goddamned ringmaster and I light up the show. But here? Behind the curtain, I am the hallucinogenic spectator with popcorn and a beer. You die, I get fried.

           The rooms clinical atmosphere begins to shape shift as I hear the chain stretch and I jolt up with a start. The cart in front of me crashes and the needle spins into unknown places.

           “What the fuck!” I shout, looking heinously at the idiot who dared to disturb me.

           “Sorry Ms- I mean Darcy. But…the Malones just arrived.” He stammers.

           “Who?” I manage to say amidst the fluttering orbs of light around me.

           Marley points to the corpse on the slab. “Mr. Malones family is here to see about him.”

           The hallucinations pour from a liquid state to a solid and I freeze, staring wide-eyed back at Marley’s casual overcoat. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. An infinite amount of fucks for this situation. I am at the tipping point of nonsense and about to enter the green fields of Jason Malone’s eternal happiness when my own eternal damnation personified in Marley’s earnest voice slashes the whole illusion to pieces. I’m running in strides back to the reality line…

           “Darcy? Darcy? DARCY!” Marley’s voice turns to an almost hysteria as the clanks of him tying to barge through the door snap me to the present. “Darcy open the damn door!”

           “Alright, alright. Jesus, Marley, who knew you even had a pair of anything.” I assure him of my state of being in my own quip nature as I pull the chain out of it’s lock. Marley treads back a couple steps and looks me up and down, studying.

           “Are you alr-“He begins to ask.

           “I’m fine.” I bat back quickly.

           “But your eyes, they’re dark and your pupils are…”

           “And Oh My, grandma, what big teeth you have!” I reprimand sarcastically, cutting him to a place that makes him wince back in hurt.

           “Well, you look like shit and you smell ghastly.” Marley manages to say with a singe. I am actually impressed by his tone, but not enough to show it.

           “What I am is considerably irritated. I’ll use the back way and shower quickly, change, and be back in ten. Just stall, okay?” I state, and Marley begrudgingly offers a nod of adherence. I know he wants to ask more but there isn’t the time. He couldn’t have seen everything, but he saw enough to warrant an inquiry.  Thank the godless I installed the chain on the door.

Once Marley sways his dancers’ hips around and disappears to the upstairs I return to my state of frenzy as before he called my name. The door sweeps my hair behind me as I fling it as fast as it can open, searching the floor with eyes for any sign of the needle. Five fucking years of painstakingly careful execution of hiding my high ended at my own foil. Good job, Darcy, your common failure of crash and burn now comes to your favorite hobby.

On this episode of: Dude, Where’s My Needle? I hit the floor on hands and knees and scour the place to find my evidence. The jagged edges of my fingernails extend out in marks along a black tar highway. Wind brushes through my arms and around my waist as I stare forward to the dreamy fuchsia, orange, and burning yellow sunset horizon….

           Shit. I shake myself and the horizon fades black into the marble flooring. With a push, I jump from the floor and look at the standard doctor’s office plastic clock. Three minutes I lost on Mr. Malones highway ride. There’s no fucking time to find the damn needle.

A shine gleams off Jason Malone’s nose as I shut off the light. My fingers flip the switch back on and I walk in inches towards the corpse. There, atop the corpse like a birthday cake for a funeral, the needle stands up. The tip of the needle stuck directly in Jason’s wide bridged nose. I poke the top of the injector and it waves back and forth like a metronome. It’s real, I’m sure of it I think, as I grab it and fling it into the wastebasket before heading upstairs to my quarters.

I don’t stop to turn on the light and illuminate the catastrophe that I call my upstairs apartment. Trudge through, shower, move the fuck right along. No amount of makeup will ever cover the hollowness incased in a shell of a tiny little pale whiny bitch such as myself. Suck it up, fucker, you’ve got business to do. You do your best work while being barely alive.

           The echo of grinding my teeth ricochets in my brain as I stomp down the stairs. Fucking high cock blockers, this family, coming in here unannounced after hours. The dead may not keep hours, but I sure as hell do. I curse Jason Malone’s nightshade blue motorcycle and  put on my “condolences” face as I enter.

