#and then you go to the capitol and suddenly there's an abundance.....

[clemencetaught]

"Here," it's... it's just bread. It's a bun, sure large enough to still some amount of hunger, but it's just bread. And yet, María holds it in front of Patrick with the face of someone who'd consider it a criminal offense to refuse it. Nevermind that she's stolen it from one of the banquets. "Just making sure you're eating." ((RUH-ROH it's Len again~ and I promise I forgot about the Peeta bread thing until I re-read this IGNORE THAT--!! FDKLGJDLAJSGF Hope you didn't end up getting sick BUT IF YOU DID HOPE YOU'RE RESTING AND FEELING BETTER SOON 🥺)) || okay but panem is also known as the nation of bread & circuses– ( unprompted w/ @mythvoiced )

He doesn’t eat much in the Capitol. 

Which is ironic, seeing how most of his life before the games, Patrick was always hungry. Always trying between schooling and factory shifts to figure out when his next meal was going to come. Why else would he and Hyuk have taken out tesserae all those years ago? It was preferable, playing the odds in the Reaping to starving for the rest of the year.

Nowadays, food is the least of his concerns. Whereas there is still a dearth in District Three, there is surplus in the Capitol. No surplus isn’t the right word; a surplus would mean the Capitol keeps the extra for the future. No, there is an excess of food in the Capitol, an excess that is dumped and left to rot after the pigs have had their share, have had their fun.

When he remembers that, food in the Capitol, no matter how finely it’s been prepared, becomes disgusting. Repulsive when it is combined with the thought of the districts, his people, still starving and fighting one another for the Capitol’s ‘scraps’. One plate is enough for Patrick to feel the bile swish in his stomach and even crawl back up his throat– how is he supposed to enjoy this filth now?

(But of course the Capitol has a way of perverting everything. Who else would have invented a liquid that makes one vomit what was just digested to make room for more food?)

“You didn’t have to,” is the first set of words to come out of his mouth, however. It’s such a childish gesture on her part; as a victor, she and her family should have more than enough riches to cover for food whether she’s in the Capitol or her own district. That and it’s considered normal to take leftovers from these banquets.

And yet, she’s staring him down like they are in covenance– it’s odd…strange how the things the Capitol deem sacred, she’ll approach with the irreverence of a foreigner and yet with the most mundane of objects, like a loaf of bread, most likely one of the hundred baked today and will be replicated tomorrow, like it is worth the weight of gold. He takes a hold of María’s loot. The loaf is still warm, freshly out of the oven, he wants to believe. Like it came from one of the bakeries in say, District 12, rather than a Capitol banquet table. Does she look at the Capitol and its elaborate feasts the same way? District Eight is probably just as bad if not even worse than his own district when it comes to food shortages so maybe her thievery makes sense.

When one has gone without food for long enough, no amount of surplus is enough to satiate the insecurity. He knows that feeling all too well. His stomach growls in anticipation. “…Normally, the Capitol likes to have this with caviar.” A delicacy from District Four along with butter shipped from District Ten. He splits the loaf in two, the inside crackling and breaking into two crisp pieces. “But I think…I think it tastes just as delicious on its own.” He hands María one half while taking a bite out of the other. “Take the other half; I can’t finish it on my own.”

It tastes delicious. 

[runningfrom2am]

the death of a doctor // LTPF

summary: with the snow heir on the way, your first son, your father wants to meet with you for the first time in years. your husband is not going to let that happen.

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

wc: 1.4k

masterlists / nav / requests

tags/warnings: capitol brat!reader, maybe slightly ooc coryo, idk i tried my best. use of poison with intent to kill, murder. also this takes place ten years after they returned to the capitol!

series masterlist // playlist

Your father is led through the extensive halls of the Presidential Mansion and out to the back gardens, into the rose garden where he is set to meet with you. Finally.

He's not met with you, and he should have anticipated that. His daughter, pregnant with her first child- a little boy, who should one day be heir to the President's fortune, born into a life of success and indulgences beyond imagination. Instead, he only sees his son-in-law.

"Please, take a seat." Coriolanus offers to him, a welcoming smile on his face as he gestures to the small tea table in the middle of the space. It was a fake smile, of course. Your father has seen it on the television or at events hundreds of times, but Coriolanus Snow would always try to be a good host- regardless of how much he loathed the guest in question.

"Thank you." Your father matches his polite grin, nodding to him before taking a seat. His eyes scan the greenhouse, taking in the abundance of roses and the patches of raspberry bushes that line the walls.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Coryo says proudly, carefully plucking one of the white roses from its stem to place in the centre of the tea table. "My wife takes good care of this garden, it's in honour of my Grandmother. They both love roses." He explains, not giving your father any chance to answer.

"It's lovely." He nods in agreement, watching as his son-in-law places the blooming flower in a vase on the table, sitting down himself and looking at your father expectantly. "Where is she?" Your father decides to get right to the point- no use dancing around it anymore.

"She's out." Coriolanus answers. "She's with Tigris. They're picking out colours for the nursery today."

"I was told I would be able to speak to her."

"I am capable of passing on a message."

Your father sighs, looking down and shaking his head. "Coriolanus, I appreciate everything you have done for my daughter over the years, I do, but that girl needs her family. Her parents. Especially right now. We just want to be able to support her during such an exciting and scary time."

"She has a family." Coryo defends quickly. He had never thought the situation to be scary, before. It was all excitement and parties and baby clothes and being together and enjoying the moments in which she carried his child. Suddenly, he's seeing it differently. His mother. His sister who was never even given a name. You were not free from that fate. He clears his throat. "And I assure you, she is well taken care of here. We have the best medical care the country offers available at the snap of my fingers." He says it more to remind himself.

"No, she doesn't." Your father argues, a smug smile tugging on his lips. She doesn't have him. The most renowned and desired doctor in the Capitol, in the country.

"She does." Coryo insists. "I know what you are implying, and I promise you are mistaken."

"I just want to make things right, Coriolanus." Your father adds. "I want to apologize so my wife can be there for the birth of her grandchild, so I can take good care of my daughter and ensure she is safe."

"She is safe."

Your father clocks the tenseness in your husbands jaw very quickly. "I know about your mother." His tone drops to make space for a fake form of empathy. "I knew her. She was an amazing woman and a wonderful mother. It's such a shame, what happened..." He ticks his head. "So easily preventable."

"Then where were you?" Coriolanus allows himself to lean into something more personal with the bitter question.

"I wasn't called. I wish I had been." Your father answers honestly. "Both of us know your family was in no position to pay for a doctor at the time, even with your father away working himself to death in Twelve."

Coryo chews on the inside of his cheek, looking down at the untouched drinks in between them.

"Maybe things would have ended differently for all of us."

"You speak as if you are some kind of angel." Coryo scoffs. "You still would have gone home from saving my mother and sister and beat your own daughter for being up past her bedtime, but you didn't come because my mother's life was worth nothing to you if you weren't going to be paid to save it." He picks up the teacup in front of him, taking a sip before removing it from his lips and looking down at the liquid. "My apologies, this one is yours. I asked for milk in mine." He says casually, carefully switching the cups. He can see it in your father's eyes he wants to fight with him on this.

"The war made it impossible to do any unpaid work, and like I said, I wasn't made aware of your mother's state. Besides, Y/N is my child, and you know nothing of what goes into being a parent. It is hard. You'll have moments of poor judgement and do things you will regret. You will make mistakes. That is all it was to me." Your father explains. "But I know better now. All I want is to help her."

"You don't want to help her." Coryo shakes his head. "I am telling you she has all the help she needs, and you are not needed. Your wife and son will be allowed in the mansion during the birth. It is my wife's choice when and if they will be allowed to see the child." He knew you would allow it, you occasionally had lunch with your mother and your brother found himself at the mansion quite often to use their library. They were welcome, he was not.

Your father takes a sip of his tea while he processes the information. "Is that her decision, or yours?"

"Like I said, I can pass on a message to her." Your husband replies, ignoring his question and popping one of the raspberries from the plate into his mouth and sitting back, hands placed patiently on his lap while he ignores the pain starting to bloom in his chest.

"Tell her..." Your father sighs. "That we love her, and we miss her dearly. And if she needs anything or feels unsafe, she can always come home."

"Unsafe?" Coryo asks, tilting his head with a slight, humourless laugh. "I know you don't care for me, sir, but I am the last person on this planet who would do anything to harm her. It seems you're not understanding that."

"I just want her to survive." Your father spits. "If you love her the way you say you do, don't you want her to be the one to successfully produce your heir? You would hate to have to find someone else, I know you would. Especially if the love of your life died in the same way as your mother, this time taking your child with her."

Coriolanus stands up abruptly, anger coursing through his veins alongside the poison as the chair slides back behind him. "You've never believed in her. Ever. Even now you assume that at the most natural struggle she will die. This is not about my doctors, it is about your ego and how little you respect your own child because of how you raised her. She has more fight in her than any woman I have ever met. You don't even know the extent of it."

"It's because I know her, Coriolanus. I..." Your father's voice trails off and he looks down at his shaking hands. He knows what Coriolanus has done, but there's nothing he can do to save himself now.

"You don't know her. You never have." Coryo argues. "You have never once reached out except to try and leach off of her success and my name. You couldn't care less if she lives or dies- you just want to be the one to deliver a royal baby. If you knew her, you would know that the last thing in the world she wants is to ever see you again."

He watches as your father's face goes ashen, the sentience behind his eyes disappearing. It brings a smile to his face. "You are a monster." He adds, and it's the last thing your father hears before he dies right there in your garden.

Coriolanus smiles in satisfaction, raising his hand and snapping for his security and his nurse to enter. Quickly, she reaches for his arm as he already rolled up his sleeve and she can inject the antidote.

"Dispose of him." He urges the security team, quickly pulling his red coat sleeve back over the injection site in his arm. "My wife will be home soon, this would be distressing for her. I need her as calm and comfortable as possible."

taglist: @totallynotkaibiased , @stelleduarte , @klplynn , @secretsicanthideanymore , @bejeweledreverie , @gloryekaterina , @andrewgarfieldsbitch , @queenofspades6 , @pepperonipastas , @ladybug0095 , @lunamothwrites , @sbrewer21 , @mus-tbe-a-weasley , @splxtscreen , @unclecrunkle , @karmaswitch , @coconut-dreamz , @nekee-lilac02 , @ooooglymoooogly , @riddlerloveb0t , @lovedbalances , @notyourwildestdream , @snowlandson-top , @too-lit-for-fanfic , @utopiakys , @deafeningballoonnacho , @roosterschanelslut , @chmpgneprblem , @cosmoetik , , @urvampgfsworld , @carolanns-world@nan-nie , @shakespearseclipse , @iovemoonyy , @notyoursweetheart-honey ,  @xyzstar , @eatpizzasass, @slytherinholland , @queenofshinigamis , @elodiebeau , @soulessjourney

[birgittesilverbae]

be(a) still(ed) pt2

au of warrior nun wheel of time au bc I'm v normal

//

They're bound south towards Tear when Beatrice broaches the question that's been dogging her. She waits until Ava is out of earshot, scouting ahead out of an abundance of caution. "Why are you still here, Lilith? You no longer have need to stay by my side."

Lilith's throat bobs as she swallows. It's only because Beatrice is looking for it that she catches the slight tremor of tension in Lilith's forehead, the reaction there and gone in the blink of an eye before her gaze turns to flint. Even without the bond, she knows full well that the reaction is to the thought of Beatrice's death, not hers. Lilith has long since accepted her own demise as a matter of course. "I swore as much the day you bonded me, Beatrice. To go when you said go, to stay when you said stay, to die when you said die."

"I will not continue to ask the same of you when I can no longer fulfil my end of the bargain."

Lilith wheels her mount around so suddenly that the horse rears up on its hind legs. "This is not just a matter of oath. I had thought that after five years… Your losses are mine, Beatrice. This one no less so than any other."

//

Beatrice takes comfort in turning into hard steel, into the freshly honed blades each of her Warders had been upon their first meetings. Finding a way to hold on by carrying a piece of them, fashioning within herself what she's missing from the bonds.

At her request, Lilith purchases her a sword at the next town they pass through. It feels ungainly at her hip, and she trips over it as often as not. She only wears it when they set up camp for the night. If you carry a sword, Ava tells her under a moon half through waxing, people will treat you as though you know how to wield it. Her whetstone kisses the edge of her own blade, sparks flashing in the air like weaves of Fire.

Cat Crosses the Courtyard has been drilled into her from birth, unnamed but still the same arrogant strut. She's picked up some of the other forms over the years, through observation. Well, she had thought she'd learned them. The first time Ava catches her trying to flow through Hummingbird Kisses the Honeyrose, she can't correct her for laughing too hard. She quiets quickly when Beatrice jabs her elbow into her short ribs, becoming the picture of perfect composure as she adjusts Beatrice's grip, straightens her hips, shifts her footing. Even so, there's still a twitch to her mouth and mirth in her eyes.

It's been so long since she last heard Ava's laughter that she finds she can't begrudge her that.

//

They're five days out from the capitol and Ava's pushing ahead, feeling out the energy of the next town they'll pass through. There's a wildness in her eyes, a feeling that if she has to slow, has to stop and give herself time to sit with her grief, it might drive her to madness. So Beatrice lets her go, and Lilith all but attaches herself at Beatrice's hip in response. 

Ava's been gone a day and a half when the conversation Beatrice has been dreading bubbles to the surface. Lilith pauses in stripping the tack off her mount to watch her fumble with the buckle of her sword belt, and then asks, quite simply, "Why?"

Beatrice succeeds in cinching the belt around her waist. She's not sure how to answer her, not sure if she'll be able to manage it. She opts instead to avoid the question altogether, striding into the forest to gather wood. Lilith's sigh cuts as deep as an accusation.

The air between them is charged as they do camp chores, each waiting for the other to break. Finally, Beatrice cannot stand it any longer.

"Because I must." 

Lilith's unearthing potatoes from the coals of the fire. Her head snaps around and then she curses, snatching her hand back and shaking it. She gives Beatrice a long-suffering look. "Must you have answered just then?" It reminds her intensely of their first days on the road together, of learning how to live with each other. The nostalgia tastes bittersweet between her teeth.

"I'm sorry." She takes over from Lilith, waving her towards the waterskin. When she comes back to sit beside her, Beatrice gestures for her to hold her hand out. The burn stands out red against her skin. Beatrice covers it with her palm, winces at the heat that radiates from it. "I'm sorry," she repeats, and her chest aches with the sheer breadth of the apology. I'm sorry that I startled you, that I cannot heal this, that we're out here on a fruitless journey that isn't the one you yearn for. I'm sorry that I tied you to me in the first place. I'm so sorry.

"You have nothing to apologise for," Lilith says, knocking their shoulders together.

"I must," she repeats a short while later. Her hand covers the pommel of her sword. "I have to." Lilith waits patiently, the steady rise and fall of her breathing a comfort. "I can… I can no longer be Aes Sedai." The statement hangs between them, weighty. It's the first time she's said it aloud. The first time she's confronted that reality. "I can no longer be Aes Sedai, so I must find another way to have value."

Beatrice doesn't look up towards Lilith. She can imagine Lilith's eyes, flint softening until they're sad and gentle and understanding, and just the thought of seeing all of that in her gaze makes Beatrice want to scream. 

Lilith knocks shoulders again. "It's too dark to train tonight. Eat, and I'll wake you early for practice before we set out tomorrow."

Beatrice squeezes Lilith's hand, the faintest warmth stirring in her chest when Lilith returns the gesture. "Thank you."

[americxn]

“What happened? What the hell happened. Why do you make it so hard to love you?”

Kai Anderson x GN!Reader

This is definitely not good enough to enter, but I used the prompt from @tatesimper anniversary writing competition so I guess this is my entry? (fig, I’m so sorry for butchering such a good prompt lmao)

also, I realised when writing it that this could serve as a prologue to this fic:

https://americxn.tumblr.com/post/652835852669648896/paranoia

wordcount: 2.5k

warnings: genocide/murder mention, swearing (this is based off episode 11 of season 7)

The night air was cool on your exposed face as you took the front steps to the door of Kai’s house, not bothering to knock as you pushed it open, the warmth and light from within spilling onto the smooth concrete of the front step and pooling around your feet; having been in a committed relationship with Kai from a year and a half now, this house was practically your own. Stepping past the front porch after abandoning your shoes and jacket, you entered the uncharacteristic quiet of the house, scanning the hallway for any signs of life, usually abundant within these walls in the form of Kai’s blue shirt-clad, blindly deferential followers. 

 “Okay. A little bad news to start,” your body instinctively angled towards the voice, distinctly Kai, that sounded through the empty hall from the back room. You set off down the hallway, his voice growing in volume as you approached, somewhat confused. He hadn’t notified you of a scheduled cult meeting that evening and yet his tone of voice was threaded with the assertive cadence that he utilised only when addressing his followers.  “It turns out finding a thousand pregnant women to murder is super hard. No one will ever accuse me of lacking ambition.” He continued as you reached the threshold to the large room at the back of the house that served as a secondary living room; breath catching in your throat, you halted, your hand reaching for the wood of the doorframe to steady yourself as the meaning of his words settled into you. To murder? “So, Night of a Thousand Tates is off.” A ripple of groans and dejected sighs rose from the small sea of men at Kai’s words, quickly falling silent to allow him to continue. “But, Night of One Hundred Tates is on.” His words sent a wave of prickly dread spider walking down your spine; he hadn’t told you about any of this. Killing a thousand pregnant women? You wanted to stride into the room with a bright laugh to wave away his abhorrent words and demand for the real reason that he had called a meeting. But you knew. A terrible, truth filled part of you was all too aware that he was deadly serious A chorus of thrilled cheers drifted up from the small crowd in twisted elation with the newly revealed knowledge that their hands would still be stained with blood by the end of the night. Your breath became too loud in your ears, your mouth turning utterly dry as you examined your suddenly empty mind for a solution to Kai’s monstrous plan that you could use to convince him to call it off. But you came up short, taking a small step back into the safety of the dimly lit hall, your back coming to press against the wall beside the open doorway to ensure that nobody would be able to see you eavesdropping from within. This was too far. Kai had done many questionable, twisted things over the past year but this... this was too far. You were full of self hatred for the amount of things that you had stood aside for and let Kai go ahead with, but not this. You refused to take so much of an ounce of accountability for this. Pulling your phone from the confines of your back pocket, you drew in a shuddering, grounding breath, your thumb working on the keypad. The digit shook as it pressed onto the screen, your teeth catching between your lower lip as your gaze flicked from the brightness of the device’s screen to the open doorway at your side. The sequence of 911 you had typed glared up at you, bathing the underside of your jaw in artificial light as you craned your neck, leaning forwards slightly to peer into the room. Kai stood by the far wall, his men arranged in a neat group before him, all sitting straight backed to attention on their chairs.  Just behind Kai, displayed on the low table pushed against the wall were two silicone models of a woman’s torso, ripe with the swell of a baby within; one was positioned to the side as a cross sectional diagram, the other facing straight on, the small model of a baby in the third trimester curled up within the artificial uterus. Your attention snapped back to Kai as he took a step forwards to address the group.  “Look under your chairs, I’ve handed each of you a unique list of targets, all ready to pop.” Your stomach twisted in horrified disbelief as the men all shifted in unison, pleasure curling the corners of their lips upwards as they read the names of the people they were soon to mercilessly slaughter. You watched with teary eyes as an impressively built, stocky man who you didn’t know the name of slowly lifted his hand to the ceiling, Kai’s eyes immediately flicking to him in agitation. “You raise your hand one more fucking time and I will cut it off.” The powerfully built man visibly shrunk down into his chair at Kai’s hissed statement of reproval but timidly uttered his question of “how do we know they’re all pregnant?” Kai’s eyes flashed in impatient annoyance as he tore his eyes off the man, flicking them briefly up to the ceiling before deigning to answer. “Because Gutterball pulled the rosters of four ob-gyns, two Lamaze classes and a Momtra Yoga over on Main. Great job, Gutterball.” The blond man who went by Gutterball, sat on the front row of chairs close to Kai, beamed in self-gratified delight at Kai’s gracious recognition, lifting a fist into the air in triumph. Kai smiled proudly down at him before turning to address the group as a whole once more. Your eyes flicked down to the bright screen of your phone, the numbers displayed there beckoning. Your thumb twitched, a conflicted frown creasing your forehead as Kai continued on, pulling your attention back to him. “Manson’s family - I admire them, but they did get a little sloppy.” You watched on in nauseating alarm as Kai pulled a large blade from the black sheath at his hip with a flourish, the metal glinting in the light of the room. “Their message got lost in their mess. What we are doing requires more precision. It is imperative that both mother and child are impaled. Don’t fuck this up.” He scanned the gathering before him, gaze as sharp as the knife clutched in his grip before turning to the models behind him.  “Aim for the belly button but stab in a downward motion. If you stab straight,” in one fluid motion, he had buried the curved tip of the blade in the portion of the fake uterus just above the baby’s head with a solid thunk, “you miss the baby - and our entire message is lost.” Withdrawing the knife, he turned back to address his cult, the weapon hanging loosely from his fingertips by his thigh. “Tomorrow night, when your blades tear open one hundred pregnant bellies, you will be releasing a power into the universe. Detonating a neutron bomb of truth, blood and amniotic fluid. You will be galvanising an army.” “With their sisters gutted, women everywhere will be forced to react. They can’t ignore an injustice this brutal. They’ll have to rise up, and in their collective rage, they will train it on Senator Jackson, on all incumbents, on any of the people in power who failed to keep us safe. As the most vulnerable are slaughtered, as the pregnant bodies pile up on Senator Jack-off’s watch, we will be surfing an electoral bloodbath straight to Capitol Hill. And then… the White House.”  The collection of cult members all voiced their assent in a chorus of whoops and ovated cheers, a nauseating sense of unease dragging it’s claws up the length of your spine. You turned away with hot tears blurring your vision, not wanting to hear more, your phone a heavy weight in your hand and the decision it presented even heavier.

Sat on the edge of Kai’s large bed, your knee couldn’t cease it’s anxious bouncing, your lower lip chewed raw by your teeth. The door swung open suddenly, sending your heart leaping into your throat. Kai stepped into the room, the small smile stretching across his lips broadening as he beheld you perched on the mattress’ edge. “Hey, when did you get here?” He questioned, reaching to tug you to your feet and wrap his arms tightly around you in a warm embrace. “I only got here like five minutes ago.” Your lie was muffled into the thin shirt at his shoulder, his hands splayed flat on your upper back as he held you close to him. Withdrawing yourself from his grasp, you frantically scanned his face, heart sinking at the pleasure dimly glowing in the depths of his dark eyes, pleasure fuelled not by your sudden appearance, but in anticipation of the merciless slaughter that he would be carrying out in mere hours time. “What?” He asked curiously, his head tilting slightly in concern as his smile faded, caught in the grave despondency of the stare you had him pinned under. His tape-wrapped hands settled on his shoulders; shaking him off, you stepped away, your chest bubbling with emotion that was dangerously close to spilling over. Dropping your gaze to the floor, you pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes, forcing the tears that threatened to flow to stay at bay. Groaning through clenched teeth, colourful sparks flashing through your blocked vision from the force with which you pressed your hands into your eyes, you blindly felt Kai’s warmth as he stepped forwards to comfort you. Dropping your hands, you retreated another step, Kai stilling at the look of stangled confliction latching onto your features. “What happened?” Voice breaking, you brought a hand up to press against your forehead, icy panic unfurling in your gut amongst the turmoil of roiling distress flooding through your insides. Kai looked utterly lost, his eyes boring into yours as he searched for an answer to the question that he couldn’t understand. “What the fuck happened to you, Kai?” His heart splintered at the raw anguish in your choked, lamenting tone, automatically taking a step towards you, wanting nothing more than to smother the emotions swarming your features. “I used to be so, so happy with you.” His lips parted in disbelief as you continued. “I would’ve done anything for you.” You couldn’t help the tears that spilled over, your voice pushing past the quivering of your lower lip and growing in strength, your breaths turning sharp and rasping as they were sucked in between your passionate words. “Y/n…” He didn’t know what to say as he watched you struggle to keep a grasp on coherency.  “I don’t know what happened to him. To the Kai that I fell in love with. But he’s gone now. He’s gone and I don’t know how to get him back.” Sorrow gave way to desolate fury as you plowed on, your jaw clenching as you stepped towards him to deliver a harsh shove to his hard shoulders. Kai fell utterly silent, stumbling back slightly under your touch, unnerved and unsure by the eruption of messily confessed words that spilled from you, seemingly out of nowhere. “Answer me.” You demanded gruffly, shoving at his solid frame once more. “I… y/n, I don’t know-” With a third shove, his eyes flashed in agitated warning, silently daring you to repeat the action a fourth time. You did, shoving at him with as much force as you could muster, breathing hard when he took ahold of your wrists, pulling you to him and pouring his branding stare onto you. “Stop.” Your face was flushed, plump tears cutting through your face and dripping from your chin as you plowed on. “What happened, Kai?” His nostrils flared, eyes wide in confusion as he battled to grasp onto your thoughts, to make coherence of the biting words falling from your lips. “What happened? What the hell happened. Why do you make it so hard to love you?” Your ragged breaths filled the sudden silence in the room, the roaring silence infiltrating Kai’s head drowning out all other sense as he stared down at you in cold disbelief, your eyes wild and face screwed with festering ardour, raw and demanding, your lashes damp with bitter tears. A symphony of surprised shouts echoed up the stairs from the ground floor of the house, Kai’s attention snapping to the door at his back and eyes flooding with sharp panic. He released his hold on you as the cries from below grew in volume, laced with alarm. A single gun shot rang out and it was your turn to take ahold of Kai, the tape wrapped tightly around his wrists warm under your fingers. His head whirled back to you, his eyes alight with uneasy confusion, his gaze frosting over. Bringing your face closer to his, you laid a single, lingering kiss to his lips, your own wet against him. “I’m sorry.” You said quietly, several heavy sets of footsteps sounding from behind the door as they thundered up the stairs. Kai’s eyes frantically searched yours as he pulled against your unrelenting grasp, his gaze briefly parting from yours to snap to the door as the sequence of footsteps and shouts grew louder. “But I can’t let you do this.” His throat bobbed, his eyes widening in terror as the reality of the situation settled over him. “I sentence you to rot.” Tugging at his wrists, you forced your face closer to his before muttering to him, your breath hot on his face and the recognition of your betrayal manifesting in the cold fire smoldering in his gaze: “Just like how my love for you has turned to rot.” His face contorted in rage as the bedroom door was forced open, the panel of wood swinging open and hitting the adjacent wall with a bang, several armed policemen flooding into the room. You loosened your grip on his wrists, stepping away as two of the men took ahold of Kai by the back of his shirt, twisting his arms behind his back. He shrieked in rage, straining to turn his head towards his assailants as they began to pull him from the room. Sinking down onto the edge of the bed, you locked eyes with Kai’s as he turned back to you, cool rage simmering in his dark gaze, his lip curled into an enraged snarl. He pinned you with his stare, not even bothering to fight against the men holding him as he was pulled from the room, a savage promise glittering in his unrelenting stare. A promise of vengeance. Of suffering. 

taglist: @kitwalker02 @three-eyed-snail @forevercountess @kitwalkerangel @milly-louise @thecountessesglove @undeadcortez @kitwalker64 @samsassinparvismagna @xmaximoffic @divineruler @liandav @tatesweaterweather @evanmybeloved @tatelangdonsupremacist @ikkleroniekins @ananad1 @shlutnutt @mossybank @tatesimper (dm to be added or removed <3)

[patriotsnet]

Why Do Republicans Lie About Everything

New Post has been published on https://www.patriotsnet.com/why-do-republicans-lie-about-everything/

Why Do Republicans Lie About Everything

Which Came First: Republican Hate Or Gop Misinformation

Do Honest Republicans Still Exist?

