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[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 4: Read Between The Lines]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Boulevard Of Broken Dreams” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.6k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

It is your first week of basic training at Great Lakes on the north side of Chicago, and as you lie in the top bunk of your assigned bed you wonder what the hell you’ve done. You enlisted right out of high school, eighteen, no driver’s license, no work history, never been more than fifty miles outside of Soft Shell, Kentucky. The drill sergeants are always yelling and you’re bad at push-ups; you can’t understand the recruits from big cities like Los Angeles, Miami, Las Vegas, Detroit, Houston, and they don’t seem to get you either, and aren’t interested enough to try. Sometimes you wish you hadn’t signed that five-year contract, but where would you be if you weren’t here? Home is not words but textures, colors, fumes that still burn in your sinuses: cigarette ash on rose pink carpets, red embers glowing in the wood stove, Hamburger Helper and Mountain Dew, coffee creamer in Hungry Jack potatoes, laughter and heavy footsteps and slamming doors, scratch-off games, dogs barking, collecting coins from couch cushions for gas money, scrubbing clothes in the bathtub when the washer quits, Mama taking gulps from her favorite cup—plastic, Virginia Beach, filled with equal parts Hawaiian Punch and vodka—when she thinks no one is looking, blue shows flickering on the television, Family Feud, Maury, Good Morning America, WWE SmackDown. For as long as you can remember you’ve known you couldn’t stay. Now you’re getting out, but nothing in life is free.

You are at Class A Technical School in Gulfport, Mississippi, and even though it’s hotter than some noxious, volcanic hellscape—Mercury, Venus, Io—you are beginning to like it. You taste the salt of sweat when you lick your lips, sugar in the sweet tea they serve in the chow hall. There’s a magic in building something where there was only empty space before, in patching roofs and painting walls. Here being quiet and watchful is exactly what they want from you: head down, hammer striking nails, measurements and angles and long hours under the sun with no complaints. You’re not just running away anymore. You are creating something new.

You are sitting beneath swaying palm trees and a full moon on Diego Garcia, draining cans of Guinness with Rio, and he’s telling you things he shouldn’t, too personal, too honest: Sophie wants to try for a baby next time he’s home on leave, and part of him wants that too but he’s terrified. As thunder rumbles in the distance and raindrops begin to patter on the waves of the Indian Ocean, you tell Rio you think he’d be a good father. He wonders how you figure that, and you say because he’s not like any of the men from home. He gives you one of his crooked smiles—a flash of teeth, knowing dark eyes—and doesn’t ask what you mean.

But of course, when you swim up from the inky currents of sleep you are in none of these places. You are curled up on the floor of a bowling alley in Shenandoah, Ohio, cheap worn black carpet peppered with stars and swirls in neon green, pink, blue. You stretch out with a yawn. Someone has left a Lemon Tea Snapple within reach; you twist it open and guzzle it, hoping to extinguish the pounding in your skull, a rhythmic thudding of warm maroon, half Captain Morgan and half misery. The music isn’t helping. From the green Toshiba CD player, a man is singing in Spanish. Aegon and Rio are sitting at the nearest table and playing Uno.

Aegon says as he ponders his cards: “You know Enrique Iglesias, right Rio?”

“You are so racist.” Rio puts down a wild. “And the new color is red. Racist.”

“So what’s he saying?”

“Aegon, buddy, I told you, I was born here. My grandparents came over in the 60s. I don’t speak Spanish.”

“You can’t understand any of it?” Aegon is skeptical. He plays a skip, a reverse, and a seven. “My dad never taught me a word of Greek but I can recognize plenty of phrases. Vlákas means idiot. Spatáli chórou is a waste of space.”

Rio sighs, relenting. He puts down a two. “The song is called Súbeme La Radio, Turn Up The Radio For Me. Bring me the alcohol that numbs the pain… I don’t care about anything anymore…You’ve left me in the shadows…”

“Damn, now I’m sad. Draw four, bitch.”

“When the night comes and you don’t answer, I swear to you I’ll stay waiting at your door…” Rio studies his cards. “What’s the new color?”

“Green.”

“Yes!” Rio slams down a skip. “Fleeing from the past in every dawn, I can’t find any way to erase our history…”

Everyone else is awake already. As muted late-morning daylight streams in through the small tinted windows, Aemond is weaving between tables, pointedly checking on each person. He glances at you, says nothing, turns around and walks the other way.

“That’s tough,” Rio says sympathetically, popping open the tab on a can of Chef Boyardee and shoveling ravioli into his mouth with a plastic fork.

Aegon gives you a smirk. “You want to fake date now?”

“I’ll think about it.” No you won’t.

Helaena appears, a prairie girl vision in a modest blue sundress and with her hair tied back with a matching scarf. She reaches into her burlap messenger bag and offers you a choice between a ranch-flavored tuna pouch or a silvery pack of Pop-Tarts. “Strawberry,” she tells you.

“I’ll take the Pop-Tarts.”

Helaena gives them to you and then shakes a bottle of Advil. You’re so groggy it takes you a few seconds to figure out what she wants, then you obediently hold out a hand. Helaena lays two tablets in the center of your palm and moves on, soundlessly like a rabbit or a spider.

You wash the pills down with Snapple. As you nibble half-heartedly on a Pop-Tart—trying not to look at Aemond, multicolored sprinkles falling down onto the carpet—your eyes drift to the tattoo on the underside of Aegon’s forearm. It’s not over ‘til you’re underground. You’ve spotted it before. Only now do you remember where you recognize the lyric from. “Is that Green Day?”