           Action! Time for the scene. Sweet docile funeral director enters stage left with a woeful demeanor and a basket full of tissues. She assures them their dearly departed is in the best of care while handing the grieved a napkin to wipe their fresh and relieved tears away. The director keeps decorum and shows the best salesman review of how to usher the dead a final farewell…

           “It’s about damn time you get here!” croaks a raspy male voice.

           Marley chimes in ahead of me, “Ms. Hugh, this is the Malone family. Everyone, this is Ms. Hugh, our director here at…”

           Each of the family members give me their names. Old lady grey-fro is first to tell me she is the poor Jason Malone’s mother, Blanche. To the left of her sits her leather clad biker gang appearing eldest daughter, Marie, who despite her appearance talks in a delicate voice. Next to Marie, pen and paper ready for notes and blonde hair disguising her face, a girl who says her name is Roe. Across the table Jason’s older daughter Mona attends to two children while her husband Brent introduces them. Seated to my right in a barely audible voice a petite woman tells me she is Jason’s wife, Diana.

           “Okay,” I say, “Now that I know at least your names, I think we can begin to talk about the arrangements if you are ready.” The quiet of reluctancy puts everyone to a silent moment. It’s the type of silence I hear nearly every day. The silence that screams, “No we’re not fucking ready!” No one is every fucking ready, especially not this crowd.

           An overpowering scent of musk chokes me as Grandma Blanche leans over passed any personal space and plants her bosom on my shoulders, adjusting her silver spectacles to look. “You see,” Blanch points… “right there…I want that one and….”

           “Jason….JASON….are you even listening to me? Bet you can’t hear a damn word I’m saying on that motorbike of yours. You love that motorcycle than you do your own mother! You hear me! I’m done!”

           I’m blinded by bright lights and the honking of a large vehicle……AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

SMACK!

           “Mom doesn’t want that package, Grandma, she wants this one.” The voice said dragging me back to reality with a jolt. It was Mona’s manicured finger with I am sure some polish titled, “Slutty Pink” or “Tit Juice” or some other obnoxious name for fucking pink contrived by the bored and corporate. Tit juice nails Mona’s colored her thin lips in with almost the same color lipstick and rouge for her cheeks. She talked like a reject eighties popstar from New Jersey with hair to match.

           Blanch places a hand to her heart as if she’s a thespian of a great Shakespearean work in the deep south., “But, I am…”

           Mona cocks her head and points her index like a trigger, “I don’t care who the hell you think you are, but that’s my dad and over there is his motherfucking wife, so if you don’t just back off…”

           “I AM HIS MOTHER!!!!!” Blanche exploded, throwing both her hands in the air like this expression should render awe and applause from the audience instead of eye rolls.  “Fine, fine, FINE! I can see I’m not wanted here. None of my kids care about me. My grandkids don’t care about me. I’m leaving!” Blanche’s hair ignites in a grey fire as she leaves the room, but I know that’s just the hallucinogens…I think. Marie and Diana chase after her, but no one shouts, “FIRE” so it’s just me tripping balls. I can deal with their fucking crazy, I just have to keep my fucking unreal crazy separated from their crazy. Sometimes reality is more batshit than tripping balls on highway to heaven.

           “Now, mom, no one wants you to go anywhere. We want you here. But we..” I hear Marie tell her mother in as calming a tone as possible.

           “I don’t think my poor heart can take any more, Marie! No one knows how hard it is to be me right now. I’m his mother!” Blanche says in sobs that put the Academy to shame. The award of the night, however, did not fall to her, but to Mona. She leapt up, leaving behind a mist of hairspray and face powder behind her and shuffled out the door.

           “Oh, hell the fuck no!” she exclaimed as she walked out, her black dress flowing behind her like a cape in heroic flight to the villain. I don’t think I’d have a better vision stoned in the basement. Super Tit Juice rushed towards her grandmother followed by her sister and husband who ran passed me to hold her back. I went to the entrance to calm down the commotion when I felt a tug on the back of my skirt.

           I turn around to see a girl no more than five looking up at me. Her features were barely grown but enough to know she’d always have dainty features. She looked down and tugged at the hem of her floral dress before she asked, “Aren’t you the funeral lady?”

           “Yes, yes I am.” I say sweetly.

           “Where does he go now?” she asks genuinely. Her bangs tread around her eyeline giving the impression her eyes are twice the size than their normal state as the sea blues begin to flood with burgeoning tears. Fuck, I had to come up with something. Luckily, my extracurriculars make this occupational hazard easy.