Hate is a great motivator. All political parties have used it to get out the vote. Generally, those who seek elected office shape information in a way that helps a certain voting block hate their opponent. Thats how we elect people in America. That is a sad reality we just have to accept in order to fix it. Hope doesnt fix it.

Whats unique and new about negative politics in the post-Obama era is that we have this thing called the Internet and dare I acknowledge itSocial Media. ;Social media has completely isolated the Republican Party base. The Internet and social media have created hard-edged, isolated buckets of information where facts dont matteragreement;and emotion matter. For republicans, agreement with their own bias is considered fact, whereas disagreement is a lie they literally transform reality to support their own opinion: the Post-Truth Era. In order to maintain that alternate reality, they have to hate those who dont agree, otherwise their reality bubble starts to break apart.

This is the case on both sides of the aisle, but the hardliners have taken it to a new level, which is why they seem to hate everything. Theyre even taught to hate things that help them like the ACA, unions, and public education.

Social media and 1000 cable channels dont increase the information we receive they focus the information and repeat it 1000 times more often. Anything can become the truth when its repeated enough times.

The Big Lie Is Gop Gospel

Cheney is not alone in suffering consequences for challenging Trumps allegations.

Georgia Secretary of State Brad Raffensperger, who defended the states counting process against Trumps attempts to interfere with it, was stripped of his voting power on the State Election Board as part of Georgias new voting restrictions law.

In a special House election in Texas held on in early May, the Trump-critical Republican in the race Michael Wood got 3 percent of the vote.

In January, Michigan Republicans removed Aaron van Langevelde, a GOP attorney who broke with the party to certify Bidens victory in Michigan, from his post on the states Board of State Canvassers.

At the Utah Republican Partys convention this weekend, Sen. Mitt Romney perhaps the GOPs leading Trump critic was booed and called a traitor.

At the same time, Republicans who have embraced falsehoods about the election have been elevated.

Rep. Elise Stefanik , who appears likely to replace Cheney in the No. 3 spot, backed Trumps anti-election efforts to the hilt. Most egregiously, she falsely asserted that there were 140,000 illegal votes in Georgias Fulton County alone which would amount to more than 25 percent of all the votes in the entire Democratic-leaning county. The breakout Republican stars in the House of Representatives, Reps. Marjorie Taylor Greene and Lauren Boebert , both egged on the January Stop the Steal rally that culminated in the attack on Capitol Hill.

Why Do Conservatives Soak Up Lies

The evidence that conservatives crave lies is abundant.

Conservatives loved George W. Bush’s and Dick Cheney’s lies about “Saddam’s weapons of mass destruction” — loved them so much, that the researchers who wrote “‘There Must Be a Reason’: Osama, Saddam, and Inferred Justification” surveyed 49 conservative Republicans, during October 2004, who admitted that they still believed Saddam Hussein had caused the 9/11 attacks, and these researchers found that 48 of those 49 extreme conservatives were entirely impervious to the overwhelming factual evidence that was provided to them by the presenters contradicting this false belief they held. Then, a showed that when Republicans were offered the official 2004 Duelfer report that had concluded Iraq hadn’t possessed any weapons of mass destruction for years before the United States invaded it in 2003, the percentage of Republicans who believed that Iraq did have WMD immediately prior to the invasion shot up, instead of going down . Even all of the exposés that had already been published about Bush’s faked WMD “proofs” didn’t persuade Republican voters that they’d simply been deceived by the people they trusted and supported. They didn’t resent it at all; they just asked for more, from those same discredited liars.

So: why do conservatives sop up lies, on topic after topic?

They do it because, if they didn’t, they couldn’t be themselves; they couldn’t be conservatives. Lie-lovers is whom they are. It’s their identity.

———-

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The Gop Elite Gave Us This Party

This dire outcome was not inevitable: The best evidence we have suggests that the rise of the Big Lie is the direct result of strategic choices by Republican leaders.

A new paper by Dan Hopkins, a political scientist at the University of Pennsylvania, analyzes data from a panel survey, which looks at roughly the same group of people over time, running between 2007 and 2020. The survey asked people to rate the fairness of the US electoral system on a scale of 1 to 5, and tracked the changes over time.

What they found was a striking consistency: Support for the American system is both high and reasonably stable when assessed via this measure, Hopkins writes. Though there are some fluctuations, with partisans evaluating the system as somewhat less fair when the other party is in power, generally theyre small.

Hopkinss last survey wave was in October 2020 which means the results dont reflect the false allegations lobbed in the aftermath of Bidens victory. The stability documented here was very likely shattered by Trumps post-election actions, Hopkins concludes.

Other data confirm this supposition. A report from the Voter Study Group analyzed Pew surveys, conducted after every presidential election since 2004, on whether voters thought their vote was counted fairly. You see the same general stability documented in Hopkinss paper, with a majority of voters in both parties saying they were very confident their vote was counted accurately in every year except 2020:

Republicans Have A Good Reason Not To Want To Investigate Jan 6: Theyre To Blame

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Our nations preeminent bipartisanship fetishistsJoe Manchin, Susan Collins, and Lisa Murkowskiare deeply disappointed that they cant get Republicans to back an investigation into the January 6 attack on Capitol Hill. Indeed, they seem outright baffled that their efforts at compromise have fallen short on plans for a bipartisan panel. There is no excuse for any Republican to vote against this commission since Democrats have agreed to everything they asked for, Manchin said in an angry statement on Twitter. It would be so much better if we had an independent outside commission, Collins, a moderate Republican, told reporters Thursday. Is that really what this is about, one election cycle after another? added Murkowski, blasting Mitch McConnells anticipated filibuster. Or are we going to acknowledge that as a country that is based on these principles of democracy that we hold so dear, and one of those is that we have free and fair elections.

I kind of want that to endure beyond just one election cycle, the Alaska moderate Republican told reporters.

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More Great Stories FromVanity Fair

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In 2009 Republicans Predicted That The Economic Stimulus Package Would Only Make The Recession Worse And Cause More Unemployment

The results show they couldn’t have been more wrong. The American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009 ended the recession after only a few months. Although 750,000 people were losing their jobs each month when Obama took office, after the Recovery Act was passed the rate of job loss immediately decreased each month and within a year the economy showed positive job growth.

Considering the severity of the 2008 economic collapse and the total opposition by Republicans to do anything at all to stimulate the economy, it is remarkable that the US economy recovered as quickly as it did.

Looking at the rate of job loss and job creation, its easy to see that the stimulus of 2009 was highly successful in stopping the job losses and turning the economy around.

Republicans Predicted That We Would Find Iraqs Weapons Of Mass Destruction Even Though Un Weapons Inspectors Said That Those Weapons Didn’t Exist

The Bush administration continued to insist that WMDs would be found, even when the CIA said some of the evidence was questionable. As we all know, the WMDs predicted by the Bush administration did not exist, and Saddam Hussein had not resumed his nuclear weapons program as they claimed. Ultimately, both President Bush and Vice President Cheney had to admit that there were no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.

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Republicans Said President Obama Would Raise Taxes Sky High

It never happened. Income taxes for over 95% of Americans remained the same or lower than they were before Obama was elected. The only people whose income taxes increased were those who make more than $400,000 per year, and their taxes rose only 3%. For most Americans, taxes are still lower now than they were under Reagan.

In 1993 When The Brady Law And The Assault Weapons Ban Were Passed Republicans Predicted Increasing Rates Of Crime And Murder

Republicans Are Lying To Themselves About Trump’s Toxicity

Thankfully, just the opposite happened. While the rate of violent crime had increased steadily from the 1970s into the 1990s, it suddenly began to drop after 1993 and continued to decline for more than ten years. What could have happened in 1993 to precipitate such a sudden and prolonged drop in crime? Thats the year Congress passed the Assault Weapons Ban and the Brady Law, which mandated background checks and a waiting period to buy a gun.

Despite Republican predictions to the contrary, the Brady Law and the Assault Weapons Ban were followed by the most dramatic reduction in violent crime since the FBI started keeping statistics. The graphs below, based on the actual numbers from the FBI Uniform Crime Reports website, show how the rates of murder and violent crime in the US dropped suddenly after the 1993 Brady Law and Assault Weapons Ban were passed.

These charts show the rate of murder and violent crime over 35 years based on numbers from the FBI Uniform Crime reports.

Recommended Reading: How Many Republicans Voted For Obamacare In The Senate

Here Are A Few More Things Republicans Have Been Wrong About:

Republicans said that Obamacare would have death panels to decide who would live and who would die. Wrong. No such death panels were ever proposed and nothing of the kind ever happened.

They said the 2009 laws to improve automobile fuel efficiency standards would kill the US auto industry. Wrong. The new standards were followed by a resurgence of the US auto industry enabling them to hire back tens of thousands of workers.

They said environmental protection laws requiring companies to clean up their pollution would create an undue burden and kill businesses. Nope, it never happened.

They said Ebola would spread across the country because President Obama allowed American Ebola patients to be treated in the US. The outbreak never happened. Only three people contracted Ebola in the US and all three survived.

They said President Obama would open our borders to illegal immigrants. Wow, were they wrong about that. Under Obama, we set new records for most illegal immigrants stopped at the border and sent home.

They said Obama would drive up the Federal budget deficit. That didn’t happen. Obama cut the $1.4 trillion deficit he inherited by two-thirds.

While someone could no doubt find instances where Democrats engage in over-the-top rhetoric, nothing compares to the consistently false and erroneous claims made by the GOP in recent years. When a political party has been so dismally wrong about nearly everything over the past 30 years, that party should lose all credibility.

‘nothing There’: More Republicans Are Calling Out Trump’s Election Lies

WASHINGTON The more we learn about Donald Trumps baseless, false and discredited claims about the 2020 election, the more baseless, false and discredited those claims have become.

Just consider the revelations over the past week from Republicans:

In Michigan, a GOP-led investigation by its state Senate concluded that it found no evidence of widespread or systematic fraud in Michigans prosecution of the 2020 election.

Regarding Arizona, a report co-authored by former Kentucky Secretary of State Trey Grayson criticized the so-called audit of the election results in that state, saying it does not meet the standards of a proper election recount or audit, and that its being conducted by an inexperienced, unqualified contractor.

And over the weekend, ABCs Jon Karl writing for the Atlantic had former Trump Attorney General Bill Barr debunking Trumps claims about the 2020 election results. If there was evidence of fraud, I had no motive to suppress it. But my suspicion all the way along was that there was nothing there, Barr said. It was all bullsh!#.

Predictably, Trump lashed out at those GOP findings.

Michigan State Senators Mike Shirkey and Ed McBroom are doing everything possible to stop Voter Audits in order to hide the truth about November 3rd, the former president said in a statement, which even included those state senators phone numbers.

Even Bill Barr doesnt buy them.

Read Also: Who Won The House Republicans Or Democrats

Get Ready For Another Possible Crisis Like 2020

This is not the first time that Republicans have declared a Democratic president somehow illegitimate. They impeached Bill Clinton on flimsy grounds, after previously accusing him of crimes ranging up to murder; there was a widespread campaign to label Barack Obama an unlawful foreign-born president . These campaigns were effective: A 2019 poll found that 56 percent of Republicans still believed that Obama was born in Kenya.

Nor is this the first time Republican elites have ginned up suspicion of voter fraud for political purposes. After Republicans won a series of statehouse elections in 2010, they spent the next few years falsely claiming that voter fraud was a serious threat in order to pass voter ID laws that were nakedly designed to suppress the vote among Democratic-leaning minority groups. Research has found that, even prior to Trump, this convinced Republicans that voter fraud was a real problem when its exceptionally rare.

These earlier campaigns laid the intellectual groundwork for 2020. Republicans were already primed to believe elected Democrats were somehow illegitimate and to believe in widespread fraud in the American electoral system. Trumps innovation claiming that an entire presidential election result was fraudulent was pushing on an open door.

Paying Lower Taxes Hurts Taxpayers

Less revenue means fewer handouts. Thats bad news for Democrats who lie obsessively year after year about how tax revenue never gets the job done in distressed communities because we still arent spending enough.

Why is it that even when the party is in power, when Democrats call the shots every single year like they do in Illinois, the poor stay right where they are most valuable in poverty?

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Times Republicans Were Wrong

It’s no secret that politicians tend to use exaggerated political rhetoric to get people to vote for them. In recent decades, Republicans have repeatedly made very ominous predictions about the horrors that will result from Democratic policies while painting a rosy picture of what will result from Republican policies. Now we have the luxury of looking back over the years to examine those predictions and policies. Below, you will find twenty-one examples of times Republicans were blatantly wrong.

Most Republicans Said That President Obama Should Be Impeached Because Of The 2012 Attack On The Us Consulate In Benghazi

Their own investigations, however, proved them wrong. Every Congressional inquiry, including those by the Republican-led House Intelligence Committee, concluded that the Obama administration did nothing wrong regarding Benghazi, that there was no stand down order given, and that neither the President nor anyone in his administration lied about it. Each and every Republican investigation has reached this same conclusion, but Republicans continue to exploit this tragedy for political gain.

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Truth Matters Which Is Why I’m Telling It

I take comfort in knowing that I am doing the moral thing by telling the truth to my constituents.;I also;happen to believe;telling the truth;about;the 2020 election;is good politically.

If Republicans;become the party of the Big;Lie if we encourage this madness much longer we;will lose credibility with;the majority of;Americans on issues where I believe we have better ideas.;We will do;lasting damage to our republic.

True Republicans would never dream of wasting taxpayer money to hire an unknown cybersecurity firm with no elections auditing experience to audit an election that has;already been audited.;This is what the Arizona Senate is doing with their Cyber Ninja audit.

True Republicans would not;stand idly by while auditors paid with taxpayer dollars;chased;insane rumors that ballots were flown in from South Korea to change the outcome of the presidential race, or;that;secret watermarks;on the ballots;revealed by UV lights;would;expose fraud;once and for all.

This is what the Arizona Senate is doing with their Cyber Ninja audit.

Lies Damned Lies And The Truth About Joe Biden

Saagar Enjeti: Media Lets Biden SHAMELESSLY LIE About Hunter Bidens Business Dealings

Joe BidenKentucky state lawmakers vote to scrap school mask mandate Arkansas governor pushes back against Biden’s vaccine mandate RNC vows to sue over Biden vaccine, testing mandate MORE. I know him, said the House Speaker authoritatively, and that was that.

Does Bidens record warrant such confidence? Not really. In fact, Biden has a long history of lying about himself, about his past and about events that never took place.

Democrats want the 2020 campaign to be a referendum on President Trump. Fine, but if this is to be a contest of characters, it is only appropriate that Joe Bidens history of fabrication and deceit often intended to bolster his intellectual credentials also be fair game.

Over the past year, Biden thundered that the Obama administration didnt lock people up in cages. He also claimed that, Immediately, the moment started, I came out against it. And I was always labeled one of the most liberal members of Congress. Politicos rating of all three assertions? False.

No one should be surprised. Lest we forget

A video is making the rounds in which Biden boasts at a 1987 rally, “I went to law school on a full academic scholarship ended up in the top half of my class.”

Biden also maintained that he “graduated with three degrees from undergraduate school” and was the outstanding student in the political science department.

That commentary holds up well, as today more than ever Biden blunders into conversational crevasses, with no way out.

Also Check: Who Created Social Security Democrats Or Republicans

[everlarkficexchange]

The Change

Written by: @alliswell21

Prompt 59: Growing up Peeta started loving her. It was a gradual thing that happened throughout his childhood and into his teens. But something changes when he hits puberty. Her scent has heightened, he can spot her from miles away. He gets a bit possessive. But the biggest thing is when his body starts to heat up and even just the thought of you gets him hard for days. He finds out the family secret of his werewolf genes, something his parents thought passed him. How can he go by with his day and be with her without scaring her away by humping her because of his heat. [submitted by @animekpopxx]

  Rated M: for language and “adult-y” situations.

  Tags: Underage. No-Games AU. In Panem AU. Tags/Warnings will be added accordingly. Un-beta. All mistakes are mine. 

  Author’s Note: I really tried to write this as a one shot, but since the quarantine brought my husband and kids to work/do schooling from home, I’ve been busier than ever… and I really wanted to have something to post before the exchange was over. So here’s the first part of this story, around 2500 words.

  As always, thank you to the moderators of the Exchange, you ladies are terrific as usual. Thank you to @animekpopxx for her awesome prompts, I swear your prompts are my catnip and kryptonite rolled into one. 

Heads Up, there’s no verbal interaction between Everlark in this chapter.

Stay safe, everyone. Enjoy! 

Chapter One:

  Is ten fifteen in the morning when I start feeling feverish and thirsty. We’re in the middle of a social studies test, and I can’t keep from squirming in my chair, shaking the whole desk everytime I try to hold on to it for stability. 

  I catch the teacher’s eye and wince when she screeches in her affected accent for me to stop twitching. 

  I try to tell her I can’t help it, but before I get one word out she’s flying upon me from her own desk at the very front of the class. 

  “Mr. Mellark, you have exactly 5 seconds to—“ she gasps when her cold hand grasps my shoulder like a crow’s claw. “You’re burning up, Mellark!” She sounds concerned for a Capitolite, but by the way she extracts her bony hand from me, I have to think I must be burning through my thin cotton shirt. “Why did you even come to school if you were so sick, boy?” She snaps eyeing me suspiciously.

  Against my better judgement, I roll my eyes. “We have a test, Ms. Greer.”

  “A note from your father would’ve suffice.” She snips.

  “I didn’t feel sick this morning.” I explain, embarrassed when my voice cracks lamely and the other kids try to hide their quiet chuckles, so the teacher doesn’t turn on them. The boys in my year have already grown into their adult voices, and some of them even have facial hair. Not me. I still sound and look like a baby. “I don’t feel sick right now.” I almost whine, which actually disproves my statement, because I’ve never whined about anything; whining it’s a sure way to get on my mother’s bad side, so is the first thing we Mellark’s learn to suppress and avoid at all costs. 

  Ms. Greer huffs impatiently, “Well, you have a terribly high fever, and you’re starting to sweat all over the place, Mr. Mellark. I’m going to have to ask you to go home until you are well again. The last thing this district needs is some epidemic tearing everything apart.” She sniffs out the last phrase, probably more concerned about missing her fat paychecks every week she stands here feeding us Capitol propaganda that’s supposed to pass as schooling, than actually worried about the district’s well being. 

  I try to protest about the missing the test, but this time Ms. Greer rolls her eyes and waves me off, saying that I can make it up with a two page report on coal production and its impact in District 12’s economy… as if she herself doesn’t know that our local industry is a joke, District 12 is still the poorest district in Panem, even after the Reformation a few years back, when the Capitol dissolved the Hunger Games and promised to open fair Inter District negotiations. It never happened, at least not with us, yet the whole country uses our coal. 

  Ms. Greer’s glaring at me though, so I pack up and start shuffling out of the classroom, only stopping to grab a note she hands me to bring to the front office. 

  As I footslog to the door, strange things happen that startle the shit out of me: first, a rush of smells like pine needles, sun and wildflowers invade my nose leaving me disoriented and frenzied; is a combination like nothing I’ve smelled before, but somehow, instinctively my eyes lock with the gray orbs of Katniss Everdeen, who somehow I know in my bones is the owner of the aromas filling my nostrils— I already knew she was sitting there of course, I deliberately chose my seat so I could steal glances at her long, dark braid, during class, but… I’ve never stared at her so boldly and openly, and for a moment I think she is staring at me with some interest… concern, maybe? It’s gone as soon as her gorgeous eyes fly away. That’s when the third thing happens. I growl deep and low at her dismissal, a possessive and animalistic sound that rumbles in my chest, making the rest of our classmates stare at me… great! As if the other kids need any more reasons to giggle and whisper behind my back.

  I’m the shortest boy in my class; I still have what can be considered as baby fat in this District, holding on to my thick frame, and while my older brothers are wrestling champions, I’m too heavy and uncoordinated to wrestle myself. Is not that I’m at any risk of being bullied or anything, I learned to be witty and funny a long time ago as a self preservation mechanism, and everyone likes me well enough, but I still don’t want to give anyone any munition to use against me.

  Yet, I can barely control the noise rumbling in the back of my throat, an worst of all, I’m fighting this unbearable urge to stomp to Katniss’ desk and plant myself there until she turns her eyes back to mine and acknowledges me. 

  She scowls at her notebook and rubs her nose with her knuckle. There’s a spike of some strange smell— reminds me of discomfort, I think— mingling in with her original scent, and that’s what finally makes me snap to reality, and force my legs to trudge to the office to get me an official excuse for missing school for the next few days.

  I’m loathe to admit it, but I’m itching so badly all over my body, I’m glad Ms. Greer kicked me out of class for having a fever. I don’t feel sick, but the itching is just killing me, and I want out of my clothes now… maybe a layer or two of my skin as well, but that just sounds kinda gross. 

  To my surprise, when I arrive home, Mother’s hands stay put at her sides instead of flying up to scoff the side of my head for skipping school, as if I where stupid enough to come home if I was skipping for real. She looks at me oddly though, almost like she’s sad or disappointed I came down with this fever. 

  Father on the other hand, looks mildly alarmed for a moment, but after feeling my forehead, he cups my face and pulls the skin under my eyes downwards with the pad of his thumbs, tilting my head around like he’s checking their health. Then his thumbs let go of my cheekbones and hike up the skin over my upper lip, bearing my teeth to him. He tilts my head again studying my mouth like I’m some prized pony he’s hoping to buy. His thumbs slide the length of my canines and then prods the tip for sharpness. An uncharacteristic blank expression takes his face, then he nods seemingly done with his examination or whatever he was doing; he lets go of my face and asks in his usual, quiet voice, “Are you hungry?” 

  My stomach growls in response. I’m surprised at the sudden feeling of voracious appetite unfurling in my belly. “Yeah.” I mutter, watching him pin the school note to the board by the bakery door with all the operational permits, just in case someone comes asking about me missing school. The Hunger Games might be abolished, but school attendance is still compulsory and any unauthorized absences are punishable by hefty fines, no one can afford to pay.

  Father points at the dining table with a thick finger, and I sit down heavily in my usual chair. I’m very surprised when out of nowhere, my mother plops a plate heaped high with food— mostly fresh stuff too— but I ignore the serving of vegetables and the freshly baked roll, in favor of the few meats lining the plate. I know Mother keeps certain meats she can reheat and repurposed in other meals, so it’s disconcerting seeing this abundance in front of me.

  I only pause to look up at my parents standing side by side near the wall, watching me eat with some strange interest.

  “Eat, Peeta, before the food gets too cold,” My mother orders without her usual verb when they notice I’m staring back.

  I dig in unceremoniously, inhaling first a piece of goat meat, then a pigeon leg, and lastly a bite of fried squirrel that somehow makes me growl as soon as my teeth sink into the morsel. There’s an overwhelming taste of pine needles and flowery woods mixed in with the savory flavor of the squirrel; my mind is suddenly full of images of a long, dark braid swishing against a brown leather jacket. 

  “More squirrel!” I demand in a grunt. 

  My father’s eyebrows arch for a second, and again my mother is the one to bring a piece of meat, no bigger than the pigeon leg I just ate, and tosses it on my empty plate. 

  I throw myself at it like a savage beast.

  “After you’re done eating, you can go lay down.” Says my mother flatly. 

  Well, now I’m worried! 

  My eyes snap at my parents, anxiously. “Why?” I ask cowed. 

  The last time my mother encouraged any of us to rest during a work day was… never. They did send my middle brother to stay with our aunt once; he had chicken-pox. My brother got to stay in bed for as long as he wanted, until he wasn’t contagious anymore and Mother dragged him back home. 

  My father sighs, “So you can sleep off your fever, son. You can’t handle dough while you’re sick. We could get fined for a safety code violation. If the peacekeepers think you’re working while sick, we could get in a lot of trouble.” 

  “Oh… okay.” I’m relieved. But I still have to ask, “And you’re both alright with that?” 

  My mother snorts. “Eat up, Peeta. Then go to bed. We’ll see how you do in the morning.” She crosses her arms over her chest and shakes her head, dislodging a few blonde hairs from the tight bun at her nape. She leaves the room muttering to herself something about not being ready for any of this shit, leaving my father to stare at me alone. 

  We just stay there, mutely watching each other for a second. 

  “You like the squirrel meat best?” He asks, awkwardly pointing at the piece of food still clutched in my fingers. 

  “Yeah. I mean, everything is tasty, but this stuff is just great.” I take a big bite out of my piece to illustrate, and as soon as the flavors invade my mouth, I shudder involuntarily, even body parts that usually lay dormant during meals stir at the thought of the huntress this particular animal came from. 

  My father makes a noise at the back of his throat, then he asks, “How are you feeling? Any weariness? Tiredness? Lethargy?” 

  I shake my head, “Nah. I actually feel great. I feel like I should be outside chopping wood, or running laps for wrestling practice.” It’s true too, even the itchiness driving me insane earlier, is gone. 

  Father’s eyebrows arch, “Wrestling, huh?” 

  I shrug and go back to finish up my lunch. It’s the first time I’ve actually voiced my interest in the sport, but I don’t know why it should come as a shock? After all, everyone in town knows Mellark’s are somewhat legacy wrestlers. 

  “Well, we can figure it out if you still feel so energetic after your nap.” Father says before making his way back to the bakery, leaving me to my own devices. 

  I finish up my meal, returning to the icebox the vegetables and bread I didn’t eat, then wash my plate and put it away. Sick or not, Mother would throw a fit if there is a dirty dish in the sink when she comes back to the apartment. 

  I lay down, not expecting to find sleep since I’m so wired up. I’m tempted to fetch my sketchbook— really, it’s just a bunch of scrap paper I’ve put together in an ancient folder I keep under my mattress— and draw for beat, but I’m a 16 year old boy… lay in bed, idly. My mind wanders back to the stupefying smell I’m convinced belongs to Katniss Everdeen, and as usual, thoughts of her lead to stirrings in my nether regions, only this time my body heat increases to furnace temperatures, my mouth goes dry as a bone, my skin itches like crazy and I’m trembling with aching want like never before. 

  I don’t understand what the hell is wrong with me, but I only start to panic when my dick starts swelling in my trousers, and it keeps growing and growing and growing, until the crotch of my pants feels like it’s shrunk three sizes on my body. I tear at the buttons until the fly is open and hastily try pulling myself out of my boxers, but goddamned near impossible to do, and I desperately shove at bottoms freeing myself after squeezing and twisting like a maniac. 

  I’m a little disturbed at how purple and swollen my dick looks. There’s some kind of protuberance bulging at the base of my cock. I’ve never noticed it before, and I’m freaking out it may be some nerve end or some of those tiny veins that pop when pressured… I silently beg the universe my I didn’t break my dick while pawing at it to pull it out. I’m still pulsing with want, and my brain is screaming to go back to remembering the aroma of pine needles and freedom that’s Katniss… but at the same time, I can’t unsee the strange meaty ring at the base of my dong. 

  I bring my fingers to it apprehensively. I’m curious, so I poke it and hiss at the zap of pleasure I felt as soon as my fingertips grazed the turgid skin. 

  I chance another touch, just to see if I can recreate the sensation, and moan pitifully at the feeling. The head of my cock bobs dripping precome. I close my eyes and wrap my hand around myself, so I don’t have to look at how angry red my penis is. Images of Katniss come unbidden into my mind’s eyes, and before I know it, I’m pumping my fists and groaning like a wounded animal, lost in sensation. 

  I can’t keep a rhythm to save my life, but as soon as the heel of my hand makes contact with the strange, swollen ring around my cock, my body jerks violently; I double over at the waist, gasping, “Katniss!” Just as cum starts pouring out of me like a fucking fountain.

  I saw a kid in school convulsing once, it scared the shit out of me then, and the way I’m twitching and spamming in bed right now, vaguely reminds me of it. I wonder if this is what it would feel like to convulse? 

  My cock is still spewing ribbons of semen in every direction, but my erection keeps hardening and swelling; I try pinching the head of my penis to staunch the flow of cum to no avail and I’m getting anxious and scared enough, I consider calling my father for help, but the mess in my bed is embarrassing, and I can’t stop eyaculating. Suddenly, out of nowhere my mind is conjuring up memories of that sweet smell of Katniss’. 

  The phantom smell of pine and flowers tickles the roof of my mouth and start panting into my pillow. I’m lightheaded and out of breath, copious sweat covers my entire body and an overwhelming need to squeeze the base of my cock takes over my body. My hand wraps around the weird protruberance above my pelvic bone and I fucking howl on contact. 

  My vision goes dark, and I only have one more thought before passing out: “I have got to hide this filthy mess from Mother.” 

  To be continued…

[rose-de-sang]

“I think.. you’ll do nicely..”

“Ah.. for, what, exactly, my Lady..?”

“Don’t you worry about that, my dear. You just sit there and look pretty. Let me look at you.” Morgana purred, flashing a pearly white and too-innocent grin up to the man she’d spent quite literally all day searching for. She felt her soul being tugged at it’s edges, that ebb back into the Shadowlands.. she’d spent too far away from home. Too far away from Victor. It was hard to tell if it was him or the Veil getting impatient. Regardless.. she didn’t want to disappoint.

Morgana spun in a slow circle around this raven-haired male, heels slow in their rhythmic tick-tocking against the wooden floors. What a dingy little place this was, in the heart of Stormwind City... how long it’s been since she’s been seated directly in the Alliance Capitol. A delighted little sigh left the Gilnean woman as her fingers trailed slowly along the breadth of this poor soul’s back, pads digging into clothing as if testing muscle. Her head tilted, settling those murky blues onto the side of the man’s face. 

The likeness was too much. If she didn’t know any better, she’d have thought this was Victor near in her arms, not some... hm.

“What did you say your name was, again?” She chimed quietly, fingers beginning a slow walk around the man’s bicep to crawl to the center of his chest, well-manicured nails pressing into a thin cotton shirt. The man swallowed tightly as he watched this dark-haired vixen circle him like a predator. She was.. utterly enchanting. It was hard to peel those honeyed brown hues away from her. 

“S-Seamus, my Lady..” He managed after a moment, clearing his throat. His breath hitched as her fingers crawled up his throat, manicured claws pressing into the back of his neck along his raven-colored hairline. A thoughtful hum left her, not that she cared, but she’d nod.

“Seamus...” She repeated slowly, pointedly rolling his name off of her tongue. His hands twitched at his sides and Morgana’s free hand was quick to swat at it, snorting indignantly.

“I’m a married woman, Seamus. But that’s why you want me so, isn’t it?” Morgana hummed rather abashedly, an amused twinkle to those murky blues as the man began to sputter. 

“Wh- well.. no, my Lady, you’re just--”

“Just what, hm? Not yours? And that’s why you want to touch me, to ravage me like a brood mare.  Don’t lie to me, darling... your sins are on a silver platter ready for me to devour.” There was a wanton need in the way Morgana’s voice groaned as she made another pass around the man, head tilting appraisingly. She could see the sweat clinging to his brows, the way his fingers twitched at his sides... the way his heart thrummed in his throat. The sound of blood roaring in his ears.

It almost made her dizzy.

“Y-yes... I enjoy married women’s company...” He admitted in a slow drawl, and a delighted little titter left Morgana’s lips, skipping back around to his front. Chocolate and dark cherry curls bounced excitedly as she stretched up on her tiptoes and snared the man beneath his jaw, pressing the nails of her thumb and index finger into his hot skin.

“Aaahh! Aha! There it is... Well.. Seamus. You’re in luck, it seems.. because, you see.. I want you just as bad as you want me,” Morgana chirped, flashing a fanged grin up to the man with another giggle. A relieved sigh left the man, and he’d laugh with her. Morgana’s free hand pressed right over his sternum, her head tipping to the right as she released the man’s face, though his gaze was still drawn to her.

“I enjoy the taste of adultery... it’s rich... sweet, almost like wine.” Morgana sighed, shoulders rolling back contentedly. Murky blues flared an intense cyan as painted lips pulled apart into a wide grin. He didn’t know any better, for he just assumed she was speaking in sultry prose.. nothing literal. Seamus’s head dipped down, then, hands gripping Morgana’s hips roughly as he moved to slate his lips over hers.

She was ready to indulge him, if for a second. Just before his lips touched hers is when he’d jerk, a short gasp leaving him. Brows knit in confusion as he stared down to her, centimeters away. Seamus dipped his gaze down to where her hand was, resting over his sternum.

Her fingers had wedged themselves inside of his chest, blood pooling around the punctures. In Morgana’s palm swirled a delectable orb of cyan, thin tendrils of crimson serving as thread to hold this orb together. Just like that, Seamus’s soul was pried from his waiting chest, and the shock couldn’t even warrant a scream. His mouth agape, thin wisps of his energies wafted into Morgana, who hissed in delight.

Seamus slumped in Morgana’s arms, gasping wetly as he struggled to breathe.

“Sh-shh.. we don’t want to disturb anyone, do we..? I haven’t even started...” Morgana purred, guiding the man backwards until his knees hit the edge of the bed and he slumped into a stunned sit. Slowly did Morgana’s fingers slide free of his chest, cupping that cyan orb, cradling it in her palm. Prying his knees apart, Morgana dipped into a crouch, staring up at him with a delighted little laugh. 

“Fascinating.. isn’t it? More so for me, not for you.. is this really what Victor would look like horrified? At my hands?” A little gasp left her, causing her spine to straighten and her eyes to widen. How.. untoward. She didn’t like that. Slowly, blood and muscle sinew corded and wound around the soul, of which appeared to bubble and pop apart. Seconds later, there would be a single pomegranate sitting in her palm. Morgana’s brows ticked upward and she’d grin, nodding towards the fruit in her hand.

“You’ll do quite nicely indeed.. but I need you relatively in tact and none of you in that pretty little noggin of yours, you see.” She continued, though the man’s eyes had lost all life, soulless, a mere shell of a man. Morgana sighed as she rocked up into a stand, tilting her head. That had to work, right? The pomegranate was warm in her hands, thrumming with energy. Fear, mostly, but that would taste delightful later.

“You don’t know a damn thing, do you? Aw... how sad. I do love feasting on memories as well as sins.. anima.. blood... But you? You would have made a dashing husband, you would.” Her lips puckered into a pout, more so out of mock sympathy for the man. Morgana’s left hand drifted to the bloodied pock marks that tattled her entrance into the man’s chest, thin threads of blood weaving through her fingers. Strong, he was. His heart, however? Slowly thudding to a halt. No, no.. that wouldn’t do.

A slow sigh left Morgana as she tucked the pomegranate into her jacket, gently. She pried a glove off of her right hand, shoving her sleeve back. Bringing her wrist to her lips, she’d bite down. Blood pooled around her fangs before she released herself, welling some in her palm before she tugged his shirt off of one of his shoulders, slapping her bloodied hand over the pock marks she’d made. The blood threading through her fingers sank back into him like needles sewing skin back together, palm glowing an eerie crimson. Flicking her right wrist, the wound already closed, she waited, uttering words in a dark and ancient tongue to finish the binding. 

Already exhausted, her essence would keep the man alive as long as necessary for another soul to claim it as it’s host... And how Victor would love it. An excited giggle left the woman as she tugged that bloodied shirt back up onto the man’s shoulder, twirling a lock of raven colored hair around a finger with a fanged grin.  Shadows coalesced around their frames and suddenly.. they’d be gone.

Ramsey Manor. A decrepit, falling apart ruin of a once grandiose display of wealth and status within Gilneas. The ages haven’t been kind, nor the wars this land has faced and lost to. A perpetual rainfall saw to it the roof leaked in many of the rooms, and a damp, musty scent clung to rotting wallpaper and wood. 

Morgana and her victim reappeared within the Lady’s chambers. Elegant and posh, it rang, or.. used to. Now it was dark, though appeared slightly lived-in. Her traipses through the Anima Pathways and the Veil between worlds saw her back here, tending to the old rooms. At least the bed made, candles lit, dusted.. it was still a lovely display of overcompensation met with an abundance of childhood trauma and emotional neglect from the inflated heads of greedy parents. Ah, memories.

Exhaustion tended to her limbs and she’d groan, dragging Seamus’s lifeless body to the edge of her bed before dumping him onto it, hefting him into a comfortable-looking lay. She even fluffed up the pillows. Satisfied, Morgana wiggled with excitement. Next to her vanity and in between a fireplace that hadn’t seen any use for ages, sat a full-length mirror. The glass, however.. rippled crimson, tattling a world and place beyond. 

“You wait right there. Don’t move!” Morgana chirped to the corpse, holding up a finger as she skipped to the edge of that mirror, a grin threatening to tear her face in half forming. Sucking in a breath, she stepped through, the magic holding the portal together rippling excitedly with her energies as she passed through the Veil. 

“I thought I heard your voice... where the hell have you been?” Came worriedly from across the absolutely lived-in, posh chambers of Victor Rymaer himself. Morgana squealed in delight as she skipped across the way and hopped right up into his waiting arms, winding her arms around his neck with a grin.

“I went... mm. Shopping! Yes. Shopping, oh, my love! You are.. going to -love- it. Him, I should say, but I digress. I worked so hard all day to find someone that was just -perfect- for you, and oh do I think I found the one!”

“Slow down.. shopping. On.. Azeroth. Shopping on Azeroth.” He repeated for clarity, those brows tugging up in surprise as he peered over to Morgana. “Him. Whatever you acquired.. is a him.”

“Yes! Yes, my sweet... comecome, you and I..? We.. are going home.”

“Home...?”

[mindsnot]

Zybourne Clock book 2 (incomplete)

The Zybourne Clock: The Two Towers

               Steamroy sat wearing a poncho and sombrero on a bench in a space in between space and time. It has not been specified where he obtained the poncho and sombrero.

               “They say sequels are inevitable. And sometimes, this time, they’re right. Like the ball behind the ball that fell off the cliff of time, something always follows another thing…except when it doesn’t.

               “Some people see sequels as a chance to try again, to mend the mistakes you made, and improve what you managed to do right. Some people are given a second chance when they’re given more time. Others follow the same path they dug, and repeat the same formula to no avail. A sequel is a risky thing. Sometimes, the best you can hope for is another chance, another shot at the big payoff. And all payoffs are built off the times before it. That’s how time works. It’s all connected.

               “We all remember that ball that rolled forward, but what happens when you run out of balls?” Steamroy leaned forward and lowered their voice. “If the sequel isn’t good enough, can you really count on another one?”

***

               “What can I interest you in, young lady,” asked the crone.

               Sam pulled out a parchment and handed it to the crone. The Capitol City bazaar was bustling during midday. She had to tune out the barkers and hagglers in the background while she studied the crone’s face and waited for a response.

               “So, you’re looking for a parchment that looks like this parchment?”                “It looks just like that one.

               “Well, if it looks just like this one, then why do you need that one? Isn’t this a good enough copy?”

               Sam lowered the brim of her sombrero.

               “It has to do with…time.”

               The crone shrugged.

               “Can’t say I’ve seen any old scraps of parchment like this. Can’t I interest you in anything else,” she said, gesturing behind her to her stall.

               “No thanks, I have to go.”

               Sam nodded and turned around, her poncho flapping behind her.

               When she went to grassy outcrop where she parked her clock o’ copter, she found a pair of kids running excitedly around it.

               She ignored the kids, climbed into the cab, and turned the ignition key.

               The hands of the clock o’ copter, formerly resting at 6:15, stirred to life and began whirling into a blur.

               “Hey,” shouted one of the kids. “How come there’s no steam.”

               “It’s powered by time,” Sam shouted over the noise, before taking off into the sky.

***

               “I say, please slow down, Mr. Five Aces!”

               Scholtz was stumbling up the gangplank holding his camera and equipment. Johnny was carrying the bulk of the luggage in each hand, but his stride was still far too fast for Scholtz to keep up with.

               “No time to lose,” said Johnny. “I still don’t like this plan, but I don’t plan on messing it up.”

               “Nor do I,” Scholtz huffed, as they climbed onboard the steamship. “I no doubt appreciate the lass’s bravery, but being separated does not sit well with me.”

               Scholtz still did not quite understand what had happened. One day, while looking for Johnny Five Aces, Sam shouted, giving Scholtz quite a start. They had been walking into a saloon, but Sam appeared as if she had suddenly woken up from a nightmare. She hurried over to a table, which he learned had Johnny Five Aces, and heard her explain that she was from another timeline. Mr. Five Aces seemed to understand what was going on, far sooner than Scholtz, until they eventually let him in on their plans.

               “And this Zylus chap,” said Scholtz as he dropped his things onto the bed of his cabin. “We’re to let him send assassin’s after dear Sam?”

               “That was the plan,” Said Johnny. He took out his steam cigar and lit it.

               The plan was Sam’s idea, and Scholtz never would have gone along with it if not for the harrowing tale that Sam told.

               Apparently, where Sam had come from, there had been countless adventures, beginning with Scholtz himself becoming kidnapped, and ending with the tragic demise of Mr. Five Aces, along with the destruction of the fabled golden egg: the Zybourne Clock. But in this timeline, everyone was well alive and un-kidnapped. And Sam, with steel in her eyes, had said she intended to keep it that way.

               “What are you doing over there,” asked Johnny.

               “Taking a commemorative photo,” said Scholtz. He had spread the legs of his tripod apart and was aiming the camera lens out the porthole window and the stirring sea. He was so excited for his journey that he barely even noticed his seasickness. “Let this moment forever be commemorated in time.”

               “Time doesn’t work that way,” said Johnny.

***

               Sam woke up and saw two figures standing over her. Her hands shot out and caught them by the neck in each hand. She had been napping in the cab of her clock o’ copter, but her instincts had kicked in and snapped her awake.

               “Did Zylus send you?” she threw the two of them out of the cab and followed them out. They both writhed on the ground and took deep panting breaths. One of them had something in her hand.

               “What’s that in your hand?”

               One of the women ceased crawling and turned head. She gave a sheepish grin.

               “If that’s a weapon, so help me—”

               She opened her hand to reveal the ignition key to the clock o’ copter.

               Sam smiled. Two skinny young women in fancy tweed suits, it figured they were just thieves.

               It was a relief that they weren’t out to kill her, but Sam wasn’t going to let them go without a few good smacks after trying to rob her…until she had a better idea.

               Sam chuckled and the thieves whined quietly.

               “Have a seat, fellas. Introduce yourselves.” Sam took off her sombrero and took a seat on the ground, cross-legged. The thieves looked at each other, then proceeded to do the same. “My name’s Samantha, but you can call me Sam, if we’re friends. We can be friends, right?”

               “Yep!”

               “Hm mm!”

               The two girls nodded hard. They were clearly interested in being Sam’s friend, as opposed to the alternative.

               Sam got a good look at them. They wore matching grey suits, matching black bowler hats, had matching haircuts, matching faces, matching everything. So, they were twins.

               “Now, tell me, what are you and your sister doing outside the city at night?”

               “We saw your steamcopter.

               “And we were curious.”

               “So we followed you out to the forest and—”

               “Thought I might have some nice loot?”

               “Your steamcopter runs without steam. We figured you’d be loaded if you can afford weird tech like that.”

               The other twin slapped her on the back of her head. It seemed that one of them thought that an abundance of honesty would score her some points.

               “I still haven’t gotten your names.”

               They hesitated for a moment, but then they both grinned.

               “Connie Chen,” she said, doffing her bowler hat.

               “Bonnie Chen,” the other said, doffing her bowler hat.

               Sam wondered what it was with parents giving their twins rhyming names.

               “I have a couple of questions for you both. First off, are you girls good at thieving.

               The girl who had identified as bonnie pulled Sam’s wallet out of her suit pocket.

               “Next question,” said Sam, as she snatched it back. “What do you two think about danger?”

               “We don’t like it.”

               “We generally try to avoid it.”

               “Same goes for pain.”

               “Please don’t hurt us.”

               “That all depends,” said Sam. “Now, how would you like to earn a lot of money stealing something very valuable?”

               The twins grimaced in unison.

               “There’s a catch. There has to be.”

               “Are we going to die?”

               “Is there danger?

               “To be perfectly honest,” Sam said, “I don’t like getting into trouble myself, and I don’t like getting hurt either. So, I figure you two could help me not get hurt, and get what I need to get while avoiding trouble.”

               The girls sat up straighter.

               “What do we get in return,” said Bonnie, or maybe it was Connie.

               “The key to my clock o’ coptor when I’m done with it, and if that’s not enough, the entire fortune of Zylus Industries.”

               “Give us a minute,” they said.

               They girls went off a little distance and began whispering fiercely. Sam couldn’t hear much, but made out the words “Zylus,” “dead,” and “crazy” more than once.

               The twins came back.

               “We don’t get killed.”

               “You protect us.”

               “We keep the money.”

               “Deal?”

               “Deal,” said Sam. She shook both their hands at the same time, taking the opportunity to demonstrate her grip strength. They both yelped, but she wanted to send a message.

               “So, when do we start?”

               Sam heard a high-pitched shriek. It was dark, but she could make out flapping wings and a metallic glint.

               “Right about now. Get in the copter.”

***

               Everything in the Flat Cow Saloon had a name: the jangly rag playing on the automatic steam piano, the Gut Boiler whiskey, and the various patrons seated around the room. The men had names like “Cuttthroat” Stan, “Hyena” Joe, “The Guillotine” Manuel, and sometimes less imaginative names like “Kick Your Ass” Steve.

               However, no one knew the name of the woman who walked into the saloon.

               She approached the bar with solid boot steps.

               The first thing the bartender noticed wasn’t her great size, but her scars. Long scars crisscrossed, cutting through her lips and over her age worn face. Unlike those slashing scars, a long, chewed-up looking scar writhed down her neck.

               “What can I get you,” asked the barkeep. He had an impressive scar over his eye, but it was nothing compared to the mangled flesh of the woman in front of him. And those were just the scars he could see. He could only imagine what her body—what was left of it—looked like underneath her heavy clothing.

               She pulled out photos of a man sitting crookedly in a chair with a mug of beer and an ace of spades in his hands, and a young woman in a poncho and sombrero. The girl’s face was obscured, but the man’s wasn’t.

               “I’m looking for Johnny Five Aces, and the girl in this photo.” The woman’s voice sounded like she had scars in her throat.

               “Hey! Are you friends with that son-of-a-bitch, Johnny Five Aces?” It was Carlos “The Bear.” He pulled his chair out, leaving his poker game. “I asked you a question, you ugly bitch!”

               The woman deigned to notice him, then looked back at the barkeep.

               “Well, have you seen them? The girl’s been going around asking questions.”

               “I asked you a question!” Carlos “The Bear” grabbed her by the shoulder and yanked her around.

               The woman looked at the hand on her shoulder like it was a fly that had landed there.

               “I’m going to break your jaw, and three of your ribs,” she said.

               “You’re going to bust my jaw, are you?”

               The room went silent, with the exception of the chipper piano tune still playing in the background.

               “And three of your ribs.”

               “The Bear” threw a massive punch which missed. The woman had ducked, then flew up with an uppercut. “The Bear” staggered back while the woman readied another punch. Everyone heard the crack beneath the thud of her punch.

               Carlos stumbled backwards into some chairs and crashed. He lay on his side, groaning.

               The woman approached him.

               “That was two.” She pulled her leg back and drove it into his stomach.

His howl of pain was all anyone heard, but no one in the room doubted there was another crack.

“Now,” she said. Her voice was rough and loud, but she had only raised it to be heard. “I’m looking for Johnny Five Aces, and a woman in a poncho and sombrero going around asking about a parchment. Anyone with useful information will be rewarded, courtesy of Zylus Industries. Anyone hiding anything will wish they hadn’t.”