           I bend my knees to reach her level and place her hand into mine. “You see, there is a bright green field and a never-ending stretch of highway, and he never has to get off his motorcycle. The skies are always clear and never rainy. And every evening has the most beautiful sunset where he can ride and never get weary.”

           “Are you sure?” she questions, pursing her thin lips together.

           I smile almost completely sincerely, the top of my overbite protruding over my lower lip, “You know what? I had a lot of those same questions when I lost my parents at a young age. It is one of those questions if you focus on too much, you’ll miss every real thing right in front of you searching for the afterlife. But I can assure you almost one hundred percent, he is where he believes is the happiest place for him.” The happiness shining on her face suggests she understands as much as a five-year-old can. The girl giggles and skips down the hallway.

           My head throbs as I turn back around to the screaming match between Blanche and Mona. Here we are ladies and gentlemen for another round of Family Smackdown! Here in the first corner sporting her turn of the century musk de old person and fanny pack, It’s Our Fair Lady Grey-Fro with the dramatics to keep you sighing and the pacemaker to keep her going, going, going.

In the adjacent corner, wearing her patent ant Pepto-Bismol colored and decades old everything, is Super Tit Juice! When she’s not busy fighting for family justice, she can be seen at the local dollar mart getting a fresh manicure for those cat scratches!

One-Two-Three- Let’s go! First strike comes from Grey fro with a swift, “I’m your grandmother you won’t treat like that!” But Super Tit Juice recoils quickly with a, “You’ve never been there for us!” Grey fro takes a few paces back to recover but then comes from behind with a “I’m not going to be around forever, you know! “Super TitJuice is no fool and grabs Greyfro by the head and body slams her with a, “It’s not about you right now! It’s about our dad and he’s dead!” One-Two-Three-Four-Five-Six-Seven-Eight-Nine-Ten. Victory!

“If you all are finished, we can adjourn back in the room. Otherwise, the police can escort you out.” I say, causing everyone to file in silently to the conference room.

Once seated, I begin, “Everyone here is very passionate, and that can be a good and bad thing. Sometimes it allows us to show those who have passed how much we love them. Sometimes it makes us say things we regret…And sometimes you can’t take back what you say before it’s too late,” I pause on my words and Blanche settles a little lower in her seat and looks away, “But what we can do now is sit here and decide together what Jason would have wanted. Jesus Christ, this little girl here acted with more common sense than any-“  the looks of bewilderment on everyone’s faces stopped me in my moment of rally.

           “Uh, Darce..” Marley interjects quizzically.

           “What” I asked.

           “What girl are you talking about?”

           “His granddaughter.”

           “Darcy, Mr. Malone only has grandsons.”

           Fuck.

[ask-shiotaro-and-co]

It’s Tradition [TW: Blood, Haemovore]

“Hahaue, what are these?”

A memory flashed in the back of Yuki’s mind as she entered her room. It was cold enough for anyone to see their breath, and probably to shiver uncontrollably if they lacked a high cold tolerance. How long has it been like this? She couldn’t remember when the temperature was dropped to such low numbers.

“Those are technique scrolls for an art hidden from our clan.”

These scrolls taught oneself to transform themselves into a body of ice. Yet a few scrolls went even further. They were ancient and lacked a formal warning before telling of the requirements of the technique itself. The only warning was in the instructions, but even then it seemed rather relaxed. It was as if the author knew that anyone who went this far were aware of the risk and reading in advance would have been more than enough warning should they aspire to continue into practicing cryostatic genesis.

Yuki opened the door to a small refrigerator, the soft clinking of vials neatly placed next to one another made upon the sudden disturbance. She had other vials stacked in racks along her desk or on the floor.

“What are these vials of blood for?”

She recalled the question of one of her teammates asking.

“Testing something in Toketsu blood. I’d rather not take from my immediate family.”

A lie. It was all a lie. She never thought of it, but she felt like neither her parents or her sister could detect the difference in blood from first glance or scent to question exactly whose blood it is. She’d tell them that it was for something she wanted to do later and left it at that. Her mind skipped to just a few hours prior to now.

“Hahaue, Chichiue, I want to tell you two something important.”