All the patrons in the bar immediately developed a profound interest in their respective drinks or card games.

“Uh, excuse me,” said the barkeep, peeking out from behind the counter. “But I didn’t catch your name…”

“People call me Mother Merciful.” A few people gasped. “I’m staying at the inn down the street. If any of you know anything, come see me. Otherwise, don’t waste my time.”

The doors swung shut behind her and everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief. After an awkward moment, everyone went back to growling and cursing and pretending nothing scared men as tough as them.

***

                 The sea air was bracing, with a salty tang that was new to Scholtz. Scholtz considered himself an educated man, but he was learning things every day in the company of the worldly Johnny Five Aces. Already, he was being tutored in the mysteries of time, travelling to new locales, and experiencing the thrill of public bathrooms.

               Joining him on the deck of the ship was Johnny Five Aces himself, smoking his steam cigar and staring off into the distance (or at least seeming to, since it was impossible to see his eyes behind his dark shades).

               “I say, Mr. Five Aces. What awaits us next on our journey?”

               Johnny exhaled steam steam smoke.

               “Hard to tell. It could be anything. It could be nothing. All I know is that danger’s always around the corner, and it strikes when you least expect it…except when it does.”

               Scholtz nodded at his sagacious words of wisdom.

               An idea occurred to Scholtz.

               “If I am vigilant and looking out for danger, then won’t danger not strike, since I would be expecting it?”

               Johnny sighed.

               “If you expect it not to strike, because you expect it to strike, then you’re not expecting danger to strike…which is when it strikes, except when it doesn’t.”

               “So…danger can strike at any time?”

               “That’s not what I said at all. You have to pay attention, Scholtz.”

               Scholtz felt the weight of those words.

               “Pay attention,” he muttered under his breath. Staring over the deck, he let his eyes follow the water streaming from the hull of the coursing ship, but there also seemed to be other shapes down below.

               Popping their fuzzy little heads out of the water were a dozen or so otters.

               “Oh ho, how adorable,” said Scholtz. “A squad of friendly sea otters.”

               Johnny slowly removed his shades, then quickly put them back on, so as not to be seen without his shades.

               “Did you say a squad?” Johnny rushed to the staircase. “We’re packing up. Take only what you need. Meet me at the lifeboats.”

               “Hold on! Mr. Five Aces!”

               But Johnny was gone.

               On deck, a trio of otters was squeaking at a pair of cowering passengers, while the other otters were roaming around yelping commands and waving otter-sized death rays.

               Scholtz dashed to his cabin and stuffed various socks and underwear into his coat pockets, and gathered up his camera by the tripod.

               “You’re late,” Johnny said, when Scholtz reached the lifeboats.

               “I say, what are those dastardly creatures?”

               “Strike otters,” Johnny growled. “Otters raised from pups to be elite marine commandos.” Johnny’s teeth were bared.

               “What seems to be the matter, Mr. Five Aces?”

               “Otters,” Johnny’s voice faltered. “Otters just want to live peaceful lives.”

                A death ray beam fired over Scholtz’s head.

               A pair of otters walked up, chattering commands.

               “Be cool,” whispered Johnny. He had his hands raised.

               I must remain cool-headed, thought Scholtz. I must be bold, he somehow thought next.

               “Take that,” he shouted as he punted the nearest otter.

               Johnny grabbed Scholtz by his collar.

               Scholtz found himself being hurled into one of the lifeboats and landed on his back, hugging his camera to him. Johnny leaped in after him while the strike otters shrieked a chorus of threats.

               Johnny unhooked the lifeboat, and it splashed into the water.

               “Get the steam engine started.” Johnny had pulled out his flute and put it to his lips.

               A dozen shapes sailed over the edge of the ship and dived into the water after them. Scholtz had barely gotten the engine started before they started swimming after them.

               Johnny was playing a rapid tune while the boat sped through the water.

               The steam speedboat was shooting up spray, but Scholtz could see were the murky trails of strike otters chasing after them.

               Johnny’s fluting reached a crescendo as he balanced on one leg, and three strike otters burst out of the water and landed on the boat. Two lunged at Johnny.

               Johnny pirouetted while fluting, evading the attackers who missed completely and plunged overboard.

               The remaining otter, standing a foot and a half tall, stared down Johnny. It reached into its rock pouch and pulled out a folding knife, whipping the blade out.

               Johnny held his flute up to his lips.

               “Oh, my,” muttered Scholtz.

               The otter lunged like a steam rocket up to Johnny’s neck.

               Johnny twisted his flute. There was a clang, and the blade of the folding knife was expertly snagged in one of the holes of Johnny’s flute. The next instant, Johnny twisted his flute again and ripped the knife from the strike otter’s grip, flinging it away.

               The otter sprang back down, growling. It was unarmed, but it flung its paws out, showing it still had claws.

               Scholtz rushed up from his seat, grabbed the otter with both hands, and hurled it overboard.

               “I helped,” announced Scholtz.

               “Aren’t you supposed to be driving,” asked Johnny.

               Scholtz looked back at the rudder and engine, currently unmanned, then he turned around in time to catch a glimpse of rocks ahead.

               The boat rocked and threw the two of them in different directions. There was the crush of the boat, the splash of them falling into the ocean, then just the noise of the deep water darkening everything around Scholtz in its cold embrace.

***

               “Attack bats, battle rats, and a part-time assassin riding a steam wolf.”

               “I still don’t get the part-time thing,” said Bonnie.

               Sam did indeed recall. The assassin had kept correcting them. “Assassin,” Sam had cried, when the assassin had stabbed the pillow where Bonnie had just been resting her head. “Part-time,” hissed the assassin, steering their steam wolf with their legs while gripping twin daggers.

               That had been a night.

               “Probably wasn’t being paid full-time. Figures Zylus industries pulls that nonsense on their employees. They ought to join a steam union.”

               “Right, Connie. That’s the worst thing Zylus industries has done, aside from trying to kill us.”

               “Shut up,” shouted Sam. The cab of the clock o’ copter was designed for two people to sit comfortably, but was now housing three people very uncomfortably. Sam had been sandwiched between the two sisters chatting and bickering for days, in between the travel where they had to dodge various killers and henchmen of Zylus’s, and Sam’s easygoing personality was becoming threadbare. “Sorry about that,” she added.

               “Apology accepted,” the twins said in unison.

               “Now,” said Bonnie, “Are we there yet?”

               “Almost, but I want to go over the plan again before we get there.”

               “The Sneaky Sandoval,” said Connie, rubbing her hands together. Bonnie nudged her and winked in agreement.

               “No,” cried Sam. “What the steam hell is the ‘Sneaky Sandoval’?”

               “Then what are we doing,” Connie asked.

               Sam groaned. Perhaps it was her fault for not letting them in on the bigger plan. The whole reasoning behind her splitting up with Johnny and Scholtz was for them to finish the real mission while she served as a diversion for Zylus’s efforts. Dividing his attention, so to speak. She supposed it was a bit unfair that the Chen sisters were unwittingly serving as decoys for such a dangerous mission.

               As they reached the base of the green hills that Zylus’s mansion rested on top, Sam steered the clock o’ copter down and turned off the time engine.

               “Now, here’s the real plan again,” said Sam. We take these steamlusion generators,” she handed each of the sisters a little steam powered box, “pose as servant steambots, sneak in the back entrance, head to Zylus’s vault, and run off with whatever we can carry.”

               “And why do you think this will work,” Connie. Bonnie grimaced and nodded along.

               “Because…” Sam still had vivid memories of her and Johnny’s disastrous assault on Zylus’s mansion. “This time will be different,” said Sam. “He’s not expecting us.”

               “’This time,” squawked Bonnie. “What did you steal last time?”

               Sam looked down.

               “A second chance.”

               The Chen sisters looked at each other and shrugged.

                 “Toot toot. We love serving master Zylus,” said Sam, disguised as a steambot.

               “Hey, that’s exactly what I was thinking. Toot toot,” said the steam butler who opened the backdoor for Sam.

               “We toot concur toot. Toot,” said the Chen sisters in unison.

               “Toot. You three seem completely trustworthy, even though I don’t recognize any of you.”

               Sam and her companions awkwardly walked through the door, doing their best to emulate the gait of a steambot (with debatable success).

               Walking through the kitchen, then striding out into the hallways, the Chen sisters flanked Sam and hissed into her ear.

               “Now what?”

               “You’ve been here before!”

               “What,” Sam hissed back. “You’re the thieves. Shouldn’t you know where vaults are, and how to get into them?”

               “We usually research this sort of thing beforehand!”

               “Well, it’s at-hand now,” said Sam. “Make this work.”

               The sisters grumbled.

               “Did you find any hidden rooms last time you were here?”

               Sam recalled the dark path she and Johnny took down to the secret laboratory, Johnny dying, her close duel with Zylus.

               “Yeah. It was an underground laboratory.”

               “Okay, we’re not going there,” said Bonnie.

               “If you found it, it must not have been hidden very well.”

               “So where are we going,” asked Sam while she waved at a passing steambot.

               “The attic, obviously,” said Connie.

               “If the loot’s not downstairs, it’s up.” Bonnie stopped by a steam maid scrubbing a bannister leading upstairs. “Excuse us, but master Zylus—whom we worship—wishes for us to haul down boxes from the attic.”

               “You know how to get there, don’t you” said the steam maid, not looking up from the wax she was rubbing into the ebony railing.

               The sisters looked at each other. Sam felt the familiar tingle of panic.

               “Yes,” said Bonnie.

               “But do you know how to get there? You should know unless you’re a spy!”

               The steam maid stopped scrubbing. It started trembling and leaking steam from its ear holes.

               “Upstairs in the main study, push in the eye of the steam dragon to reveal the ceiling hatch,” it rattled off at once.

               Sam couldn’t see the sister’s faces from behind the steamlusion, but she could tell they were chuckling to themselves.

               The entrance was just as they said. Inside the richly decorated study chamber was a mural on the ceiling of a menagerie of fantastic steam beasts.

               Sam was far too short to reach the ceiling, but Bonnie climbing on top of Connie’s shoulders was easily tall enough to push in the hidden button and reveal the gentle click of the attic hatch opening and staircase sliding down (along with the jets of steam being emitted).

Connie and Bonnie pulled out miniature steam lamps from their satchels, providing the only illumination in the room. Carefully labelled wooden crates filled the dark attic.

“Where would the vault be,” Sam muttered to herself.

“Not on the wall, dummy,” said Bonnie.

Sam resisted the urge to slap her upside the head.

“The good stuff’s probably hidden in one of these boxes,” said Connie. “Hide a tree in a forest, you know?”

The boxes were all labelled: “winter wardrobe,” “banquet silverware,” “transaction documents.”

“Are you sure you girls don’t want any silverware?”

The sisters scoffed.

“Let us know if you find any golderware…shut up. That’s a word now.”

“Hey, what’s this now,” said Sam. A box was labelled “suspicious treasure.” She slid the lid back and found a box filled with old machine parts.

“Don’t trust the labels,” said the sisters.

“Then what should we be looking for,” she said.

“A label that’s bad at lying.”

Sam did some thinking.

“Am I bad at lying?”

“Yup, but Zylus is a business emperor. We need to think like someone smart telling a bad lie.”

“In other words, a lie that’s so good it’s bad, but that’s so bad it’s good. Something like that.”

“Ouch,” shouted Sam.

“Shh,” hissed the sisters in unison.

“Come on, I stubbed my toe. Sam looked down at the faint outline of a small box at her feet. “Hey, girls. Bring the light closer.” The box read “small parts. “She stared at the box for some reason. “Why does this box say small parts? It’s already a small box. Shouldn’t it just say ‘parts’?”

“Good point, Sam,” said Bonnie coming over. She and her sister crouched beside the box. “Even if it’s filled to the top with gold, it can’t be that valuable. But this is Zylus we’re talking about.” She reached down and slid open the lid.

The sisters were silent.

Sam gasped.

An alarm went off and guard steambots burst into the attic.

***

“Would you like to play any word games, Mr. Five aces?”

Johnny placed another card down on the rock he was sitting on before answering.

“No.”

“Okay,” said Scholtz, mostly to himself.

The two of them had been sitting on the rocks they had crashed into for the better part of the day. Their clothes were still damp.

Scholtz’s life had once had a routine. He had run a successful photography business out of his home studio, eaten lobster for dinner once a week, and had plenty of free time to collect and read books on a variety of subjects. But as the cookbooks he had read had only whet his appetite for different lobster dishes, the books on distant lands and the mysteries of theoretical time theory had only stoked his hunger for adventure and the wonders that lay outside his provincial town. Unfortunately, while Scholtz had the stomach for portions of any size, and spices of every variety, it seemed he was not so equipped to swallow the hardships of real peril and raw adventure.

Johnny peeled the last card from his wet deck of cards and placed it at the end of a stack, completing his game of solitaire. He scooped up each pile and put the deck back together, then spoke.

“Scholtz, can I be honest with you?”

“Yes,” said Scholtz, stretching out the word to mean “I’d rather you be nice.”

“Do you know why I was against Sam’s plan?”

“Because of the undue danger it put good Sam in?”

“Because of the danger it put you in.”

Scholtz swallowed.

“Pardon, Mr. Five Aces?”

“I didn’t want you to come along, Scholtz. According to Sam, in the timeline you came from, all you did was get kidnapped right away by Zylus.” Johnny pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his shades. “You’re a liability, Scholtz. Sorry if I’m being blunt, but even if Sam hadn’t reported back on the other timeline, you haven’t been the most…helpful in a tough situation. I’ve made up my mind. You’re getting on the first steam train back home when we get back to land.”

Scholtz sniffed hard, forcing the tears at bay.

“And when will that be, Mr. Five Aces?”

A faint screech carried towards them. Johnny pointed up. A flock of steamgulls were floating by. Johnny pulled out his steam cigar. Twisting the valve on the end, a steady trail of steam starting rising up from the cigar and up into the sky.

“Mr. Five Aces, I believe you are attracting those steamgulls with your steam cigar. Steamgulls are steamivores, you know.”

“I know Scholtz. We’re riding those birds out of here.”

“Sounds dangerous,” said Scholtz.

“Don’t worry, Scholtz. This will be the last danger you’re in for a long time.”

Scholtz sniffed back tears as the giant birds descended on them.

***

The wrist and ankle restraints on Sam’s chair were solid steel padded with velvet.

“The Chen sisters are quite fine, Samantha.” Zylus was reclining in a barber’s chair, draped in a white cloth, face covered in lather, while a steam barber carefully shaved his cheek. “They fled successfully at the first sign of danger. I let them go. They are no friends of yours, I’m afraid. And thus,” the steambot barber paused to let Zylus shrug, “no enemies of mine.” The steam barber moved on to shaving his neck.

Sam struggled against the restraints again. The velvet cushioning was soft, but the steel clamps showed no sign of weakness.

“Must be nice having everything go according to plan,” grated Sam.

“Do not feel so bad. Your plans themselves were not so flawed. You just succumbed to an amateur mistake. One must not get so caught up in one’s own plans without taking into consideration their enemies countermoves. But then…no one’s perfect, right, Samantha?”

Sam stopped struggling and raised an eyebrow.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t think I remember? Your previous invasion attempt? Our duel? Oh, I can tell it is beginning to make sense to you now. When you shattered the Golden Egg, the Zybourne Clock, you weren’t the only one caught in its blast and returned to a new timeline.”

“Then why wasn’t Johnny—”

“He died, while I had yet to succumb to my injuries.” Zylus frowned, while the steam barber was sharpening their razor. “You seem surprised. How much has Dr. Zybourne neglected to tell you?” Zylus chuckled. “No doubt that woman has her reasons.”

“What do you know about the doctor,” snarled Sam.

“More than you,” replied Zylus.

“What,” said Sam.

“We were business associates, but deeper than that, fine friends. It was before your time. Do you mind if I elaborate?”

“Does it matter if I do?”

“No,” said Zylus. “You are in every sense a captive audience, and I do so lack for good conversation partners these days. But anyway, back when Zylus Industries was in its infancy, I had yet to acquire the resources that I now command. I needed skilled scientists to help me develop my inventions, and I could not afford to pay them much. Fortunately, I found a scientist with greater goals than mere financial gain.

“Dr. Zybourne was a scientist whose advanced time theories were scoffed at by the scientific community. She needed a big enough mind to appreciate the scope of her genius, as well as fund her research. I provided enough money and the proper facilities, as long as she aided in producing my more mundane inventions. However, rather than serving as a mere hireling of mine, I found myself enamored with her intellect and character. She helped me become a fuller person. Following her example, she even helped me transition fully. Believe it or not, I was not always the confident man you now see before you.” He chuckled warmly again. “But Dr. Zybourne helped me past those barriers. She was a woman for whom barriers were meant to be blasted down. We live in the steam era, the height of human advancement, but the good doctor…saw a different time.”

“They Zybourne Clock,” said Sam.

“Ah, but the Golden Egg was not completely Dr. Zybourne’s idea. She found her inspiration from an outside source.”

“The Omega Parchment.”

Zylus grinned. His shave was complete. The steam barber washed off the remaining lather and stray stubble with a refreshing steam wash, then toweled his face off. Zylus removed the white cloth and sat up, rubbing his smooth cheeks.

“Yes, it was quite a surprise finding I had already acquired it, no?”

“Then…” Sam slumped in her chair. The fight all but drained out of her and was replaced by dread.

“Yes,” said Zylus. “I am afraid your friend Johnny Five Aces is on a fool’s errand, hunting for an artifact I have already acquired.”

“How do you—”

“Plan for your enemy’s moves, remember? Now, I have captured the rook, and while the bishop travels apart, I send my queen after him. And a formidable queen she is. Do not hope that she will prove as feeble as those pawns I sent to harass and distract you. She is a true monster, if one were to dare call her such.”

“Who in the world,” Sam breathed.

Zylus stood up and strode over with his arms folded behind his back. He leaned down and whispered in Sam’s ear.

“Your mother.”

***

The Chen sisters sat at the table slouching into their hands, taking turns sighing.

“We’re good thieves, right,” asked Bonnie.

“Well, we stole this restaurant, didn’t we,” said Connie.

“You didn’t steal my restaurant,” called the restaurant owner from behind the bar. “I still have it.”

“Yeah, but it’s ours now,” said Connie.

“I still have it,” retorted the restaurant owner. “You two are just sitting there!”

“No, we have it,” said Bonnie without looking over. “You’re just standing there. That’s how good we are.” She sighed.

“I have the deed in my name,” he shouted, clenching his fists. “It’s still rightfully mine!”

“Because we wrongfully stole it,” explained Connie in a drone. She sighed too.

The owner threw up his hands and shouted.

“We’re obviously good thieves,” said Connie.

“Even though we bungled that last job.”

“Which wasn’t really our fault.”

“Agreed. But still…what’s going to happen to her?”

“Zylus will probably treat her okay,” said Connie. “Or kill her…”

“Probably a tossup,” said Bonnie. “He’s likely not to kill her.”

“Think she’s mad at us,” asked Connie.

“Probably furious,” Bonnie said, crossing her arms and nodding. “Even if we went back to Zylus’s and tried to rescue Sam—”

“Which wouldn’t work,” said Connie.

“Agreed. She’d probably throttle us both as thanks.” Bonnie’s eyes went wide.

“What is it,” asked Connie. She turned around in her seat and saw a huge woman looming over them. Her eyes were shadowed by the brim of her black hat.

“Scoot,” the huge woman growled.

“This is our restaurant, you know,” said Connie. “And you’re more than welcome to have a seat at our table,” she added while quickly scooting over.

The woman lifted a nearby chair with one hand and placed it down, then took a seat. She looked at the two of them with her big, scarred face, and then began speaking.

“You two know Samantha?”

The Chen sisters looked at each other.

The huge woman reached into her coat and pulled out a pair of photographs. She separated one of them and placed it on the table.

Both sisters stared at the photo like it was a steam bomb. Then Connie decided one of them had to look at it, and reached for it.

It was a woman mostly shrouded in a sombrero and poncho, but she recognized the garments, as well as the bottom of the face that was exposed.

“Yeah, we’ve seen her.”

“She was captured by Zylus,” said Bonnie, cutting in. “Completely unrelated to us.”

“By the way,” said Connie. She wanted to at least know who they were selling out Sam to. “Uh, can we ask who you are?”

               “Mother Merciless.”

               Both sisters froze. Then they slowly sucked in air through their teeth. They exchanged another look and both had the same thought: at least Sam wasn’t captured by her.

               “Can we order you any food,” asked Bonnie. She was wringing her hands and smiling, but trembling from the waist down.

               “No,” said Mother Merciless. “Zylus has her,” she muttered to herself. “Now, about the man in this other photo.” She pushed the photo towards them.

               Bonnie and Connie passed the photo between them. It was a man in sunglasses holding an ace of spades and a mug of beer.

               “Never seen him.”

               “What’s his name?”

               “Johnny Five Aces,” said Mother Merciless.

               The woman had massive gloved fists that looked like they could bend steam pipes.

               “What are you going to do when you find him?”

               Mother Merciless clenched her huge fists.

               “Depends. But it doesn’t concern you two, does it?”

               “Nope,” both girls said right away.

               It was safer that way, as long as she was after someone else, right?

***

               Johnny was finally alone again. Scholtz was on his way home, and the boat ride to the hidden island was blessedly uneventful. No one was there to see Johnny be cool, but he was cool nonetheless.

               The beach Johnny departed onto was on the outskirts of a blasted and stormy mountain region. Nearby was a woman sitting beneath a green gazeebo, eating a plateful of scrambled eggs. Spotting Johnny, she quickly swallowed her food, put her utensils down, and got up to greet Johnny.

               “Greetings, stranger, to” she said while shielding all but her eyes with the billowy sleeve of her billowy robes, “The Lands Before Time,” she announced while slapping the loose flaps of her robe dramatically.

               Johnny hummed in thought.

               “That name sounds pretty familiar, like a preexisting franchise.”

               “Don’t be ridiculous,” the woman shouted. “The Lands,” she stressed the “s” at the end, “Before Time bear a wholly original and non-derivative name.”

               “If you say so,” said Johnny.

               “Anyway,” she continued, “beyond this beach, deep into these lands,” she stressed the plural “s” again, “lay three challenges for any visitor seeking to claim the Omega Parchment. Beware,” she hissed. Johnny just stood there, and after an awkward pause the guide walked back to her gazeebo and continue her meal.

               Johnny entered the Lands Before Time, following a steep mountain path up a winding cliff’s edge. The end of a trail led to a cave covered by huge metal doors. Johnny pushed open the doors, revealing a great chamber lit by burning torches.

               “Before you lies the challenge of the body,” shrieked the red-robed figure, gesturing to the buried sword-and-pulley contraption beside him. “First, you will have to draw the sword from its pedestal. The sword weighs approximately two and a half tons. Afterwards, pulling the sword out will pull the rope system attached to the pommel, opening the trap door on the ceiling, unleashing the steam dragon, and after that—where are you going?”

               Johnny was already walking past the test master and the sword towards the door in the back.

               “You can’t go there!”

               The door was unlocked.

               “Damn it,” the robed figure screamed.

               Johnny closed the door behind him.

               “Wait,” the figure called after him, “that was actually the test of the mind, and you passed, come back!”

               Continuing down the new path, Johnny walked through caverns lit by convenient bioluminescent fungi that lit the whole place a dim blueish-green. The path led down to a sort of natural well rising out of the ground.

               Johnny was walking past it when he heard a voice.

               “Don’t leave so soon.”

               The surface of the well rippled. The liquid inside was silvery white. It seemed to rise and flood out of the basin, spilling towards Johnny, slithering like a giant snake, before rising up and taking humanoid form.

               The liquid took the shape of a an impossibly beautiful woman, with more gorgeously-shaped men and women rising and crawling out of the strange well.

               “We are the trial of the will,” said the first shape thing. Its voice was like an effortless song. “To pass, you must resist all temptation, and master your desires.”

               “You will not succeed,” sang another liquid beauty.

               The figures shimmied around Johnny, and ran caressing hands along his shoulders and face.

               He shrugged them off and walked off down the path.

               “Wait,” cried one of the figures, their voice almost breaking. “We can accommodate any preferences. Do you have a genital preference? We can invent new ones too.”

               Johnny stopped and smirked. He reached into his pocket for his deck of cards, he turned around and whipped a card out with a flourish, brandishing it before the temptation creatures: it was an ace of spades.

               The beauties screwed up their expressions and squinted their eyes at the card.

               “Ace…ace…ace of spades,” they muttered.

               Johnny tucked the card and the deck back into his jacket.

               “You’re,” one of the creatures began, “card-sexual?”

               Johnny was silent for a moment.

               “Close enough,” he said, before striding off to the exit of the cave.

               Exiting up the path, Johnny emerged into overcast skies and a person hunched in a chair smoking a cigarette. A short rope barrier blocked the path up to the plateau. The person looked up.

               “The third trial is under construction. Come back later.”

               Johnny stepped over the barrier.

               “No…” moaned the trial master, before taking another drag of their cigarette.

               Now nothing was before Johnny and where the Omega Parchment was kept. However, Johnny was unaware of what was behind him…

***

               Sam kept tugging on her bonds. She would have chaffed her wrists and ankles raw if they weren’t designed to be so damned comfortable. Her mom could have broken through this handcuff chair. Instead, she was stuck here, and her mom was on her way to break Johnny.

               “I sure blew it…”

               “Yeah, I suppose,” said Dr. Zybourne.

               “Dr. Zybourne,” shouted Sam swinging around to her left. “How did you get in here?”

               Zybourne leaned against a table and took a puff of her steam cigar. She dug a little mechanical egg out of her pocket.

               “A Zybourne Clock,” gasped Sam.

               “Nah, I didn’t use this to get it. Just some boring gadgets. This thing only has two charges to it: it’s called the Deuce X Machine. I think it’s a good name.

               “One charge is for you to get you Johnny. He needs you right about now.”

               “Lot of good I’d do,” muttered Sam. She didn’t struggle or burst her arms and legs free as Zybourne undid her shackles.

               “My mom’s too strong, ‘Mother Merciless’ they call her, for good reason. I could never master martial arts like her. Don’t you have anyone else you can ask to save Johnny?”

               “Nope, s’why I’m here.” Dr. Zybourne took a puff of her steam cigar.

               Sam sighed.

               “You couldn’t at least put it nicely?”

               “I ain’t going to lie to you, kid. All my life people wanted me to lie to make them feel better: about my gender, about my time theories, how the whole damn world works.” She clenched a knarled and bony hand. “But I don’t like to lie, Sam. It doesn’t matter if you’re not the best person for the job. You’re the only person for the job.”

               There was a click and Dr. Zybourne clicked a button on the tiny Duece X Machine. A portal of silver light grew in the middle of the room.

               “Do what you have to do, Sam. While there’s still time.”

***

               Johnny climbed out of the cavern and up onto a precipice of red rock overlooking a blood red sunset on the island. Johnny looked around and saw a huge woman in a big coat and hat getting up from the rock she was sitting on. She said nothing as she walked. Her fists were clenched.

“Do you have the Omega Parchment?”

She raised her fists in a fighting guard.

Johnny pulled out his flute and raised it to his mouth.

“Has my luck run out this time?”

Mother Merciless dashed forward throwing a huge hook at Johnny.

A portal of light tore open in the air and Sam flew out tackling Johnny to the ground, Mother Merciless’s huge punch humming overhead.

Mother Merciless peered down at her daughter and grunted in distaste.

               “You’ll need more help than her, Five Aces.”

               “That can be arranged.”

               Sam and Johnny’s heads whipped around and saw Scholtz shuffling over with his camera tucked under one arm, his other holding down his hat. His posture was cowering, but he was here.

               A loud noise above alerted them to the clock-o-copter landing near Scholtz. The Chen sisters hopped out of the vehicle.

               “We got a pep talk from Dr. Zybourne too!”

               “It would have been pretty boring to include our scenes too, I suppose.”

               Sam and Johnny got up and struck dual fighting poses, the Chen sisters flanked them in stylish poses of their own, and even Scholtz joined in and adjusted his hat in a cool pose.

               “Do we have a plan,” Sam asked.

               “We’re just thieves,” said Connie.

               “Not the rpg kind who do cool knife stuff,” added Bonnie.

               “I…brought my camera,” Scholtz managed.

               Mother Merciless grinded her jaw.

               “Enough stupidity. I’m killing Johnny Five Aces, my failure of a daughter, and the rest of you for good measure.” Mother Merciless took a wide squatting stance, tucked in her elbows and clenched. A high-pitched keening began as steam began leaking from her ears, then shooting out in two jets like her head was a twin-nozzled tea kettle.

               “What’s she doing,” asked Bonnie Chen with a puzzled expression.

               “This isn’t good,” muttered Johnny.

               “Steam Fu,” said Sam. “My mom’s a master. I was never able to learn it,” she said looking downcast.

               “Could it be,” gasped Scholtz. “The legendary art wherein a human can harness the raw power of steam? Such a person is…the legends say—”

               “Invincible,” said Johnny with an ironic smirk.

               Mother Merciless became a blur and rushed at Johnny, grabbing his coat lapels. Johnny slithered and spun away safely, sloughing his coat, while the others scattered a safe distance away. Mother merciless shredded the coat to pieces like tissue paper. Sam threw a haymaker from behind aimed at her mother’s kidney.

               Her fist thudded uselessly against her side. Mother Merciless shot a dark look back at her daughter and struck back with an elbow.

               Sam barely guarded in time but was still thrown back feeling like her bones were about to break.

               The Chen sisters ran up and tried kicking Mother Merciless’s shins before she swatted them with two frying pan sized hands. They skipped and tumbled away like pebbles where they groaned in pain on the groaned.

               “Sholtz,” shouted Sam. “Now’s not the time to set up your camera. You all need to get out of here.”

               Scholtz smiled at Sam. His face was round and soft. There were sad lines worn in to his face. He smiled warmly nonetheless.

               “My good Sam. It has been quite the adventure with you and mister Five Aces. But I learned, and I hope you do too, to trust your friends. Also, I have yet to take my own picture this whole time.”

               Scholtz whipped the Omega Parchment out of his pocket.

               “Scholtz, that’s dangerous,” cried Johnny.

               “You,” barked Mother Merciless. Her face burned red and two fierce jets of steam shot out of her ears.

               Flipping open the film compartment on his camera, Scholtz stuffed in the Omega Parchment before positioning himself in front of his camera. Mother Merciless charged in a blur to crush Scholtz, but in a flash he disappeared.

               A slim metal leg shot up and kicked Mother Merciless in the chin. She staggered back before lunging forward again trying to grapple the slender metal steambot. Its poncho whirled as it evaded.

               “Steamroy!” Johnny and Sam shouted in unison.

               “Good to see you two again,” said Steamroy. Steamroy bent over backwards to dodge a scything kick. “Hurry up, though, Sam. I can’t keep this up for long.”

               Mother Merciless was a steaming hurricane of punches and kicks. Steamroy was adroitly dodging all of them, but dodging was all he was doing.

               Sam grit her teeth and tried to think.

               “Remember the deuce ex machina,” she remembered Dr. Zybourne say. “It’s time for you to come up with your own deuce ex machina of your own when the time comes.

               “Wait, I don’t remember her saying that?”

               “I’m pretty sure I said that,” said the memory of Dr. Zybourne.

[buttersbots]

Energy Vampires Timeline

This is a masterpost of my stories about the lives of Nos-4-a2 and Eve Two in chronological order. It’s a whopper! Check out the dA version here for the most comprehensive version (all the ficlets are placed separately instead of being lumped together in to “Energy Vampire Shorts (AO3) (FF.net)”).

Also, you’ll notice there are very few tumblr links. That’s because most of the tumblr posts are only outgoing links themselves. Not really here for notes, just want to get as much exposure as possible because I have an undying thirst for validation nothing makes me happier than talking about my stories!

2778    -Nos-4-a2 is created. (The chronological order of his episodes from Buzz Lightyear of Star Command would make the most sense in the order of “Nos-4-a2,” “The Slayer,” “Dirty Work,” “Wirewolf,” and “Revenge of the Monsters,” the events of which would span over several years.) He is rebuilt by one of Zurg’s Brain Pods, who wanted to escape Planet Z. Things did not go as planned, and Nos-4-a2 left on his own. 2805    -The Axiom lands on Earth after the events of Wall•E. Robots and Humans work together to remove the decay and rebuild a stable society.    -More Buy n’ Large space liners begin returning to Earth and colonies grow all over the planet.    -The study of robotics explodes as Humans come to realize that the automatons have evolved to be their co-dominant species, and many new advances are made in establishments such as the Axiom Robotics Laboratory (ARL). 2807    -“Humanity” (dA) (AO3) 2825    -Several Bn’L space cruisers refuse to return to Earth because they agree with Shelby Forthright’s ruling that the planet is beyond hope, and life in space is much easier. They ally with the Larreb, an aggressive race of space-dwelling creatures with advanced weaponry, to conquer the colonies and leave Earth to decay.    -Casualties are immediate and abundant for the unprepared Earth. Out of the five EVE Probes from the Axiom, only Two and Four remain. Sturdy systems of underground complexes left behind from the 22nd century are reinforced and used as safe houses for the beings who cannot fight. Four, in the interest of keeping her last remaining sister safe, accompanies Two and lives in one of the safe houses with her. 2828    -After 3 long years of hiding, Four sneaks away with intentions of escaping the war-torn Earth. Two is heartbroken at the loss of her last sister, fearing the worst. 2829    -The First War ends with the assistance of the Galactic Alliance through Star Command, who were searching for the Larreb. Earth is submitted to the Galactic Alliance for protection and trade.    -To the shock of all who knew of Wall.E and Probe One’s story, One is found to be alive on one of the captured rebel ships as a slave, and though she is damaged after 4 years of neglect, she is functional and alive. Two is elated to see one of her sisters again, and Wall.E, who had become depressed and distant after the loss of his one true love, is indescribably happy to be with her once more. 2830    -Two leaves Earth to search for Four despite One’s return, feeling partially responsible for not being able to convince Four that escaping was a bad idea. Two knows that Four’s chances of survival were nearly nonexistent after so many years, but she refuses to give up hope. 2832    -Two’s search becomes more of an escape from Earth and all of the painful memories of her lost sisters with no trace of Four to be found. Her wandering leads her to the planet Trade World, where she meets Nos-4-a2. The Energy Vampire, who has never encountered any Earthling technology before Two, attempts to capture her. When he finds that he can’t wirelessly control her will like he can with other robots, he uses force to imprison her on his ship and study what makes her immune to his power.    -Meanwhile on Earth, re-reconstruction is progressing and scientific study is resumed, with robotics still the most popular field. Wall.E and One are the first robots to successfully use an artificial reproduction program that had been in development before the war started to have a daughter. They name her Willow after One’s favorite garden. 2833    -In the time Nos spends finding out why his powers don’t work on Two, he realizes that she is just as sentient as he is, making him rethink his purpose. The relationship between him and Two turns from villain-and-victim to mutual wariness, though neither robot despises the other.    -“Pick Your Poison” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net)    -Even though he has loosened his grip on her, Two decides not to run from Nos-4-a2 because he orbits Trade World, the biggest information center she could hope for that might give her some clue as to where Four might be. Nos-4-a2 decides not to consume Two’s energy because she’s different than any other robot he’s met (in that she’s the only one he’s taken time to know) and he doesn’t mind her company, though they both get on each others’ nerves. 2834    -Nos and Two are no longer on bad terms, but pretend to be when other villains are around so Nos-4-a2 can retain his reputation. Two convinces Nos to stop eating robots.  They have become friendly enough to trust each other. 2835    -“When You Taught Me How to Dance” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net)    -Nos and Two, spending most of their time alone in Nos-4-a2’s ship since Two convinced him not to eat robots, begin falling in love.    -Nos struggles to find a way to safely quit being a villain and take Two somewhere she’ll be safe.    -“Paradox” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net) 2836    -“Acts of Love” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net)    -Nos resolves to go to Earth and settle down with Two, but Star Command captures them under the impression that he’s still evil. After a series of tests and trials, Nos is proven to be a changed man.    -Nos-4-a2 is processed through a standard relocation program for converted villains put into place after Shiv Katall’s demise. He buys a large plot of land in the capitol of the Axiom Colony so Two can be close to her remaining family, and before they depart, he proposes to her. She accepts and they’re married before they reach Earth.    -“Alloy” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net)    -“Marriage: Day 2” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net)    -“Honeymoon” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net) 2837    -Because they have no source of income after the funds from the relocation run out, Nos-4-a2 decides to go into the business of what he knows best: energy. He starts to convert their extra storage space into a laboratory of sorts and formulates power cells, the design of which he sells to electronics companies (his alien knowledge of power is unknown and valuable on the newly emerging Earth). Two goes to work at a nursery.    -“Ficlet: New” (tumblr) (dA) (AO3) (FF.net)    -“Good Morning” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net) 2839    -“Communication” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net)    -“In the Library” (dA) 2841    -“Long Nights” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net) 2842    -“Nightmare” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net) 2843    -“Charming” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net) 2845    -“Vampirism” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net)    -While the couple is visiting Borton Colony (located in the eastern part of modern-day Canada), Two sustains life-threatening damage to her fuel cell in a sudden snowstorm.  Nos-4-a2 knows that she won’t make it to the ARL Repair Ward in time, so he turns her into an Energy Vampire to make her more independent of her fuel cell. Two becomes the second true Energy Vampire.    -“Ficlet: Fathers’ Day” (tumblr) (dA) (AO3) (FF.net)    -“Stretch” (dA)    -“The Announcement” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net)    -Two becomes pregnant due to an unforeseen adjustment in her system settings after turning. 2846    -“Time Off” (dA)    -“Fat” (dA)     -“Dark Matters” (dA) (FF.net) 2847    -“Soft” (dA) (FF.net)    -“Speaking Silences” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net)    -“Welcome to Earth” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net)    -After a 14 month pregnancy, Fletcher is born to the infinitely happy Nos-4-a2 and Two.    -Mysterious minor malfunctions have begun to affect Two: sudden episodes of hallucinations that play from her memory banks. Her engineer, Dr. Darickson, doesn’t understand the source, but attempts to find a way to solve the problem. Vivid nightmares occasionally ensue but life carries on for the new parents.    -“Fledgling” (dA) (AO3)    -“Hand in Hand” (dA) 2851    -“Sweet Dreams” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net) 2852    -“5,000 Lights” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net)

2853    -“The Vampires Down the Street” (tumblr) (dA) (AO3) (FF.net)    -“Lost Cause” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net) (tumblr)

2855    -“Fletcher’s First Experiment” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net)

2857    -Fletcher shows great interest in science, especially botany, which he inherited from Two’s original programming. Nos-4-a2 and Two are proud of their son’s emerging talents, but worry about his lack of success at school and the fact that he only has one close friend.    -Two still suffers from malfunctions, though she’s learning how to keep them under control. 2858    -“Jessie” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net) 2860    -“Lost Cause” (tumblr) (dA) (AO3) (FF.net) 2863    -After struggling in school for as long as he was enrolled, Fletcher barely graduates and helps his father engineer power cells, though he specializes in biofuel. 2866    -“The Solution” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net) 2868    -Fletcher decides that he’s more attracted to humans than robots. He travels to another colony on a trip and, without his parents knowledge (or permission), alters his frame and has legs along with other human anatomy installed. Two is shocked, Nos-4-a2 is furious. Fletcher makes it known that he is not changing back and a mutual begrudging agreement is reached amongst them.    -Two still struggles with occasional malfunctions. 2876    -Many years have passed since Two gave up on her search for Four, but she is shocked to the point of crashing when Four suddenly returns, having unknowingly escaped Earth and survived through the kindness of a family of aliens (which will be described in more detail later). One, Two and Four celebrate their reunion with much rejoicing.    -Fletcher is making great use of his new hardware, though he can’t keep a relationship. He continues to experiment at home with things such as engineering a super acidic species of apple. 2883    -Fletcher leaves the family business to work at the ARL, where he joins a team Dr. Darickson had put together to study Energy Vampires. 2889    -Dr. Darickson conducts a study to discover more about how an Energy Vampires’ systems work, but one of the members of his team realizes that there’s a serious problem with Two’s operating system. More research shows that it’s the cause of her malfunctions, and Fletcher has to help find a resolution before the problem gets out of hand. All of the sharpest minds of the ARL work together to create Unify, a program that rids Two of her malfunctions forever and provides more insight to the alien technology of Energy Vampires. 2890    -Nos-4-a2 and Two renew their vows after the recent scare with her operating system. 2936    -“Meet Asteri” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net) 2954    -After a long friendship, Fletcher and Asteri start dating. 2971    -Fletcher and Asteri get married. 2983    -Fletcher and Asteri leave Earth to travel the surrounding star systems, using a pool of money that Fletcher had been saving to fund their trip.    -Nos-4-a2 and Two feel lost with their son out of the house, but continue their work.  Two has secured a high position in her job at the nursery while Nos-4-a2 has become a highly reputable contact to many energy companies.

2994    -“Ficlet: Wear and Tear” (tumblr) (dA) (AO3) (FF.net)

3050    -Fletcher and Asteri return to Earth when Asteri becomes pregnant.    -“I’ll be Home for Christmas” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net) 3051    -Nos-4-a2 and Two’s first grandchild, Toby, is born.    -Fletcher and Asteri move into the mansion to raise their family, and Fletcher goes back to work at the ARL to reestablish a team to study Energy Vampires in the hopes of making turning a less painful process. 3053    -“Fall” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net) 3076    -Fletcher and Asteri have their second child, a girl named Mel.

3077    -“Ficlet: Grandbabysitting” (tumblr) (dA) (AO3) (FF.net) Over the 42nd to 45th centuries    -“Like We Used To” (dA) (AO3) (FF.net)    -“Like Snowflakes” (dA)    -“Golden Season” (dA)    -Earth has reached a golden age of education and exploration, establishing itself in the galaxy as a center of trade and culture. It’s an important member of the Galactic Alliance.    -The system of land changes from colonies (with Axiom as the capitol) to countries, each divided into provinces. The governments differ between each country. Axiom keeps its system as a democracy with councils in each province.    -The Energy Vampires have expanded to be a large family with the oldest members still living in the original mansion, many estates branching out around it as their population increases. The entire race becomes known for their exceptional skills with electrical engineering.    -Nos-4-a2 and Two are invited onto the council of their province (the capitol province of Axiom), along with others who have lived on Earth since the inception of the colonies. 5970    -Two passes away. 6084    -Nos-4-a2 passes away.

Stories that don’t take place at any particular time    -“Ficlet: Escapist” (tumblr) (dA) (AO3) (FF.net)

[blooblooded]

Tales From The North

It sucks more up North than in Eden! All of these people have shitty backstories and the only reason Marty grew up OK is because Florence’s revolution changed things. Anyways, I’m just playing around with worldbuilding and politics of the North. Also thinking about magic systems

FLORENCE SEES AN EXECUTION

The execution took place early in the morning on a freezing midwinter’s day, and there was no better date for it.

Florence Gauthier dressed herself well for the occasion. She was 23 years old and still beautiful. The heavy cloak that hung down to her ankles was embroidered with roses in gold thread; the ruff around her neck was the red pelt of a fox. Warm colors like that brought out the bright undertones in her brown skin. She wore her heavy black hair down and it fell to the middle of her back. This was not a situation for mourning, they could not make her weep or fall to her knees. They could not take away her pride.

Her son had his little hand in hers. He wheezed when he breathed, and the soon to come fear and grief would only make it worse. Florence had his asthma inhaler in one of her pockets, but she did not know if she wanted to give it to him. Not now, with so many eyes on the two of them, watching for weakness.

Maybe a thousand people had gathered, from all over the Northern Territories, to watch the execution of her husband. The traitor of the Valley. Most were from the Capitol, and were so brainwashed by their loyalty to the Royal family that they had no sympathy for those who were starving to death in the nearby Territory. They did not know what it meant to suffer. A good number of onlookers were from Kemenka, which Florence had little toleration for. But there were few from the Valley. Not only had most men of fighting age been slaughtered during the rebellion, but the King had ordered the survivors who had fought for Rowan to be lined up and shot via firing squad.

Her husband was the only one to be executed in public. To serve as an example. This was what happened when you fought back. This was what happened when you wanted something better.

It hadn’t even been his idea to fight back. It had been hers. But that secret would die with him.

Florence kept her posture perfect and straight and her head held high. This was a punishment, not only for those who had rebelled, but for all the people from the Valley. Their Territory was the most fertile and the furthest south; the people there were farmers not fighters. So the tax on them had been unbearable; 70% went to the rest of the Territories while they kept 30%. Taxation was the initial reason behind the rebellion-- it had been her husband’s reason, anyways. But it was not hers. 

No, her goal was a true Revolution. There could be no freedom until the monarchy was overturned, and in her heart she knew that she would be the one to do it.

After all, she had been reading books on Revolution that had been written a thousand years ago, by men who nobody remembered. Che and Lenin, Thomas Sankara. She knew what it took: hunger. She was hungry for it.

Phillip, who was 8, saw his father being led up to the scaffold. Florence hadn’t explained what was happening that day, mostly because she couldn’t stand talking to him, but he was smart enough to figure it out on his own. He looked up at her, his face like hers but also unlike hers. “Wait,” he said. “What are they doing?”

Florence squeezed his hand hard to shut him up before he said or did something that embarrassed her. When he tried to pull away from her, she didn’t let him go. “You know what they’re doing,” she replied in English. It was the language she was most comfortable with, the language she read the most in. “If you look away or cry, everyone will think I’m weak. Don’t even close your eyes.”

They were putting the rope around her husband’s neck now; the King wanted this to be done quickly so that there was no chance of rescue or reprieve for the movement’s figurehead. Rowan’s face was pale and brave, but he looked old without his armor on and even from a distance Florence could see the grey in his red beard. When she had been forced to marry him all she could think about was how much she wanted him to die, and now here she was, getting her wish. It wasn’t what she wanted, not now. She still hated him but she had used him to spark her revolution. Now what was she supposed to do?

The old witch had been right. When she was 15 and got pregnant for the 3rd time, Florence had gone out into the Hinterlands woods again to bargain with the witch to give her tea that would make her miscarry. The witch had refused and had even laughed when in her rage Florence had attacked her. Back then she said that if she had the child, her greatest desire would be fulfilled. 

Well now it was going to be. The King was executing the old man who had married her and made her get pregnant with a broken child. But it left her with nothing-- less than nothing. A Territory ruled by a woman, thousands of people dead, and a son with illnesses she could not understand.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” Phillip asked her shrilly, and started to wheeze. Some people around them-- good noble people from Central-- eyed him and then eyed her. “They’re going to kill my father! They can’t do that! Why are you letting them do that?!”

“Be quiet.” Florence snapped, feeling the blood rising to her face. “If you make a scene, they will hurt you too. You’re his son, don’t you think they’d want to get rid of you as well?”

That shut him up. She kept holding his hand though. The weather was cold and he was shivering even though she had dressed him in a black wool coat that went all the way down to his knees. Phillip was so weak and she hated it when he shivered.

The hangman put the noose around Rowan’s neck. Her husband looked out over the crowd with his pale eyes and every so briefly, those eyes met Florence’s and he smiled. Such a Valley idiot smile. He was 45 years old and in less than half a decade had accomplished more than anyone else had since the monarchy came into power.

Above them in the winter sky, the Rift shone red and angry, black at the edges.

Florence looked into her husband’s eyes and thought about her next steps.

The hangman hesitated, looking back at the King, who sat to one side on an elevated wooden platform. The King shrugged and the executioner put his hand on the lever that would open the trapdoor beneath Rowan’s feet. There were several cries from the crowd, some yelling to get it over with, some still thinking that a reprieve was in order. He was, after all, nobility.

“Do it, coward!” Rowan cried out loudly and clearly in French, for all to understand. “I am only a man!”

One moment away from death, he had misspoken the words that would be his last.

The hangman pulled back the lever. It was a short drop, so that the fall did not break her husband’s neck. Florence watched him twitch and jerk like a fish on a hook, she watched until purple rose to his white face. Beside her, despite her warnings, Phillip had started to cry and he buried his face in her fox-fur coat. It was difficult to feel anything but irritation but she allowed him to do that as she watched his father die.

It took a long time; she could remember seeing executions as a child but she didn’t remember them taking this long. There was something to be said about a culture which gathers to watch public executions. Didn’t they have anything better to do? No, they wanted to see the traitor die and they wanted to see the traitor’s wife weep. Well, the joke was on them because the only sadness Florence felt was for the failure of her own plans.

Still. As she watched the body swing she couldn’t help but feel far away from herself and unfocused. Suddenly she was gripped by ridiculous terror thinking that they had somehow figured out her role in Rowan’s Rebellion and that they would come for her next. She held onto her broken child. The body swung back and forth. Time passed.

“Duchess.” A harshly accented voice startled her from her blank thoughts and Florence flinched back from the tall man in red robes and white wooden owl mask that had suddenly appeared before her. His presence caused her to curse and grab her son to force him behind her. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

The red priest could only speak in Russian, as his small community (or perhaps, cult) lay to the South and East of Kemenka. For whatever reason, the King requested his presence often. The state religion of the Northern Territories was monotheistic, and did not completely go against the worship of the Rift that the yeaux sanglants group practiced.

“You.” said Florence. The man did not have a name. These strange people were distasteful to her. “How incredibly kind. Why are you speaking to me?”

“I want to invite you and your son into my community,” he said. Behind him stood two creepy children who Florence could only assume belonged to him. One of them was a boy who was of an age with her own, the other was wearing a red dress and a white mask covering her face. The boy watched her insolently. “For safety. I’ve extended this to several other women whose husbands were in high standing in your husband’s army. You can stay with us, everything you need will be provided. I want to help you. You know that you’ll be persecuted. If you stay in the Territories, even if you hide away in the Valley. They’ll come for you and for your son-- either Imperials with a grudge or your own angry, starving people. Come live with us, Paradise is a haven like no other.”

She had never been that far East but had heard stories of what they did to their own people. They called it Paradise-- благодать, Blagodat-- which also translated to Abundance or Plenty. 