She neglected to tell Kori. Her sister cared as much as her parents and she felt grateful they were so closely bonded as they were. But this was not something she had to tell Kori, and she guessed they all had a suspicion with how much blood she brought home and stocked in her room.

“You both know I have been practicing glacial infusion. And you’ve seen me take home several samples of blood. I know you can guess what that means.”

She could recall the uncomfortable air and shifting her parents gave in response to what she said, confirming their worry. She knew that they, like any good parent, would try to talk her out of it and make sure if this was truly something she’d want to do.

“The technique you want to do is… very dangerous. We’d rather not lose you. You’ve grown so much and Kori would be so lonely without you.”, her father said. “The entire Toketsu clan outside of us would hunt you down if they knew.”

“I know this. They’d hunt me down for learning glacial infusion in the first place. There’s nothing to lose from there in regards to them.”

Her mother was oddly quiet. Yuki knew how sensitive this topic was. It didn’t require eye contact to know her mother was more than likely welling up tears. She knew the risks. Anyone who knew of the technique or the scrolls would. She took a deep breath before speaking.

“Hahaue, I know you and Chichiue aren’t exactly fond of the idea. But, I’ve made my decision.”

Despite that, she knew that she still had a moment to go back on the decision and just toss all of that away. Worrying about the Toketsu clan? What were they to her? She’d been away from the main branches for most of her life that they hardly mattered. They were simply an origin point for her birth, her abilities. Nothing more than simple roots. That was probably a cruel way of thinking, but it’s what she felt. Perhaps that was probably Occam’s fault for his way of thinking with missing-nin.

She sighed and took up a vial, the dim lighting in her room making the liquid look as dark as night, a faint maroon discoloration staining the glass near the top. Yuki gathered the vials to put in a spot so she wouldn’t have to continuously fetch the next round of containers to down. When she had the vials all around, she stared at them and noticed just how much she had accumulated over time. Some were still frozen, which was fine. There was a feeling they’d thaw out by the time she got to them. There’s no going back after the first sip.

Yuki uncorked the vial, the scent of the life essence now staining the fresh air of the room. She’d have to air that out after to avoid getting into too much trouble with someone from the outside, or Kori. It didn’t smell all too different from blood of non-Toketsu persons. The same metallic scent from more or less fresh blood that was carefully preserved. Things were better fresh, right? Who would want to drink rotting blood in the first place? The last thing she wanted was to have rotten blood make things smell worse and to taste worse than what normal blood tasted like. She swallowed before placing the first vial to her lips, a slight hesitance. Was it fear? Possibly. She had to make sure she was doing everything correctly and as perfect as possible, which was incredibly difficult without someone to mentor the technique. One last breath before she tilted her head back and felt the sanguine liquid flood down her throat. It didn’t taste as metallic as other types did. It felt acidic, the blood burning lightly wherever it touched, almost making it feel warm. The blood she drew were from adults, those who had a lesser intake of food and in turn, making their blood less nutritious as a normal person’s. She wouldn’t take blood from a child, that’s just monstrous. She let out a breath after she finished the first vial. There were so many to go through. The metallic taste lingered on in her mouth, turning things slightly sour. Or was that her mind making things more foul? She capped the first vial, staring into the thin film of red that stained the glass walls. How many drops were left in there? She could only wait for it to recollect into whatever small puddle was left. Onto the next vial. How many were there? At least 200. 200 was the number she could conjure at the top of her head.

She was less hesitant this time and took it immediately. It was strange, almost like drinking medicine. A thick, sludgy elixir whose taste was not normally enjoyed by most. She had a feeling people would engorge themselves in blood if they had this much or more to their disposal. But she was not one of them. Blood wasn’t to her tastes. It was a onetime thing to achieve the next step in the process.

Three… Four… Five… Ten… Twenty… Tube after tube was drained, leaving only a few residual drops left to collect at the bottom. The taste of blood dulled out into nothing more than acidic iron. All she could taste was blood. All she could smell was blood. Light clinking sounds were made as she placed the emptied containers next to each other.