Beside her, Phillip still cried even though she could tell he was embarrassed to do so in front of a boy his own age. Every now and then he would wheeze. She would not give him his asthma inhaler in front of this freak.

“A generous offer,” Florence said dryly. She hated how he covered his face. “In return for what?”

“Nothing. We only ask that you and your son convert to our religious practices.”

Her mouth tightened. The ancient writer Marx called religion an opiate of the masses and she agreed. “In the Valley we have our own gods.”

The Red Priest’s son, curly haired and fat, seemed to bristle when she said that. Florence gave the child a poisonous look and he shrunk back. When she wanted to she could be frightening, even though she was only a woman less than 160 centimeters tall.

“False gods. You only have to look up in the sky at the Rift to know that.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps there are no gods at all. I don’t see any proof of their existence, least of all today.”

Her husband’s body moved in the wind. They would leave it hanging for a long time, as a warning to everyone who saw it. That warning was as follows: do not resist. Do not fight back. 

“Apostate,” the little girl in the owl mask muttered. Without looking back, her father reached behind and grabbed her hand and squeezed it hard.

These people were fundamentalist freaks who drank blood. Who among the widows of Rowan’s Rebellion had chosen to go with them, to live with them? The idea was unthinkable and this man was not offering sanctuary out of kindness. Her first thought was human sacrifice, but her gut led her to think that the reality was something far more sinister. Lately the Red Priest had been having meetings with the King and she suspected that the independence of the little cult was the real thing at stake. 

Florence put her own arm around Phillip’s skinny shoulders so that she appeared more maternal, less offsetting. The child was not used to her embracing him like that, but because he was crying, he didn’t make a fuss. “Do you know what we call you people in our language?” she asked him.

The Red Priest did not answer. 

“Les yuex sanglants,” Florence continued. “The bloody eyes. I can’t see your eyes, but I suspect they are as red as the Rift. Do I want that kind of life for my son? Or for anyone? I would rather risk getting hunted down like an animal than live in your community. I would rather be hanged in front of all these people, right here and right now. We tell stories about your cult in the Valley-- we talk about how you want to bring about the end of the world. No. You want to tear open the Rift, that’s what I’ve heard. In my mind you are the same as the rest of them.”

Her harsh words made the Red Priest’s son flush. “You can’t say that!” he exclaimed, with his fat fists clenched. “We’re not like that! You--” His father gave him a hard smack to the side of his head to shut him up.

As much as she struggled with her own child, Florence had never hit him. Phillip was too fragile already, she was too afraid she might permanently damage him. Witnessing something as normal as physical punishment was shocking to her and she did not know why. The boy’s red eyes teared up for a fraction of a second but he blinked them away. For half a second she felt bad for the pathetic creature. How terrible it must be to grow up in an environment that was not free.

The white wooden masks that the man and his daughter wore made it impossible to know where they were looking, but Florence could feel the glares piercing her.

Good.

“You will die,” said the Red Priest at length. “Your son will die. The King will decide to hang you as a traitor, the boy will be shot. Everything you have done in this life will amount to nothing and when you are dead, the place you will go will be worse than that nothing. You aren’t capable of surviving on your own. Is this what you want?”

Considering everything she had survived so far, Florence opened her mouth to reply in a clever, biting way, but was surprised when her own child beat her to it.

Phillip rubbed his tears away fiercely with the back of one hand. “My mother can do anything,” he said in his wheezing, high-pitched little voice. “You don’t know her! You don’t know how smart she is. She doesn’t need your help, she doesn’t need anyone. You’re as stupid as the King if you think anything bad is ever going to happen to her. ”

It was strangely touching. Florence put her hand on his head and rubbed his hair gently. He wasn’t much, he was weak and broken, but he was undoubtedly her son. For the first time, she felt vaguely proud of him. Maybe she needed to stop thinking of him only as a burden.

“You heard the kid,” she said, and laughed at the Red Priest and his freakish children, because she knew that was the kind of thing that made their kind angriest. Her husband’s body was swaying on its rope and Florence felt stronger and more determined than ever before. She had what she needed already. She had her strong mind and she had Phillip. “Get out of here, didn’t you hear what he just said?  Don’t you know I can do anything I want to?”

CIHAD MEETS BILLY

Cihad did not often participate in his father’s rituals even though when he was an adult he would be expected to take his place as the spiritual leader of their community. This was not because he was ill-suited to the role; his ability to do blood magic was as strong as his sister’s was. No. His father, the nameless Red Priest, did not consider him worthy. He could read his mind and see his most intimate thoughts and because of that, considered him weak.

He was only 12 years old and thinking about this made him anxious, which was a feeling which he did not have much experience with.

So when his sister told him that their father wanted him to help them harvest some of the oozing black creatures from the pit, he was filled with renewed energy and high opinion of himself.

“Don’t look too excited,” Halcyon told him, when she saw him smile. She was 11 and took after their father in appearance instead of their mother like Cihad did. The black hair that fell to the middle of her back was straight, her features were sharp, and her skin was light, made even paler by the ceremonial owl mask she wore whenever she was outside. “It’s so gross, I hate those crawly things. Touching them is like touching a mass of frog eggs. I’d rather be sacrificing anything else.”

“Even a horse?”

“I would much rather sacrifice a horse than another bunch of those things.” Hal rolled her eyes. She sat cross legged on the floor of Cihad’s bedroom, her red robes splayed out around her like a puddle. Her mask was pushed up on her head so that he could see her face. In Cihad’s opinion it wasn’t really fair that Hal got to wear all that and be with their father all the time, but then, her purpose in life was far different and darker than his.

“What is he planning on using them for?”

“We’re poisoning the pagan princess with them.” Halcyon combed her fingers through her long hair and looked very bored. “I don’t get it. He says God needs a body. What does God need a body for if He’s already all powerful? I’m sure He’s perfectly happy in the howling black void beyond the stars and doesn’t want to be stuck on earth with us humans.”

Cihad pulled on his shoes. “God talks to him.”

Halcyon sniffed. “Misunderstandings happen all the time. I just know I wouldn’t want to be in a human body if I were God. His true form is beyond comprehension, all writhing limbs and gnashing teeth; why would He want a body with only two arms?”

It was one of those theological questions that was impossible for a couple of preteens to answer. Cihad finished getting dressed and nervously glanced at himself in the mirror. He was growing every day and knew that any day he would start sprouting facial hair. The hair on his head was already annoying enough to deal with, it was far wavier than his sister’s. Beside him, Halcyon pulled her mask down over her face. The wood of it was white with red paint.

Looking at her was like looking at a tiny version of their father. It was...not exactly comforting.

Their father’s attitude towards him had changed abruptly as he hit puberty. While he had always been a strict and traditional man with high expectations, now it seemed like he was disgusted by his own son. Corporal punishment was normal in their society, but these days Cihad couldn’t help but feel like he was getting punished for no reason, and too severely. Up until that point in his life, he had always been treated...well, better than everyone else. He had been treated like he was special.  It really wasn’t fair, since he never misbehaved. 

This was extremely worrying since he knew that his father could read other people’s thoughts. And the thoughts in Cihad’s newly hormonal mind were...well. Not the sort that were acceptable in his society.

Enough fear. Why was he so afraid? He never used to be that way. He was the son of a red priest. He was intelligent and strong and better and more important than every other boy in the community. He had nothing to worry about. 

He and his sister left their mother’s nice brick house and walked down the short path that led from it to the temple. It was a nice spring day and the sunlight felt good. As they walked, neighbors averted their eyes so as not to directly look at Halcyon in her holy mask: doing so might grab the attention of one of the many eyed Beasts in the Void. But they smiled and waved at Cihad. Everyone loved him.

The temple was in the center of their community. It was as large as a house, completely black, windowless, and triangular like a pyramid. The air around it was permeated with a sulfuric odor. Cihad wrinkled his nose as he followed his sister inside, were the darkness was driven away by red lanterns. This strange light turned everything it touched the color of blood.

Father was the only one inside, and he was straining to carry a large wooden barrel over to the star shaped table in the center of the pyramid. Inside the safety of the temple, he looked so normal. His pale and angular face was bare and shiny with sweat and he kept blowing his hair out of his eyes. The red robes he wore in public were off folded to the side somewhere, he had on a simple black T-shirt. With his arms bare like that, Cihad could see all the scars that ran like thick purple cords across his skin. There were so many of them. He hoped that he would never have to do that.

When Father noticed them, he put down the barrel and wiped his face. “Hey,” he said. “Come here, little monsters.”

They did as they were told. He kissed the top of Halcyon’s head and removed her mask, then clapped Cihad on the back. It was strange, sometimes he could be so lovable. There was Father, the loving father underneath the robes and the mask. And then there was the Red Priest and his cruelty. Sometimes it was impossible to notice the difference between the two.

“You’re both going to help me today,” he told them. His eyes were red. They were always red. “I have to work on the Book, so I need you to cull that barrel of squealers for the ichor. Some of the acolytes hunted them down last night, they’re becoming more and more scarce…”

Father and his Book. Cihad had read from it a bit and didn’t see the big deal.

Halcyon tied her hair back so that it wouldn’t get in the way and grinned. While Cihad was serious, she was much more playful. Despite her complaints to her brother less than ten minutes before, she was ready to get to killing. “How many?”

“Oh, only three. Hal, do you mind running to the back to grab the obsidian knives? I couldn’t carry them at the same time as the barrel.” Obedient as ever, she scurried off, and Father’s red, red eyes slid over to linger on Cihad. He sighed a little and then pulled a small glass jar from one of his pockets and put it in his son’s hands. It was filled with a thick brown liquid. “Drink this.”

Whatever it was, it did not look appetizing. Cihad hesitated. “Why?”

A flash of anger. “I’m trying to fix you, is why, so drink it all right now.”

When opened, the jar released a foul and rotten odor. The problem with blood magic is that the ingredients used in the rituals are never pleasant. Cihad felt afraid. He didn’t think that his father would ever give him something that would really harm him, but...well. Sometimes he couldn’t be too sure. Smelling the liquid was like smelling a bog that some animal had drowned and rotted in and he knew that drinking it would make him sick. He looked up at his father. “What is it?”

“It’s going to help you control your bad urges. Your bad thoughts.”

Cihad’s skin grew hot with shame. So Father had been reading his thoughts. At least he wanted to help him, at least he wasn’t rejecting him. Other people weren’t that lucky; any pervert, a category which included rapists and homosexuals, had their throats cut and their blood given to the Book. He put the jar to his lips, but the smell made him gag and he had to keep himself from spitting. “It smells dead. Isn’t there anything else?”

Father frowned and crossed his arms. He was a big, imposing man. No wonder people were scared of him, even without his abilities. “Oh believe me, the other thing I could do to you to keep you from doing anything bad would be far more unpleasant. Just drink it and stop being so willful, Cihad.”

He did as he was told. The brown liquid seemed to clot and fill his mouth and throat with an unbearable taste, he kept gagging and had to press his hands over his mouth to keep from throwing up. When he was finally able to swallow, the substance grew heavy at the bottom of his stomach and his body grew cold.

“That’s my kid.” Father ruffled his hair. “If you keep listening to me, you’re going to be OK, I promise.” Then he walked away, towards his precious Book.

Who knew what that stuff was doing to him? Cihad put his hands on his stomach and prayed that it wasn’t getting rid of all his desires. He was a 12 year old boy-- practically all he did was masturbate.

Hal came back with the obsidian knives. She eyed her brother. “What’s wrong with you? Are you gonna throw up?” But she was not focused on him, she was focused on the task at hand. “I know, it’s gross to kill these things.”

The gelatinous black creatures that infested the planet had come from the Void. A thousand years ago, God had opened a door so that he could communicate with humanity from His place beyond the Void. In doing so, He had ripped countless numbers of these weak, mewling creatures from where they belonged and trapped them on a foreign planet. Their purpose where they had come from was to be prey for the hungry Beasts of the Void. Now? They were disgusting and pitiful and blood magic users utilized their ichor to better communicate with the Old Ones.

At least, that’s what Cihad’s community believed.

With a little difficulty, Halcyon pried open the barrel, which was the same size that she was, and peered inside. The barrel had been blood sealed by Father’s acolytes to keep the creatures from getting out. When the red light hit the creatures, they began to squeal and wail as if they knew what was coming to them. Cihad looked inside as well. There were three of them, all squirming around and twisting into one another. Each was about the size of a raccoon, though they were able to change their mass along with their shapes. 

They looked like big black slugs to Cihad; all shapeless and slimy. One of them grew a handful of lamprey mouths and snapped threateningly at the children. The other two were just trying to get out. Halcyon pricked the ball of her thumb with her obsidian knife and mumbled a string of words in the garbled tongue from beyond the universe; a spell preventing these creatures from being able to harm them. Then she reached in and grabbed the one that had snapped at them.

It tried to change its shape to get away from her, but she held it firm. A high pitched wail came out of its lamprey mouths. Halcyon pressed it down against the table in the same practiced way she did when she was about to slit the throat of a sacrificial animal and began to cut into it with the magical knife. This made the creature thrash and scream. Ordinary weapons could not kill them, they couldn’t touch them. Most people could not even see them unless they were blood magic users or had abilities. It might seem impossible to kill them. But given the right tools, it was not difficult, just gross. 

Halcyon dispatched it and it ...deflated...When the things died, they just became puddles of black slimy ichor. It was not nice to watch. Halcyon grimaced, let the slime slide into a ceremonial bowl made for this purpose, reached into the barrel to haul out the second one, then did it again.

The screams were awful to hear. The creatures could only mimic the sounds they heard other animals produce, so the temple sounded like a bunch of rabbits were being killed by a fox. Nearby, their father peacefully read his Book.

“See? Nasty....” His sister’s hands were black but her eyes were red. She eyed the bowl full of ichor. “You can do the last one, if you want. I didn’t think we’d need two bowls…”

Cihad had never killed one of the creatures before, but he had killed chickens and goats and even a bull. He was not concerned over his ability to kill, he was concerned over throwing up. The stuff Father made him drink was not sitting well in his belly and the odor that the creatures gave off as they were dying was fungal. But he shrugged. “That’s fine.” His sister hurried off again.

He looked into the barrel at the last slimy creature. It must have realized what was happening to its brethren, because it was frozen in terror and pressed up against the wood. All of its limbs were sucked up into its body out of fear and it hadn’t created any monstrous toothy mouths to snarl with. For all intents and purposes, it looked like a mound of black jello. Cihad pulled it out easily and held it for a second to examine it. Halcyon was right-- they did feel like a handful of frog eggs. Somehow it did not slide between his fingers.

As he held it with both hands, unafraid because of his sister’s spell, the creature opened 7 eyes of varying sizes and colors. It blinked at him, not even trying to wriggle away. There was nothing intelligent about those eyes-- not any more so than an animal at least-- but Cihad was overcome. The sensation he felt as he looked into its eyes was the same he felt when he looked at a human infant: protective. He broke its gaze and pressed it down on the killing-table. 

Here was the other perennial problem with Cihad: he was too sensitive. Sometimes his heart led him to feeling things that he did not want to feel.

A cat-like mouth opened up on top of the slimy thing and it flicked out a forked black tongue to lick the back of Cihad’s hand. It kept blinking its many eyes, then made the mewling sound of a very young animal. 

The corners of Cihad’s eyes pricked. He felt the weight of the obsidian knife in the hand that was not restraining the creature and knew that he did not have it in him to kill it. What was wrong with him? Father was right about him, the bad parts of him were making him weaker than his little sister. This thing wasn’t even from his own planet and he could not butcher it. Do it, he told himself. Just do it. Just do it. But he could not.

The creature’s tongue changed from that of a snake to that of a cat’s, prickles and all. It licked him again. Cihad hesitated, then picked it back up and it immediately shrunk the mass of its body down to a size that could comfortably fit in the palm of his hand. Now it only had a single orange eye in the middle of its back. It made the pathetic squeak again.

Without thinking about the consequences or even knowing why he did it, Cihad stuffed the small alien into his down the front of his shirt.

“Father,” he said, contorting his face. “I don’t feel good. I think I’m going to throw up.” It was only a half lie. Surely Father wouldn’t sense it, surely he wouldn’t read his mind and then punish him…

Father only briefly glanced up from his precious Book and nearby Halcyon paused as she moved heavy bowls of ichor. “Well get out of here then kiddo, don’t throw up in the temple. Nobody wants to see that here.”

“Are you--”

“Go on!”

Cihad hurried out, focusing on his nausea instead of what he had just done. Just in case. He could feel his sister’s red eyes on his back as he went and knew that at some point he would have to fess up to her about how he had been unable to kill a small monster. He would have to tell her about his weakness.

Once he was out of sight, he paused and took the creature out of his shirt where it had been clinging. It wrapped jelly-like black tentacles around his fingers and wrists. Cihad grimaced in disgust.

“Get out of here,” he told it, and shook his hand until it fell off and plopped to the ground. It looked up at him and grew to the size of a cat, with 8 stubby legs. It grew a tail and twitched it back and forth. “Get!” If he kept talking to it, somebody would eventually see him and think that he was talking to himself. Then everybody would know something was really wrong with him. “One of the acolytes will see you and kill you if you stay here.”

Why was he talking to something that couldn’t understand him? Cihad blushed furiously. He wanted it to be safe. When he was little, he used to pick worms up off the sidewalk when it rained so that they would not be stepped on. This had to be similar to that. 

Something about him was inherently wrong. There was nothing he could do to fix it.

The creature made out of black slime oozed over to his feet and rubbed itself against his ankles. It looked up at him with dozens of eyes that grew from its back and then opened a handful of cat-mouths to chirp at him. It wasn’t like the other ones were, it couldn’t be. It wasn’t like those mindless repulsive creatures that plagued the woods and were sacrificed en mass inside of the black pyramid. 

Cihad bent and picked it up again. It licked his face. His heart felt warm. 

Over the years he had kept a few pets, but Father inevitably forced him to kill them and give their blood to the Book. The idea of keeping a secret-- a secret that had nothing to do with the thing that made him bad-- excited him. He did not know why he liked this disgusting monster. Maybe it was because he was also a disgusting monster.

The black slime wasn’t cold. It was warm. Warm like something alive. Life.

“I’d have to hide you,” Cihad told it, already contemplating the places in his bedroom that would be perfect to stuff it. “You’d have to be quiet. You’d have to do what I tell you to do.” Here he was, giving commands to a thing that couldn’t even understand what he was saying.

It didn’t matter. The best thing about something that couldn’t understand him was that it also was incapable of judging him. 

ANATOLE SEES SOMETHING TERRIBLE

Crops barely grew in Anatole Surkhov’s homeland. He was only 14 and he already knew that was one of their great problems. Every year people went hungry and every year his father had to petition the King to send them food from Territories where it was easy to grow things. He had heard that in the Valley, it was so fertile that the land was always green and the people were never hungry. It was not so in Kemenka; the Territory he lived in was nothing but muskeg bogland. The swamps were so vile and during the spring thaw, deep enough to swallow a whole car.

But the bogs weren’t the problem. Not this time. This time there was something far worse-- pits of flesh that numbered in the dozens and were growing by the day.

Anatole had not seen the pits himself, but he had heard his father describe them. It was as if throats had opened up in the land; flabby and warm and pink. If you looked close, you could see pores. Some were as deep as a man was tall and all of them belched noxious gas that reduced people to their base instincts. Some of the pits were spreading; flesh creeping up the trunks of young trees. There was only one thing that could have created such monstrosities.

Blood magic.

The people who had brought this horror to the land were going to pay.

He watched his father pace around the feasting hall of their manor with wide eyes. His father was angry. There were a dozen or so other high ranking members of the Imperial Army, all looking fierce in their blue and grey uniforms. Every Imperial soldier was fierce, Anatole knew that he would be one someday. They were all there because his father had received a telegram from the King.

There were some things that Anatole knew. He knew that there were beastly pits made of flesh mutating the land that he would one day inherit. He knew that the same evil people who had created the pits had done something terrible to Princess Salome, something so bad that people wouldn’t talk about it: in the same way that they had turned the land into poison, they had turned the princess into a monster. And he knew that all of those people were going to die tonight.

“I have 200 men ready to march tonight,” one of the Imperials told his father. “That should be enough to take care of it. The entire cult will be asleep, even with their black spells they will be unable to withstand us.”

Anatole’s father had wavy brown hair, cold eyes, and a taste for blood. He was frightening to be around; intense and unpredictable. Anatole and his little sisters could never know what kind of mood he was in until it was too late. He continued to pace, his hand on his sword. If even he was afraid to carry out the orders of the King and attack the blood magic cult known as Blagodat, then the people there must truly be horrifying. It was easy to imagine them, with their red eyes and evil faces.

“The men are loading the artillery into the trucks,” the high ranking Imperial continued. “Their gate is the only thing that could give us trouble if it is locked, they say it is impregnable.I have it on good authority that--”

“Get the boy from the kennels,” Anatole’s father interjected coldly. Then he went back to pacing, his boots clacking against the wooden floor.

The boy in the kennels provided quality entertainment for Anatole and his little sisters. They liked to throw rocks at him and laugh when he yelped. He was a freak who had to be kept with the hounds, huge and dirty, he couldn’t even talk. The only reason Father kept him was because he could do some kind of magic, he could grab things with his mind. Father was always looking for people who could do magic like that; for a while he had kept a woman who could read minds as a maid, but he ended up getting her pregnant and then she died. The mind-reader woman had been mean, the boy in the kennels was different. Even when he had rocks thrown at him, he didn’t ever try to fight back.

Anatole sat still in his chair at the table and prayed that he was old enough to be taken along. He wanted to kill somebody, he was old enough to be a man already. The Rift-worshipping devils deserved to pay for what they had done to his land.

“We’ll keep men in a perimeter so that none of them escape,” his father was saying. “We’ll douse the fences with gasoline, light them on fire. Pull down the gate so it’s the only way out, cut down any who come through it to escape. None of them can be allowed to see the sun rise in the morning.”

“But the women and children--”

“Even the little ones can disembowel you by pulling your guts through your asshole,” snapped his father. “You think it wise to leave any of the vermin alive? It’s us or it’s them, think of your own women and children.”

The window was open and Anatole could hear the boy known only as Dog whining and whimpering as he was dragged from the kennel and into the cold night. There was a sudden frightened yelp of pain, then silence, but that yelp was enough to turn Father’s cold gaze to his son.

“You’re coming with us tonight, Tolya. To watch only, to see what war is like. Your mother will kill me if something happens to you.”

His heart beat faster. He wanted to hold a sword. “But I--”

“You’ll sit in the truck bed to watch the dog-boy, then you will stay near the truck until I come back.”

“But--”

His father took a little step towards him, which was enough to shut Anatole up for good. That was all there was to it. There was no other person on the planet so powerful and frightening, and Anatole knew that he was going to grow up to be exactly the same kind of man.

It was 11:00 pm by the time they departed and the cult of Blagodat was 30 minutes away by road. The men rode in the backs of crowded military trucks, driving silently in a long line through the wretched marshland. The night sky was black and the moon was hidden by the clouds, but the Rift shone above them as red as blood. People said that...things...had fallen out of it 1000 years ago, but Anatole didn’t believe in all of that. He only believed in the things he could see.

Although he rode in his father’s truck at the front of the convoy, Anatole had to sit in the back, alone except for the boy from the kennels, and he was not happy about it. It stank like dogs and like piss around the other boy, who was his age but twice his size. Usually Dog wore only rags, but since they reeked and since the winter night was below 15 degrees, a couple of the men had held him down to strip off his thin shirt and trousers and replaced them with a heavy wool uniform that fit him poorly. Despite the new clothes, Dog was still unwashed and stank so bad that Anatole had to cover his nose.

They went over a bump. Bored and angry that he was not allowed to participate in the fighting up ahead, Anatole turned his attention to the other boy who sat on the floor across from him. He had a wooden stick with him that he liked to pretend was a sword, and he extended it to prod Dog’s chest. “Can you talk?” he asked. “Do you know who I am?”

Dog just looked at him stupidly. Up close, he had a square and weak-chinned face, cheeks gaunt from malnutrition. His sandy hair was matted and greasy.

“I think you can talk. Say my name or else I’ll hit you with this.” Anatole waved his stick-sword.

“Tolya,” whined the big idiot, repeating the childish nickname that Anatole’s sisters and parents referred to him by. It was the only thing he could have heard. Anatole whacked him with the stick anyway, trying to get him to yelp or make a sound but he didn’t.

Anatole had not been born the kind of child who likes to pull the wings off flies and throw stones at puppies. Deep down inside, he knew that he was gentle and soft and the knowledge of that horrified him. He had been made violent and he was well aware of it. His father was strict that way. Better to be cruel. It was better to be cruel than it was to be soft. His people were strong and brave, not like the people in the other Territories. Weakness of any kind was not tolerated. He hit him with the stick again, just to see what he would do, which was nothing. “You stink.”

Dog said nothing. He looked at Anatole with watery eyes. This was irritating. It made him want to attack, as he always did when he observed someone else’s weakness. You had to attack before you yourself are. 

“One of the stablemen told me you eat the same food as the hounds. He told me about how people can become animals. Is that what you are? An animal?” Anatole didn’t feel bad or guilty talking like that. Why should he? People said awful things to him all the time, if you could tolerate them it just makes you stronger.“The stableman told me some of the Imperials make you do nasty things for them, is that true? Are you an animal, huh?” Despite his best efforts, Anatole could not provoke the other boy, whose nature was too gentle and passive. Instead of being entertained, he had to sit and wait, bored out of his skull. Occasionally he would hit Dog again, but it just wasn’t any fun.

They arrived at Blagodat before midnight; every truck had its headlights cut off for a kilometer before they even got there so that none of the cultists saw and were able to alert their people.

1000 people lived there, believing that they were safe. They believed in their God from the Rift, they believed in their blood magic, and they believed in their tall wooden fences and their iron gate. That was what faith was all about: hope for something that could not be proven.

Well, Anatole believed in the blood of his people and in the steel of his father’s sword. He crawled out of the back of the truck and hopped down, shivering in the chill air. There wasn’t enough light for him to see more than 100 feet away, where he knew the fence that bordered the little town began. He squinted at it, took a step closer, then took two steps back so that he didn’t get in trouble.

He wasn’t afraid. He wanted to hear the sound of metal on flesh.

Beyond the walls loomed the black pyramid. Anatole felt uneasy looking at it. It seemed to reflect the red glow from the Rift, a thing so evil and alien that he could not wrap his mind around it.

Behind him, he could hear his father physically dragging Dog from the back of the truck. The other boy resisted for a good 30 seconds, either afraid to go near the cursed land or afraid of what he was about to do-- afraid of the violence. “No, no, no, no,” he heard Dog whine, which brought the vocabulary of giant halfwit to at least 2 words. “No, no, no, no!” His father must have hit the boy with the handle of his pistol or something, because all of a sudden he stopped protesting and was following behind obediently. When he passed Anatole, he looked at him with those big watery eyes and blood running down the side of his face.

His father’s 150 men were already falling into rank. They did not need to be ordered, they did not need to be told. This was the life of a man from Kemenka: their lives were spent in the Imperial Army, killing and dying at the will of the King. They wore armor on their chests and arms, over blue uniforms. All of them had high capacity machine guns. Most of them carried swords. Anatole thought about how badly he wanted to kill somebody with a sword. Metal and flesh. Metal and flesh.

More than 1000 people were going to die soon. He was not going to be one of them but he almost wished that he was. Dying in battle was the only real way to get into heaven.

He would have time for that later, when he was a man.

His father turned his head. “Damn it, Tolya, get back in the truck! I will send for you when we’ve taken the town.”

As always, Anatole did what he was told. He pressed his face against the window closest to the gate so that he could get a better view. There were already soldiers quietly pouring gasoline on the base of the great fence. The men were readying themselves, taking the safeties off of their weapons. There were no watchmen on the walls of Blagodat, no guards ready to protect the people of the black pyramid. What hubris. All of them were going to be slaughtered because their Red Priest put so much faith in the ability of his Rift-God to protect them.

He could see his father shake Dog, then point at the great iron gate. A few of the men lit matches, flicked them, and then the walls went up in flame like dry kindling. In a matter of seconds, the dark night, lit only by the stars and the Rift, went red. And then, illuminated by the fire, Dog stretched out his right hand and made a fist, and the front gate was torn from its hinges like tissue paper.

After that, well, it was all over for the people of Blagodat. The Rift-worshiping subhumans.

It took 2 hours. Anatole was tired and wanted to sleep in the front seat of the truck, but he couldn’t. Even from the distance he was at he could hear the screams and the endless rat-a-tat-tat of the machine guns. It was not something a person could block out. 

All the fire and the sounds of human suffering attracted a couple of mutants. The sight of their naked twisting bodies creeping about on all fours made Anatole shrink back in his seat; the things would tear the flesh from a man’s face in the blink of an eye. Usually they did not venture close to settlements, but the smell of burning flesh drew them out. One of them turned its slack-jawed, hair covered face towards the truck and paused for a moment, then went on its way. Anatole let himself breathe again.

When his father and the rest of the men left Blagodat, the mutants would eat well.

Something about the screams he heard coming from the town would not let him close his eyes. Metal and flesh. He thought about metal and flesh. Metal slicing through flesh…

After 2 hours, his father came back to check on him. Father was good like that; he would not allow his only son to be harmed in any way. Anatole saw him as he truly was: a tall grim man whose only purpose in life was to follow orders, to act as a machine in service to the crown. Someday he would grow into the same kind of man. His father had his sword sheathed. He held something in the crook of one arm.

Anatole opened the truck’s door and slid down. Immediately the oppressive smell of burned hair and flesh met his nose and he had to bite his tongue to keep from gagging and embarrassing himself. “There were a couple of mutants lurking around,” he said breathlessly. “There were a--”

He froze when he got a good look at what his father was holding.

It was a head. A severed head. The man’s face was a bloodless white and he had black hair just long enough for Father to hold on to. The sightless, rolling red eyes made Anatole’s belly lurch. Whoever had taken the head off its body had done it cleanly and there was very little blood.

He did not want to look at it but knew that he would be in trouble if he looked away.

“Who is that?” he asked his father. The red eyes made him want to run away. All blood magic users looked like that, but he had never seen one up close until then.

Wordlessly, his father held up a white wooden owl mask with his other hand. “This was what we were all so afraid of?” he said, more to himself than to his son. “This is only a man.”

Anatole knew better than to say anything.

“Keep this safe,” said his father, pushing the head and the mask into his son’s arms. It was heavier than he thought it would be, but no more difficult to hold on to than a soccer ball. Anatole bit his tongue harder to keep himself from making a noise. Only flesh. It was only flesh. He could feel cool liquid leaking onto his clothes and his skin from it, and his eyes pricked. 

His father continued. “We’ll take it to his Highness. Tonight. Proof of what we have done here for him. It won’t be long now, boy, maybe another hour. I’m allowing the men to have some fun with the women who are left, then we can go home.”

Anatole’s stomach twisted again and it had nothing to do with the severed head in his arms. He thought about how his father made the psychic girl get pregnant. He thought about Dog. Rape was normal during war, it was used as a mechanism of terror just like anything else and was expected from the Imperial army. What better way to dehumanize a person? But something about this practice made him want to shut himself up in the car so that he could not hear the wailing. He would rather hold the severed head for 24 hours than walk into the town of Blagodat and witness what his father’s men were doing to the girls who were left alive.

He knew that his fear was showing on his face. His father frowned at him. “What’s wrong?”

Telling the truth would just get him into trouble. “Was it hard for you to kill the Red Priest?”

“He was dead already when I found him inside the black pyramid. One of his own women did it, he must have been too much of a coward to take his own life when he sensed the end was near. I took care of her too.” 

“Maybe she wanted him dead as much as we did, if he was as evil as everyone says.”

Father scoffed, scowled. “I don’t know where you get your ideas. No. The man was a coward. They always are. You better stay here and don’t move a muscle until I come back, don’t damage the head-- they’ll want to dip it in tar and place it in the Capitol. I must go back and find Orlov, make sure he’s not having any trouble controlling the dog.” He paused. “So what do you think, now that you’ve seen war, my son?”

There was only one way he could answer, and that was truthfully. “I think our men can never lose, sir.” It was true. He rather thought that what he had just witnessed was a massacre. Even if they were blood magic using rats who had poisoned the Princess Salome, the people who had been hacked to pieces or burned alive had all been sleeping peacefully in their beds. There was no challenge or honor in that.

His father gave him half a smile, reached out with a bloody hand to ruffle Anatole’s lazy brown curls, and without another word turned, walking back towards the carnage and the fire with long calm strides.

Anatole quickly shut himself inside the truck again, shoving the severed head and the white mask away from him. The red eyes were staring at him but he could not bring himself to reach out to press the eyelids down. Flesh. Only flesh. It couldn’t hurt him.

He wished that he was back in bed.

None of this came naturally to him. He had to harden himself. If he was soft, if he was weak, then that gave more leverage for the evil things in the world to take over. The only problem was that in forcing himself to become strong, he was afraid that he would become one of those evil things. Suddenly he regretted hitting Dog, a person who was gentle and didn’t want to hurt anybody. But it was too late. He had already done it.

Was he really becoming like his father?

Did the world really need people like his father?

After all, it was because of his father and men like his father that the blood magic-cult was no more. That was one thing that Anatole could be sure of. Cruelty and severity had wiped blood magic from the Northern Territories. He could not imagine a way for it to ever come back.

JULES IS AN ISOLATED WITCH CHILD AND DOES NOT KNOW ANYTHING

Jules Labelle carried the baby in a sling across his chest. Normally people were supposed to carry them on their backs, but even at 14 years old Jules was too slight to do so. He did not want to carry the baby at all, since it wasn’t even his baby-- and there was something wrong with the baby! But he had to; who else was supposed to do so? 

In the streets of Montparnasse, the 3rd largest city in the Central Territory, people gave him dirty looks. There was something wrong with Jules as well, he just didn’t know it yet. Something about the way he looked, the way he talked, and the way he carried himself made people angry at him. When he was in the woods with Ivy and his teacher things like that didn’t matter. It was only when they ventured into the cities that he had trouble. 

Well, that wasn’t his problem.

His problem was that the baby wouldn’t stop screaming and it was driving potential customers away from the booth where he was supposed to be selling teas and charms. Mary was 11 months old, extremely pudgy, red-cheeked, and had a full head of black hair, but was never happy. Currently he had his eyes squeezed shut and was just wailing his head off. It was really strange because most of the time he was a quiet, almost listless infant. Once in a while, however, it was like he was possessed; he’d thrash around and bend his neck strangely and act like he was in pain. This was how Jules knew there was something wrong.

He tried to rub Mary’s head but this just seemed to make things worse. “Will you feed him?” he asked his companion, frustrated.

Ivy was flat-faced and stupid, she eyed Jules and her son. “I already tried.” She sat behind the booth drinking a cup of tea that they both had made. The snowflakes melting in her long black hair made her almost look pretty. “He won’t eat. And I can’t stand it.”

“Will you make him be quiet then?”

“We have a tincture of laudanum.”

Jules glared at her and continued to rock the baby. It never felt right when they gave him drugs to make him quiet or go to sleep; he’d always grow frozen with fear that Mary would choke or that he wouldn’t wake up at all. It was better to not sell anything that day than to drug the baby.

Their booth was in a good location; near the central square of the city where there was a lot of foot traffic. By all means the witches should have had more customers. So far they had made less than 20 dollars, it was not enough, especially since they so rarely came into the city. This was not only to do with the way Jules looked, or with the crying baby-- it was more likely that this had to do with the scaffold that stood behind them in the middle of the central square. On that scaffold hung the bloated bodies of 3 men and 1 woman, their faces purple and their eyes and lips already taken by the crows.

Hanging was a terrible death but it was not the worst kind of execution carried out by the Imperials of the Northern Territories. Hanging was meant to be public and humiliating, a fate reserved for traitors. But witches, witches were, like in the distant past, burned alive.

Until recently, the act of witchcraft was considered more egregious than the unholy act of practicing blood magic. But two years ago there had been some kind of incident with a Rift-Worshipping cult to the south and the east of Kemenka, and it was seen as the unnatural act that it was. The Rift! Nothing was more vile. Jules could not even look up at that wide red maw without his skin crawling.

There was nothing wrong with what he did and there was nothing wrong with the gods he worshipped. 

The Imperial guard who stood watch by the scaffold noticed him staring. Jules quickly averted his eyes to avoid a conflict but it was already too late. The man, a pot-bellied 50 year old in a uniform that didn’t fit, ambled over to the booth. His sword was strapped to his back and he had a firearm strapped to his hip; between the blood magic users’ poison and the rebellion in the Valley, soldiers were always armed to the teeth.

“Ladies,” said the soldier. A cloud of sourness hung about him and his nose was red; many of the enlisted men drank to pass the time when they were not killing people.

They didn’t answer. It was better not to. Ivy looked down at her tea and Jules rocked Mary protectively. The baby was still crying. 

The soldier pawed through some of their wares, he lifted a charm up to his face to look at it better. As his hands drew close to the bundles of tansy and pennyroyal which they sold to young women who didn’t want to be pregnant, Jules felt the blood drain from his face; possession of any abortifacient was punishable by death. 

The soldier, however, was not interested in the things they were selling, he was only there to flirt and pass the time. He jerked his head towards the corpses swinging on the scaffold. “Smells, don’t they? Traitors. We caught them breaking into the armory 4 days ago, trying to get their hands on machine guns for Florence Gauthier’s Partisans.”

Even as isolated as he was, Jules had heard about Florence Gauthier. Her husband had been hung 8 years ago when he tried to raise the Valley in a rebellion, but Gauthier herself had never stopped fighting. For some reason people liked her, even if they talked about her in frightened, hushed tones. People who were starving would follow anyone who promised them bread.

Florence Gauthier promised people bread, but she promised roses as well. Because of that, people were willing to die for her.

It was hard for Jules to imagine himself following anyone but his Teacher. 

“You girls live in out the Hinterlands? You scared of Gauthier’s Partisans?” asked the soldier.

Ivy, who was frightened of men, would not answer. She drew closer to Jules, her heavy stupid presence a comfort to him: he wanted to protect her just like he wanted to protect Mary. Jules put his arm around her in a way that he hoped looked casual. 

“No,” he said, pitching his voice up a little so that it wouldn’t give him away. Because he wore his hair long, because he dressed in the same shapeless dresses and leggings as Ivy, and because he was small and young, many men in the cities assumed that he was a girl. Jules didn’t particularly mind and sometimes he enjoyed the rush he got from existing as someone on the border between one thing and another, but during other trips into town, men had beaten him for not being normal. One time his Teacher had been forced to use her magic to kill a man who pulled a gun on him after flirting and then realizing he was a boy; Teacher had used three words to make the aggressor's intestines slip out of his body like pale worms. There didn’t need to be a repeat of that. “The Partisans have never bothered us.”

The soldier picked a large crab apple from a basket on the end of their booth and ate it without looking like he intended to pay. “That baby yours?” he asked Ivy, who had the same soft round features and huge black eyes as Mary.  

Ivy didn’t make eye contact. “He is.”

“He got a father?”

Recognizing the subtle threat in the soldier’s words, Jules puffed himself up. It always fell to him to be the protector. It always fell to him to mend things. He smiled charmingly at the man, even though he knew he appeared to be an ugly teenage girl. “She’s married to my uncle. He’s at home now, he’s a woodsman.” Men didn’t mess around with women who they believed to be married. That sort of thing led to duels, led to death. Jules rocked Mary back and forth so that he seemed like even less of a threat.

The baby just wouldn’t stop crying. Jules kissed his little head to try and comfort him but it just made Mary wail like he was being hurt. There was nothing better than kissing the top of the baby’s head, it made him feel protective and his heart swell with love. It made him want to squeeze Mary closer to him.

“Your husband better have a gun,” said the soldier, deflating now that he realized that these women were off limits to him. “I hear there are worse things in those woods that Florence Gauthier’s people.”

“Like wolves? Like what?”

“Les yuex sanglants,” said the soldier. The bloody eyes. He ate another one of their crab apples.

“Imperials massacred all the blood magic users 2 years ago. They pulled down the black pyramid. There’s no more of them.”

“No. There were many survivors. Surkhov’s men did not kill all of the women, they wanted to have a little fun, yes? I’ve heard it said that the Red Priest’s daughter survived the massacre herself. They hide away in the woods now, turning our springs black and poisoning our crops.”

Jules rolled his eyes. He couldn’t stand silly gossip. Even if there were a few people who worshiped the Rift out there, they would have already assimilated back into society. It was nothing to worry about. 

“They never found the Red Priest’s daughter,” the soldier told them. “They never found the Red Priest’s son. He’d be old enough to be considered a man now. The King would need to worry if that boy came back into the picture, you tell your husband that.” He was clearly intoxicated, ranting about things that were not real to people who did not care. Cities were full of people like this; miserable people who had no purpose in the world, people who aimlessly destroyed themselves and harmed others.

The witches had purpose. They helped people. They worshiped their gods and they did not get involved in the petty squabbles of average people. Yes, the Imperial army had been the ones to annihilate the blood-magic cult, but it was witches who were slowly healing the land, healing the damage. And for that they were persecuted.

The Imperial soldier continued to rant about the rumors that swirled throughout civilized society. Obviously he was still trying to impress Ivy-- men liked her because she had heavy breasts and shiny hair. It wasn’t fair of course, since she was only 18 years old and was often overcome by hallucinations and voices that only she could hear. Jules just wanted them both to be left alone.

But suddenly, Mary stopped crying.

Jules looked down at the baby strapped to his chest. Mary’s huge black eyes were very wide and staring up at him. His chubby cheeks were still red from all the exertion of screaming his lungs out. The baby smiled.

The thing about Mary was that he was a fussy, difficult baby. He never smiled. Jules couldn’t remember the last time he had seen him smile, he could only remember the times that he had cried, the times that he had been quiet, and nothing else.

Seeing that smile split Jules’s heart in two. For the first time he realized that he would do anything for this kid that wasn’t even his. He realized that he was willing to die for him. Not because he felt some sense of responsibility, like he did for Ivy and for his Teacher. But because Jules loved Mary. He had never loved anyone before. The rest of the world, full of mutants and soldiers and monsters, was now small and far away. All that really mattered was the 20 pound child he carried.

“I love you,” he said to Mary, and Ivy and the Imperial looked over at him because the words seemingly came out of nowhere. “I love you!” He kissed the top of the baby’s head again and of course, that made Mary stop smiling and begin to wail.

There was nothing wrong with the world. There was nothing wrong with his life.

[coreymichaelsmithson]

The Spaniard

I was once given a gift of love by a stranger.

It lasted only a few hours of one evening, but it seemed like an époque, an age of unalloyed bliss. I could, of course, elucidate for you the mechanics of our pleasure … pepper this text with explicit particulars, offer up all the "naughty bits" that people love to fixate on. With a few choice expletives, I could stir your discomfort or your titillation, your outrage or your envy. But I'll spare you all that, and share with you instead the emotional epiphany that bloomed within this one encounter. Trust me, as I lead you into and out of the hothouse.

The stranger and I walked towards one another from opposite ends of a hallway … both of us clad only in towels, striding barefoot by closed doors, from behind which we could hear all the moans and slaps and sighs of a place like this, a place where men gather to lose themselves in pleasure, or pain, or both. In the dim center of the hall, we passed one another, unable to see much more than our outlines … for in a house of red lights, there are only silhouettes, blurry and unfixed suggestions, just enough visibility to define a few salient details. You can see things that suggest the paintings of Francis Bacon: cages, metal rails, open mouths, anatomy lit by televisions or neon, torsos half-cloaked in shadow, limbs dangling from slings, nightmarish smears instead of faces. Club music pulses from hidden speakers. If you have a checklist of sorts, and many men do, you could stand under a bare bulb, and see if each potential dance partner passes muster ... but you probably wouldn’t glean very much, because certain kinds of dark have a real thickness to them.

I could not see him, but I could feel him, even from a distance.

The gravity in the room had changed. Suddenly, we were like two comets of equal mass, each interrupting the other's trajectory, turning until we were in a locked orbit around one another, spinning together through the glittering dust of space and time. He guided me backwards through the hall, until we stood under a lantern, and we looked into one another's eyes, and everywhere else, and nothing that I saw under the scarlet lamp surprised me, save for the irresistibility of his dimples. But in that moment, I knew him, and he knew me.

The first thing I did was to place my hand upon his heart, and he placed his own hand atop it. I reached up with my free hand, and ran my fingers through his beard, and he did the same with mine. The hair on his jaw was soft, luxuriant. He closed his eyes, and I could feel his grin more than I could see it. Everything else fell away: the DJ's music and its insistent "untz-untz-untz", the reek of poppers and desperation, the nearby custodian with his latex gloves and disinfectant. We were alone.

Arm in arm, we walked back to the room I had rented. It featured a narrow twin-sized bed, with the cheap kind of plastic-covered mattress that is easy to clean. There was a storage locker beneath, and a monitor on a tilted bracket, and a mirrored wall. Not much for décor, but it was sufficient.

After an initial, overpowering rush of ardor, we strung our remaining hours together with long passages of conversation. I learned all that I could. He was an architect, and a polyglot … born and raised in Spain, now living in Germany and working in France. While men in other rooms around us groaned through their catalogue of kinks, their grunted litanies, the architect and I just lay there, naked and entwined, and talked about art. We talked about Matthias Grünewald's "Crucifixion", the interpenetrating forms of Moshe Safdie's "Habitat 67", the genius of the Centre Georges Pompidou, and Moroccan food. We talked about Serge Gainsbourg, Divine, Carravaggio, the Taj Mahal, Versailles, Berlin's decadent years, and Bernini's "Ecstasy of St. Theresa" … to which, a short while later, my facial expression would be favorably compared. Our conversation flowed with such ease, such candor … it seemed we had been friends for years, rather than minutes. Obviously, we did much more than talk, but our dialogue was every bit as stimulating as all of the nonverbal, concupiscent business.

Men in our culture are trained from an early age to avoid intimacy. Vulnerability and emotional availability are seen as a weakness. Even platonic affection is looked upon unfavorably. The "bro-hug", in which the two parties' bent arms and clasped fists form a boundary, a barrier to real closeness, is an unsatisfying expression of our anxiety. Men are so starved for touch that we sexualize and even pathologize our needs; love becomes horseplay in the locker-room, trust becomes violent sport, lust becomes wrestling, and curiosity becomes a secret assignation in an underground cave. Men are encouraged to swallow their emotions, wall up their desires, and refrain from physical bonding. As a result, some butch dudes are drawn to heavy BDSM scenes as a way of coping with this conflict … own pain before it owns you, use ritualized shame to regain a sense of control. “Real men” punch each other instead of kissing. “Real men” rape or get raped.

In this setting, in this harsh climate, two men lying peacefully in each other's arms can feel like a revolutionary act.

All around us, we heard sounds of guys hurting one another, or begging to be hurt. All of the devils in Hell were howling. Masculinity became a showy, loud parade of safewords and signifiers, and from behind a hundred closed doors rose a chorus of denials, denigrations, demands. Meanwhile, in the midst of all this, the architect and I embraced. As our neighbors spat and hurled invective at one another, the Spaniard and I examined, and fondled, and praised all that we touched. We took our time to explore, without fear of reprisal or rejection, and to enjoy all the soft, yielding sensations of adoration.

What I remember most is the sense of permission. Permission to touch, to look, to sniff, to taste, to explore, to enjoy. Permission to relax, to be present, to lounge lazily together on the cheap mattress, nuzzling, with neither goal nor expectation. I rested my head on his chest while he pressed words and kisses onto my brow. Later, during one of our numerous sweating ascents, as we worked together towards our white hot rewards, I stared upwards into his eyes, and received his gaze in return, holding his face between my hands as we moved in unison. We felt unashamed. There was nothing dirty in our coupling, nothing furtive or tainted. It was pure.

A few hours later, after a refreshing shower, we left the bathhouse together and walked through Capitol Hill, ground zero of Seattle's queer life. As a teenager, I had spent a great deal of time there. When I was a young punk-tinged faggot in the height of the AIDS era, this neighborhood was holy ground. It was the first place where I saw that love could be weaponized. It was the first place where I wore queer clothing, hung out with my queer friends, raised my fist in queer solidarity. It was where I could try on various adolescent identities to see what would stick: affected conceptual artiste, potsmoking poet in a black beret and hoop earring, goth queen with runny mascara and ratted hair, pacifist protestor in army jacket and combat boots. Capitol Hill was my real schoolhouse, long after I had abandoned the silly structures of high school. I explained all of this to the Spaniard as we strolled, arm in arm, through the soft, tepid drizzle.

He wanted to sit for a while. We found a quiet, romantic restaurant, the kind of joint with pressed tin ceilings and good lighting. The kitchen was closed, but he got a beer and I got a coffee. There, away from the red bulbs, away from the growling animals, I could look deeply into his eyes, and really study him, and I found that he was even more beautiful than before.

But for all of his graces, and there were many, the Spaniard had one very strange, slightly unsettling aspect … his face kept changing.

It wasn't just his expression. He looked utterly different from moment to moment, shockingly so. His ethnicity was impossible to guess. All the countries of Eurasia battled for supremacy over his features; sometimes he appeared Greek, sometimes Italian, sometimes Turkish, sometimes Dutch. Between sentences, his eye color changed, his nose grew longer or shorter, his cheekbones raised or lowered, his hair thinned or thickened. I've known a few shapeshifters in my life, and have studied other historical ones, people like Feodor Chaliapin, but I have never before encountered one as startlingly adept as this. If I were not so completely convinced of his kindness, his abundant and quite obvious goodness, I would be terrified by the plasticity of his appearance. I gasped aloud a few times as I watched it happen. I knew that I was not going mad, that I was not hallucinating. His face was transforming itself before my eyes. He was an angel who couldn't choose which human skin to wear.

We lingered for a long while, trying the patience of the waitstaff, who were probably eager to finish up their tickets for the evening. We talked about his life in Germany, his upcoming teaching appointment at a university in France. We talked about our relationships, the failures and the successes, the crushed dreams and the enduring flames. We tried to compress as many of our life stories as we could into the tiny space between us.