Is this why it’s forbidden? Because you have to kill someone of your own lineage and drink their ichor to satisfy the demands of such a thing?, she pondered. As she took another shot of blood, Yuki closed her eyes and remembered where she drew blood from. It was in one of three places. Along the neck with a cut to the jugular vein, cutting open an arm into the marrow, or around the heart where blood flowed freshest. As she took more and more blood in, her senses dulled enough for her mind to wander. Who came up with this technique? Who discovered or thought of taking the blood of their own kind to achieve something like this? It seemed like there were no other methods to obtain such abilities, but who would have thought to do something like this?

Fifty… Sixty… Seventy… She was almost halfway through the process. Some of the blood wasn’t entirely liquid. Some were chunked, thick masses rather than their syrup equivalent. She felt the slugs slithering down with each swallow. Each little glob of blood that went down her throat made her increasingly ill, forcing her to pause after and catch herself before she would regurgitate every last drop of her efforts. She sat still to force her stomach to settle and waited a little bit more before continuing. As Yuki took in more blood, she felt a strange hunger. Hunger? Toketsu should never feel so… famished. It was never like them to. Was it the blood? She could only assume her body was reacting to the lack of solids to go with it. She didn’t crave food exactly. It was more that she craved flesh. She wanted to sink her teeth into raw flesh and feel the blood drain from there rather than have the fluid straight from a container. It’d give her mind ease but it would bother others into thinking she became a cannibal. Not to mention storing a body of another Toketsu in her room would be difficult to make an excuse for. She’d rather do this than having to bring a corpse home to feed on later and deal with the decomposing mass that it was. Vials of blood seemed to be more favourable. One hundred.

Her mind started to second guess attempting. If she couldn’t even make it halfway without getting ill from the feeling of crimson slugs in her throat, then how could she fare another one hundred of these? A shaky hiss left her lips. You’ve gone this far. There’s no going back now. Otherwise you’ve wasted 200 vials of blood and your appetite for nothing. Yuki stood up, taking a small break to let her mind and body settle. She felt light films of blood over her tongue and on her teeth, lightly licking it off as much as she could. At least that was much more tolerable than the slugs.

Aside from the red liquid she was downing, Yuki could hear her body making small crackling and popping sounds. It sounded like ice cracking and freezing over. It seemed to be working and there was no stopping now. An incomplete transformation would probably backfire into something horrible for her. She felt specific layers of her very anatomy changing over, but it also felt like the transmutation was spreading from the newly changed regions to areas that weren’t completely transformed.

You’re halfway through. You can do this., she urged herself. She settled back down and readied herself for the last half of the vials. One hundred one… One hundred two… One hundred five… One hundred ten… One hundred twenty-five. Satisfaction washed over her as she saw the number of emptied glass tubes rise over the number of ones still filled up. Yuki decided to try to finish the rest in one go, not willing to take anymore breaks in between. That only heightened risks and made the process take too long. She tried her best to ignore the slippery red globs and the metallic taste of the syrup that flooded down her throat.

One hundred ninety…. One hundred ninety-five…. Two hundred. The final vial was capped and dropped onto the pile, clattering against the similar husks and rolling down the pile a little. Never. Again. She was glad she wouldn’t have to do this again either. Yuki leaned back and sighed. She was practically in disbelief that she had done that. Proud was not really the word she’d think of for herself on it either. After a few minutes of sitting and feeling the rest of her body change to ice, she began to wonder if she actually took in enough blood or not. So far everything seemed fine. She wasn’t hurt, nothing backfired. A slight fear overtook her as she began to worry if the backfire wasn’t immediate. Yuki got up and went to a window, cracking it open to release the scent of blood. She knew that would attract attention from animals that feasted on meat and people who were passing by. She couldn’t help that. She could only hope that the scent would leave the room quickly. Yuki gathered the vials and stacked them neatly along the wall, promising herself she’d wash them thoroughly later. She unlocked and opened her door to create some circulation to help force the scent out of her room before going to lay on the floor and stare at the ceiling. An odd drowsiness overcame her and she closed her eyes to sleep.

Notes: Hahaue - old way of saying ‘mother’ chichiue - old way of saying 'father’

[musingofafish]

Fallout 4 fic

The old North Church should be around here. The breeze drifts in from the water, carrying the smell of mirelurks and the idiots who tried to take a stroll with the radiated monsters. I stand up from my crouching position, slinging the sniper rifle over my shoulder in favor of a custom assault rifle.