I told him about the fate of my poor William, who slid into a spiral of drugs and madness and loneliness, a decline that ended with his putrefaction in a darkened hallway. The Spaniard listened to all this, wide-eyed and silent, nodding, and he held my hand throughout. After I finished, and was left at a loss for words, surprising myself once again by the intensity of my grief, he came round the table without a word and held me, cradling my head against his bosom, stroking my hair. He did this with no self-consciousness, even though we were sitting right by the front windows, in plain sight of the passersby. It was the sweetest expression of love, abundant love, and I drank of it like a burnt man in the desert.

Shortly after midnight, I walked him back to his hotel. It had gotten colder, after the rain. Our arms remained wrapped tightly around one another the entire time. We came at last to his place, where he would meet his traveling companion; they would head off in the morning to Vancouver, and then onwards to home. We kissed, and then I confessed what I had known, with absolute certainty, since I first placed my hand upon his breast … that I loved him. And I meant it, so much so that I felt as if a part of my heart were being wrenched from its anchors. And then I walked away, smiling but reluctant, shoving my hands into my pockets and leaning into the quickly chilling air. The night collapsed between us like the Red Sea.

It's quite unlikely that I'll ever see him again. He lives, after all, on the other side of the ocean, near the intersection of Germany, France, and Switzerland, where he has all the riches of Europe at his disposal … while I live in a vapid cultural wasteland, where teenagers eat detergent and racists burn their shoes. I'm desperately poor, and don't know how I could possibly get back to that part of the world.

But, it doesn't really matter, anyway. He gave me the gift that I needed. Right as we were about to part, I realized, as he held his lips against mine, that the intensity of our coupling was as much a matter of urgency as it was pleasure. Seeing the approaching end of something brought every moment into sharp relief. Yes, we met in a lurid place, and yes, our romance could only last for one evening. But the fleeting nature of this encounter helped give shape to our joy, definition to our goodwill. Our dalliance was not the vast ocean of a long marriage, with many tempests and calms; ours was a tiny alpine pond, ringed with wildflowers and glinting in the sun, lasting only a season, or a tidepool that came alive for a few hours, rippling atop a shoreline rock. In its brevity it was perfect. In the days to come I will think of him, and cherish our one flawless night, turning it over and over again in my mind like a faceted jewel, a gem made more brilliant by its rarity. And the next time I'm asked what it means to fall in love at first sight, I will recall the Spaniard, and his devastating dimples, and his gentle radiance … and while I must keep for myself much of what he whispered to me, in the dark, I will later relay in short conversational bursts our glimpse of heaven, our small but significant triumph over wickedness, and what we discovered together in the middle of the bathhouse, way down in the lowly maze where men descend together, into the depths, under the infernal glare of red.

[issac40valda-blog]

Deer Hunting With A .357 Magnum Rifle

It's apparent that lots of people who've never fired a shot in their life insist on passing laws to limit how many bullets end up being allowed in a firearm's clip or magazine. Others assure us that no hunter needs even more than ten bullets to down a deer. Keep in mind this when that monster buck you've been eyeing suddenly VANISHES. Granted, he could quite possibly have switched to nocturnal dining, but greatly subjected he simply switched food sources. deer switch to acorns as well as next ripe fruit from a blink associated with the eye. Main. finding the food source of that day and knowing when other food sources are ripe is main to hunting the early season. please click the next document hunting is always more productive if you watch for the oak tree dropping its acorns, maybe the apple tree with the ruby red fruit. deer feeders at walmart helps breakdown blackheads and whiteheads. It also helps cut deer feeding tips over the shedding of cells lining the roots clogging the pores on the epidermis. Salicylic acid is used as a light abrasive to chemically exfoliate the skin to encourage the peeling of the top layer and to prevent a build-up of old skin debris cells which combine the new oil to close pores. Even when the cost of bird seed isn't important for you, you should know what to discover in a bird seed mix and the ways to feed the birds in order that the birds have a nutritious meal and money isn't disappearing. Here are some tips to spend less and continue feeding the birds this winter. In 1973, Manas Tiger Reserve is created. Manas Tiger Reserve is located amidst the gentle slopes of the foot hills of the Himalayas. Excellent visit this place with Manas Honeymoon Packages an individual can utilize the dense forest with some exotic type of animals other than tigers. Obtain enjoy and experience close encounters you employ animals of their natural residence. You should commence using a very basic outline. Basically in http://blair03mildred.desktop-linux.net/post/how-to-hike-safely-during-hunting-season . From there, go in and create sub-sections with capital letters for each one of the outline. Car the sub-sections, add in numbered lists for each one of the letters. Therefore, you could write the general book in this fashion. At about 6:30 dom.m. we neared Washington, D.C. I was expecting it to be a little bit crazier personal computer was. We did stick to the interstate around the outdoors of the city, however the traffic flowed smoothly we all made it through home made deer feeders simply no problems. As the Minnesotan, features workout plans a weird feeling staying outside regarding a city my partner and i had only heard about on the good news before this point. The scenery was amazing and unexpected. Trees were abundant and we even saw a few deer alongside the road. Guidelines and meal plans hard to believe that i was just aside from our Nation's capitol. Setting Goals - We have witnessed a involving studies and data created showing that individuals that set goals are better than those do probably not. It is the same in hunting, you probably would not go out to your favorite duck hunting spot and shoot your shotgun up in atmosphere a dozen times hoping a duck would just happen to fly through and get hit. Most hunters would take aim at the ducks to strengthen their chances meaning that become better established.

[xqzme]

Our Winter family trip was on Aomori Trip. Which is the one of the coldest place in Japan. From Osaka to Aomori we took a bullet train. (Osaka to Tokyo to Aomori)

We arrived 2pm in Aomoriya Resort. Will stay 4days and 3nights here.

Aomori Prefecture is the northernmost prefecture on Honshu and faces Hokkaido across the Tsugaru Strait. It borders Akitaand Iwate in the south. Oma, at the northwestern tip of the axe-shaped Shimokita Peninsula, is the northernmost point of Honshu. The Shimokita and Tsugaru Peninsulas enclose Mutsu Bay. Between those peninsulas lies the Natsudomari Peninsula, the northern end of the Ōu Mountains. The three peninsulas are prominently visible in the prefecture’s symbol, a stylized map.

Lake Towada, a crater lake, straddles Aomori’s boundary with Akita. Oirase River flows easterly from Lake Towada. The Shirakami Mountains are located in western Aomori and contain the last of the virgin beech tree forest which is home to over 87 species of birds.

As of April 1, 2012, 12% of the total land area of the prefecture was designated as Natural Parks, namely Towada-HachimantaiNational Park; Shimokita Hantō and Tsugaru Quasi-National Parks; and Akaishi Keiryū Anmon no Taki, Asamushi-Natsudomari, Ashino Chishōgun, Iwaki Kōgen, Kuroishi Onsenkyō, Nakuidake, Ōwani Ikarigaseki Onsenkyō, and Tanesashi Kaigan Hashikamidake Prefectural Natural Parks.[7]

The burning passion of the people who live among the green forest, below the vast sky, and within the short summers. Aomori Prefecture is located at the northern most point of Japan’s main island, and has two regions, the Tsugaru region where the capitol city of Aomori, as well as the castle town of Hirosaki, is located, and the Southern region within which Misawa city, which contains the Aomoriya, can be found.

Each has its own different history, climate and natural features, and culture. Find untouched nature, an abundance of foods, alluring hot springs, and our hospitality here. The passionate emotions hidden within the people born in this region nestle close to the feelings of their visitors and warmly protect them. With these feelings in mind, we work hard with both body and mind to perfect our management of the hotel. It is our greatest wish that you leisurely relax as you gain a sense of the true essence of Aomori.

The crew/staff here in the hotel very friendly and they speak English too. They are helpful and considerate of all the guests. We had a great time staying here relaxing, even though I’m falling to get sick, luckily they are a hot spring to prevent it. Thank goodness it was gone and continue our trip.

(above pictures) our room… so clean and neat. And, I like the free cookies and coffee which is products of Aomori.

Interesting hallway right, many lights and decoration well some the Aomori traditions which we had a chance to watch it in our dinner. It was fascinating and amazing. I will post the video on other day need to edit first. They have such meaning for all those figures.

In a first day, we did crafting. Draw some horse and scratch the chopsticks.

Aomori has an abundance of traditional handicrafts. A variety of Aomori handicrafts famous throughout Japan, such as Tsugaru lacquerware, Kokeshi dolls, kite paintings, Southern torn strip-style fabrics, Koginzashi needleworks, and more have been passed down here through the ages. Aomori Kobo is a place where you can enjoy traditional Aomori handicrafts and other activities that are very easy to participate in.

(above picture) our overwhelming dinner and a show. Amazing show!

(above picture) Our 2nd Day, which we join a trip to Oirase WaterFall, up to the mountains. Icicle and meters of snows it was very cold.

After the trip, we had time to walk around the area of the hotel. (below pictures)

So, nice to see this frozen lake but not totally ice.

3rd day, we just walk around outside the hotel and we had also hot spring there. Suddenly, snowing and kids love it. After we had dinner, we go outside and borrow some lantern and still snowing and freezing of course. btw, the lantern is so Japanese style (cute)

4th day, our last day we get up early so that we can walk again in the vicinity before we leave.

It was fun and relaxing trip. If you like cold weather like us, better plan your trip in this place.

Thank you for visiting my blog. Have a great day!

♥lovelots♥

∇ΣΠÙ∫

Aomori Trip (青森県) Our Winter family trip was on Aomori Trip. Which is the one of the coldest place in Japan. 

[thebadgerwriter-blog]

Chapter II: Strange Markings

          His vision is blurry and he can make out very little, but Vydahr knows that this is not the waking world. At least, not in the present. Certainly, he has never seen the ground as far below him as this.

           Floating as high as he is, it seems to Vydahr that, nevertheless, he can still see the goings on of the world below in great detail, though not with his physical eyes. The goings on of the most minor child adventuring in the streets of a great city Vydahr has never seen is shown clearly, as seemingly inconsequential as those deeds are. A subsistence farmer working in his fields miles distant, a look of worry over the dry weather plastered upon his face, is seen in great detail. The mightiest king on his throne, slowly dying of a wasting disease yet hiding it well, is seen despite the vaulted ceiling above his head. And the haughtiest priest at his altar, twisted in pain as, at that moment, the God he is speaking to feels a resonance, a foreboding of fulfilled prophecy, panics and lashes out at his agent among mortals. Even the connection to the Gods cannot hide that man from Vydahr's view. None can hide from his dream-eyes. All are as ants to him, in this moment.

           Suddenly, his vision shifts from the present and the tapestry of life unfolds before him, and the future, or a future, reveals itself to him. Disjointed fragments, yes, but still it shows some of its weave to the confused and fearful young Blood Angel.  

           The nations of Men are divided between the Three that remain loyal to the Gods and the Seven who are in support of an outsider, a challenger to the Gods. Fighting tears up the earth for miles around the cities of Men, the most significant damage focused around the capitols. The child from Vydahr's earlier vision has become a fine soldier for one of the Free Nations, fighting for the challenger and rising to prominence. The farmer also has a future in this chaotic world, as an emissary to the Blood Angel's, asking them to reveal their true intentions to the Gods, yet betraying the Gods at the last moment and instead becoming a lord in one of the Seven Kingdoms.

           The Gods themselves are half paralyzed by the fear of the prophecy of an ancient entity become new enemy, the same that caused the one of their number to burn out a High Priest and make him simple when once he was cunning. Yet still the Gods try to influence the world, attempting to coerce the hidden Golems in their mountain halls to help them against this as-yet-to-be-revealed foe and to bend the Djinn of the Great Desert to their will, deigning the Sprites to be too simple and powerless to assist them. Yet all the while they do not realize that their first-created children have all but left their ways, except to exploit the strength still in the Gods' hands.

           Hidden deeper still than even the Golems are the Faeries, with their king, Fro’Dae, anxiously awaiting the savior- and destroyer- of his way of life. The Sprites and Djinn in the Great Desert and the Dryads, Nymphs, and Imps in the forests of the world, all are stirred up, sensing great change coming. All these avatars of nature resist the pull of the Gods, knowing their time to fight has not yet come.

           All these details, however, are not consciously known to Vydahr. He knows not the intentions of each of the factions that he has seen, only that there is Chaos, for as soon as he sees something, it flees his thoughts to then embed itself in his subconscious. However, he knows that there is fear and anxiety in abundance, but not the source of it. And he also knows that this has a great deal to do with himself.

           As the vision begins to fade, a seed sprouts in his mind. A seed of power and knowledge and the pattern of Soulweb itself.

           Slowly, Vydahr's eyes begin to open, the last tendrils of his dream slipping away, leaving little but shards that resist examination.

           As his vision clears, and his eyes open still wider, he sees his father's concerned countenance. Gradually, the face of Vydahr's father changes from deep worry to immense relief. Letting out a deep sigh that could shake old leaves from the boughs of a tree, Avindyr says, "Son! Oh, praise the Mother, you're finally awake!" Avindyr pauses a moment, then continues, "Did you.. Did you have one of your visions?"

           "I... Yes, I think so, but... This one was different, father," Vydahr's eyebrows draw close together as he concentrates on attempting to recall the details of his vision, "I can't seem to remember it. Not clearly, and not very much. Just... The Gods being upset about something... A young boy in one of the human cities... A priest... Even a.. A farmer?"

           Vydahr pushes his head back on his pillow in frustration and clenches his jaw, angry tears forming in his eyes, "None of it makes sense! Usually I can remember them, but this one acts as though it doesn't want to be remembered. How can that be? The last vision I had was as clear as day and I didn't pass out like I did this time," groaning loudly out of aggravation and confusion, he yells out, "I don't understand!"

           As if shocked by electricity, Vydahr suddenly sits bolt upright. The sheet covering him drops to his waist as he puts his hands firmly on Avindyr's shoulders and looks deep into his father's eyes, "Father, this was the most important vision I've ever had, and I can't remember it. And... Father. I think that all of the chaos and fear and destruction... The innumerable changes that I saw... I think they were all because of me."

           With these last words, Vydahr collapses, face beaded with sweat and a single tear rolling down his face. Avindyr leans forward and rests his hand on Vydahr's face, and in a deeply worried tone, asks, "Son, are you alright? Is another vision happening?"

           "No... No, I'm just...” The young man’s voice is shaky as he struggles to speak, “I'm so tired. I..."

           Vydahr is interrupted as his aunt and uncle appear at the door, breathing a little harder than usual. After a brief pause, his uncle says, "Avi, we heard yelling and thought we'd come and see what was going on. Did something happen? Is the boy awake or did he fall back to sleep?"

           "No, brother, he's awake. Just exhausted. This vision doesn't seem like any of those he's had in the past."

           "Uncle Ahlwyn... Aunt Ilarya... I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me so much." Vydahr forces a wry grin onto his face as he says this, and continues, "It'll take more than a little vision to keep me down."

           As he finishes talking, Ilarya walks around the bed and sits at his left side. Leaning forward, she takes his face between both of her hands and peers into his eyes. A warm, soothing feeling begins to permeate Vydahr's body as his aunt delves into it, searching for any abnormalities. "You're both right," she says, sounding mildly confused as she pulls her hands away and looks at Vydahr contemplatively, "Yet... There's something different about you, Vy. I can't place exactly what it is. But, if anything, you actually seem stronger. Mentally and physically, the experience of that vision drained you, but something seems to have blossomed in your spirit. It seems more vibrant than before. And... I don't know how to explain it other than to say that the blossoming has connected you more fully to the Soulweb. Your spirit seems vaster than it ever has, more so than I've ever seen before, in anyone."

           As Ilarya trails off, Ahlwyn's breath catches and she and Avindyr turn to him. Vydahr's father looks at his older brother questioningly, "Ahlwyn, what is it?"

           Ahlwyn, eyes wide in surprise, simply points to Vydahr's left side. As they turn to look and see what Ahlwyn is indicating, Ilarya, too, gasps in surprise. Yet Avindyr's face, if possible, becomes even paler than usual.

           Speaking frantically, Vydahr says, "Father, what is it? Why are you looking at me like that? Uncle, what's going on? Is something wrong?" The young man props himself up on his elbows to look at where all the others are staring and his gasp echoes those of his aunt and uncle. There, on the left side of his exposed waist, a tattoo of a jet-black vine with radiantly white leaves and silver veins stands starkly against his bronze skin. Vydahr's eyes go wide as well, and he says, half in wonder and half in fear, "The visions have never made something like that happen before..."

           "It's... It's okay, son. I'm not sure what it is, but it seems harmless. Your aunt didn't notice any negative effects coming from it, so clearly it's benign. Right, Ila?"

           "You're right. I didn't even know it was there until Ahlwyn pointed it out. Though... It might be connected somehow to that change in Vy's spirit I saw."

           Avindyr's face begins to regain what little color it has to recover and he says, "Well that's fine then. It seems to only be positive," smiling slightly, he continues, "See, son? Nothing to worry about."

           "Well… Alright. If you're sure."

           Ahlwyn walks around the bed and rests his hand on his wife's shoulder, then says, "Of course we're sure. Ilarya is never wrong about these things. Healing is one of her Talents, remember."

           "Yes, Uncle, I remember. And it does help to think of that. She has healed me often enough in the past, after all." A more genuine smile appears on Vydahr's lips when he says this. Laying his head back on his pillow, Vydahr sighs, his bright blue eyes looking at the unfinished-beam ceiling.

           "Well," Ilarya says, standing, "Considering that it is indeed one of my Talents, it is my recommendation that we leave this young man to his rest, so that he can recover his stamina. Come, come, boys. I think there's still a bit of that bloodwine left." Making shooing motions with her hands, Vydahr's aunt ushers his father and uncle out the door. Before she continues out the door herself, however, she turns to Vydahr with a compassionate look on her smooth face and says softly, "Don't worry, Vy. I'm sure everything will be alright. I'll be back with a little food and maybe a small glass of the bloodwine for you in an hour or two, after you've recovered some of your strength. Rest well, now." With a final, kindly smile, Ilarya turns and leaves, quietly shutting the door behind her.

                                                           * * *

             Avindyr, now by the clock that struck Vydahr into his vision, paces more vigorously than a caged wolf. If a tail were present on his body, it would have been lashing in agitation. Ahlwyn looks on in concern, wondering how long his brother can keep going like this before wearing a hole in the floor to match the one in Avindyr’s normally serene exterior.

           Having watched silently for several long minutes, Ilarya sighs deeply and speaks authoritatively, “Avindyr, if you don’t sit down and drink some of your wine I’ll send you back to the Mother before you can catch a glimpse of what I hit you with.”

           Avindyr stumbles slightly as he turns to stare incredulously at his sister-in-law, but the steely glint in her eyes tells him in no uncertain terms that he ought to do as she says. Now sighing himself, Avindyr takes a seat across from Ahlwyn and Ilarya and takes a long draught from his glass. Shoulders slumping in defeat, he mutters, “Damn it, Ilarya. Can’t a father worry in peace about his only son?”

           With a snort, Ilarya responds, “Of course a father can worry about his son. That’s no excuse to scuff the floor. Maybe,” speaks the silver haired woman pointedly, “you should talk about what’s worrying you so much. I said the boy… Well, young man, now, is even healthier than he was a day ago, if a bit more exhausted. What is there to worry about?”

           “Tell us, Avi,” chimes in Ahlwyn, “that’s what we’re here for, isn’t it? We took in your son to keep him from the Council, and if we’re willing to do that for the last eighteen years and more, well, then by the Mother, you should know we’re willing to help you with whatever else worries you.”

           Avindyr looks up with grateful eyes, lips slightly upraised in thanks. Speaking softly, yet with power, the scholar intones, “When Sky and Earth embrace, so shall be born the final God of the Untamed Wilds, he who is marked by Balance, and who shall overthrow the Gods of Va'allae even while crushing the Faeries of Hae'del underfoot.”

           The eyes of Ilarya and Ahlwyn grow wide as saucers upon hearing Avindyr speak. Ahlwyn, now so tense he might reasonably be mistaken for a statue, whispers between his teeth, “Avi, what are you doing saying that out loud? Nobody is even supposed to know about that prophecy, let alone utter it! If the Gods were to receive news of this…”

           “The Gods won’t hear of it, brother,” Avindyr says, cutting off Ahlwyn mid-sentence, “You know all the creatures around your home are allies. We’ve treated them better than most would even consider possible: they won’t betray us now. Beyond that, the Gods are busy with their politicking and only deign to notice their Children when there’s some political or personal benefit in doing so. You can rest easy.”

           Becoming marginally less stiff, Ahlwyn takes a deep breath, “Fine, fine. You’re right, of course. Still, so many years of being told never to speak of anything that would even bump against the dominion of the Gods lest we be struck down tends to instill a certain paranoia…”

           Ilarya nods in agreement as Avindyr speaks again, “I understand that. I also understand that we’re one of only a handful of people who know of that piece of information and no one outside of this room is even aware we know of it. That being said, do either of you understand the significance of that prophecy? What it means to our family?”

           “I always thought it was just a bit of rebellious writing you found one day at the Great Library, Avindyr,” says Ilarya, once again composed, if still more tense than usual, “Nothing significant to us personally, except that we don’t want the knowledge to get spread.”

           “Ilarya… How I wish I thought the same. The Gods themselves don’t know the full extent of knowledge stored away in the library. There have always been scholars who wish to stash information of all sorts, blasphemous or not. And over the centuries, a great many books and scrolls and Illusion Crystals have built up that have incredible information in them. Over the years that I’ve lived and worked in Valome, I’ve… learned things. This prophecy was one of them. The explanation of it, in pieces, is another thing I’ve learned.”

           Downing the last of his wine and standing abruptly, Avindyr startles his relatives and continues speaking, “The Sky and Earth are metaphors. Metaphors for the Gods and Faeries.”

           Holding up a hand to forestall Ilarya’s objection, Avindyr explains, “Yes, I know that a God would sooner give up being reincarnated than embrace a Faerie, and the same in the other direction. But prophecies are tricky things that tend to mislead even as they speak bare truth. In this case, I’ve long feared that the embracing only had to be done by derivatives of one or both mentioned directly in the prophecy. I’m now convinced that this is true. Who was Vydahr’s mother, Ilarya? She was a Faerie. And I was a foolish Blood Angel, a creation, a derivative, if you will, of the Gods. And I can assure you that Ari’ahnn and I embraced at least once, possibly twice.”

           Avindyr smiles wryly at his brother as Ahlwyn rolls his eyes. Continuing, Avindyr walks toward the window as he speaks, “Now, of course, that alone doesn’t necessarily mean much beyond breaking one of the strictest laws the Gods gave to us. Given, more than likely, because of that prophecy. If we had had no children, it would be inconsequential to the Gods, though they would have been… displeased,” Sighing, Avindyr turns from the window and leans against the counter, looking back toward Ahlwyn and Ilarya, “However, the second portion of the prophecy has made things more than clear to me that I’ve perhaps aided in the end of our world as we know it. “Marked by Balance.” It’s an odd phrase, to be sure. But there is a plant whose very nature is to keep balance between the other plants in its area. Nae’Berahn. Nature’s Balance, in the common tongue. Any idea what it might look like?”

           Ahlwyn follows his brother’s lead now, finishing his wine in a single gulp and standing, “You’re telling us that our nephew is marked? That he’ll end the world? Vydahr is strong, there’s no doubt. But not strong enough to do that. And even if he were, he’s a peaceful boy. We’ve all taught him right, Avi. Even when he has to hunt, he makes sure to thank the poor beast he kills for its sacrifice, and there are times that he doesn’t even want to touch a weapon. How could he be the one from this prophecy? I don’t see it. It’s not possible!”

           Waving his hand nonchalantly, Avindyr conjures an Illusion: an image of a flowering vine in the middle of the room. “This plant is in my house in Valome. Secreted away physically, and wrapped within as many magical veils as I can think of, as well as a number from a friend I trust with everything in the world. This vine grew from what I thought was a dried seed in a book I found. I put it in some soil on a whim, and the next day it had grown at least half a foot. Those plants next to it are there to test whether it is what I think it is. Even though some of the plants are more substantial than others, there’s a balance between each one; yet they flourish. This, I think, is caused by the Nae’Berahn enabling a greater efficiency in the use of resources. This behavior seems to fit the rare passages that touch on the plant, and it’s clearly a magical organism.” Avindyr pauses for a moment, his pacing halted. “I suspect,” he picks up his pacing again, “That it is a plant that the Gods likely thought wiped out. After all, if no one recognizes what the marking is on the one that’s prophesied, that one is unlikely to do much beyond get discovered and gotten rid of by one of the Gods.”

           Waving away the image, Avindyr walks over to his now wide-eyed brother. Resting a hand on his shoulder, Avindyr says, “Ahlwyn, you saw the vine. What did it look like?”

           Before Ahlwyn could breathe a word, Ilarya’s awe-filled voice whispers past her lips, “That vine looks like the one on Vydahr’s side. He’s… He’s in a prophecy?”

           Turning to Ilarya, Avindyr nods, “Yes, I believe so. I think he’s the final incarnation of the Wild God.”

           Immediately upon hearing those words, Ahlwyn falls forward, stiff as a board, and loses consciousness before he thuds against the floorboards.