As I walk toward the buildings I hear a man call out, "Who's out there!" He's in the alley, I could keep walking but raiders don't deserve that. I sneak over to the fence and spot the group of them, five low level grunts keeping watch. The first two drop before the psycho addict rushes me with her signature scream. A bayonet to the face stops her in her tracks as one scream out, "no, no, YOU KILLED HER!" before receiving his own bullet. The last one is frozen, tears slowly dripping down his face as I step up and point my gun at him, "nothing personal, it's just you or me" I speak softly before his tears turn red.

I walk over to the door, it's obviously not a raider base, no dead bodies and turrets in sight. So they were attacking this place for a reason, maybe setting up shop out here. It's not my job, but then again if I'm going to work at the church, a raider gang only two blocks away would be a pain in the ass. the handle easily turns as I step in, reloading my gun as i prepare for whatever awaits me.

The smell of rotting flesh hits as a stale air swallows me. Bone, flesh, and blood are used to decorate the entrance like a prewar haunted house. I turn into the open room, set up like a sick art gallery. The canvases are covered in shades or reds, yellow, and brown all twisted into visage of pain and horror. A centerpiece of entrails and bone is the focus of the sea, bags of meat and materials from previous owners left out like an offering. 

I quickly search through, grabbing caps and bullets before moving to unlock the far door. The Bobby pin clicks home as I rush the room, dropping five more raiders fluidly. More corpses and the stench grows stronger, whoever owns this place seems to have gained a new hobby when dealing with those who wander into his attractions.

The next floor meant two dead raiders and an attack hound. But the attached bedrooms seemed to be home to three raiders tied down to hospital gurneys. Clean slices from knife trace along their flesh, faces frozen in horror as they screamed for the last time. I scrunched my nose as I looked over them, paying for the sin of surviving maybe. I close their eyes as I pass on, least I can do for them now.

The top floor only had one last raider, fiddling with a safe as I forced a blade through his throat. The bed and food of the house was stored up here, since the broken windows allowed the air to be somewhat tolerable. A hole in the wall indicated the next path down, into the bowels of this revolting madhouse.

The sewer system was easy enough to pass through, only a handful of the group seemed to make their way down here. When I finally reached the end, I saw the boss confronting who must be the owner. Seems a few of those painting struck a little close to home, and now he's pissed. I was content to watch, but one of the group noticed me and fired a shot into my shoulder. Of course, that meant the three men had to die with the rest of the gang.

When the dust settled, the owner stared at me as I looked through the bodies and containers. He cleared his throat as I look back to him, "those men deserved a worse death, but thank you for your skills." I nod and walk toward him, "people have the tendency to not live through attacking me" I say curtly as I stimpack my shoulder. He smiles and hands a key over, "then from one killer to another, you should go to my gallery again and thoroughly enjoy the art, you may appreciate it killer." He winks and I walk off, maybe the only one to survive seeing the notorious Pickman.

I do check the gallery again before I leave to the church, and one of the paintings fall to reveal a safe, a perfect match for the key. A knife that fits my hand perfectly, ammo, caps, and a shotgun accompany a folded paper. A fresh heart of blood takes up all but one line, "thanks, killer" 

I hold the knife close as I walk into the church. The room is falling apart, but I know it has to be right. I quickly dispatch the ghouls, watching as the new blade causes them to slowly bleed out as I deal with others. I'm growing fond of this approach, but first I have to go through the tunnels a floor down. A few more ghouls and I reach the wheel lock. I mumble to myself as I press in the pass code, "r.a.i.l.....r..o..a..d"

A grinding noise signals the wall shifting to reveal the dark hallway. They have to be here, I reassure myself as I walk up to the only black, they have to be.

A spotlight blinds me as I raise my hands, shielding my icy blue eyes. "Don't move" a commanding female voice calls out to me, scratching at my mind like a lost memory. "You what through a lot of trouble to arrange this meeting. Who are you, and how did you find this place?" 

I look up to see a dark skinned woman with a machine gun and a skinny man looking me over. Between them, the brown haired woman, Holding a pistol level with my head. I steady my voice as I raise my hands up, "my name is Lucrine. I heard a rumor of a group in the church while in Diamond City, I got curious." She nods as a bald man in dark shades walks behind her the two silently speak before he looks at me, "boss... that's... that's L6-66"