“Yeah,” Aegon says, enthused that you noticed. “Letterbomb.”

“I love that whole album.”

“Me too. I could sing it front to back if you asked me to.”

“I’m not asking.”

Aegon cackles and resumes his Uno game with Rio. Baela is wearing denim shorts and a crop top, slathering her belly with Palmer’s cocoa butter from Walmart as she chats with Rhaena and eats Teddy Grahams. Daeron is waxing the string of his compound bow. Jace is gnawing on a Twizzler as he scrutinizes Aegon’s map, annotated with Xs and circles and arrows in sparkling gel pen green.

“I’m going to be a thousand years old by the time we get there,” Jace mutters.

Aegon hits the table with his fist. The discard pile collapses and cascades, an avalanche of Uno cards. Rio, undisturbed, continues contemplating his next move. “You know what, Jace? The cities are full of zombies, the interstates are blocked by fifty-car pileups, if we bump into anyone else who’s still alive they’re just as likely to rob and murder us as want to be friends, and on top of all that I’m trying to do you the favor of preventing you from getting so irradiated you turn into Spider-Man. If you have a better route in mind, I’d love to hear it.”

“Spider-Man…? You’re such a dumbass, what are you talking about?!”

Luke says from where he stands by a window: “Aemond, someone’s outside.”

“What?” Aemond stares at him. “Zombies?”

“No. People.”

Aemond bolts to the doors, the rest of you close behind him. Rhaena turns off the CD player. You, Rio, and Aegon squeeze together to peer out of one of the windows. There are men—three of them, no, four, all appearing to be in their forties—passing by on the main road through town. They are armed with what are either AR-15s or M16s, you can’t tell which.

Rio whistles. “If you get shot by one of those, the exit wound will be the size of an orange.” Everyone looks at him. This was not an encouraging thing to say.

You elaborate: “Thirty-round magazines. Semiautomatic, assuming they’re AR-15s for civilian use. I guess they could have gotten ahold of M16s somehow. Those have a fully automatic setting.”

“So regardless, we’re out-gunned,” Jace says.

“If they know how to use them. Some men think guns are wall decorations, like deer heads or fish.”

Aegon recoils. “Fish?! What the fuck. I’m glad the colonies left.”

“Maybe they’ll keep walking,” Daeron says hopefully. One of the men stops and points at the bowling alley, saying something to his companions. They laugh and begin crossing the small parking lot. They are less than two minutes from the door. “Oh, great…”

“There’s an emergency exit in the back,” Baela says.

Aegon snorts. “Yeah, that we stacked about twenty boxes of bowling pins in front of to zombie-proof.”

“We won’t be able to get out before they hear us,” Aemond says. Then he abruptly orders: “Grab your guns, let’s go. Helaena, Baela, Rhaena, you’re staying here.” Aemond’s remaining eye—briefly, reluctantly—skates over you as Rio, Aegon, Jace, Luke, and Daeron scatter to obey him. “You too.”

“But I’m the best shot.”

“I don’t want them to know we have women with us.”

“I’m of more use to you outside.”

Aemond rips his Glock out of its holster, pointing it at the floor. His frustration is palpable, an electric shock, heat that refracts light rays until they become mirages on the horizon. “You’re going to stay here, and if a stranger comes through those doors you’re going to kill them. Okay?”

His urgency stuns you; his eye is blue-white summer storm lightning. “Okay.”

“Now get back.”

You soar to the nearest table, duck under it, reach for your Beretta M9 and double-check the clip, fully loaded. You click off the safety.

“Aemond, wait, let me go first,” Aegon is saying by the door. “I’m better at de-escalation, I’m less…uh…intimidating.”

“Less socially incompetent, you mean,” Jace quips.

“I’ll lead,” Aemond insists. “Aegon can talk. Rio, you’re up front with me.”

Rio pumps his Remington 12 gauge. “I’d be delighted.”

Jace is amused. “I’ve been demoted, huh?”

“He’s bigger,” Aemond replies simply, then opens the door and vanishes through a blinding curtain of daylight. The others follow closely; Daeron, the last one out—his compound bow in hand, the strap of his Marlin .22 slung over his shoulder—shuts the door behind him.

Very faintly, you can hear Aegon: “Hey, guys! What’s happening? How’s the apocalypse treating you…?”

Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are under the table with you. They deserve to have options. You tell them: “If you want to go hide behind the lanes or try to get out the back door, now’s your chance.”

Helaena shakes her head, clutching your t-shirt: black, Star Wars, pawed off a shelf at the Walmart. “I want to stay with you.”

“Same,” Baela says determinedly, gripping her Ruger. She barely knows how to use it, but she’ll try. Rhaena is shaking, her eyes filling up her face, small fragile bones like a bird’s.

You can’t hear voices from outside anymore, but there are no gunshots either. You keep your M9 aimed at the doors, your breathing slow and deep, your heart rate low. Your hands are steady. Your eyes hunt for the slightest movement, for the momentary shadow of someone passing by a window. Against your will, your thoughts wander to Aemond. I hope Aegon is on his left side. Aemond can’t see there.

“Rhaena, get your gun out,” Baela says sharply. “Come on. Turn the safety off. What if you were alone right now? What if we weren’t here to protect you?”

Rhaena nods, fumbling to free her revolver from its holster. “I’m sorry…I’m trying…”

Now there is a stranger’s voice, gruff and deep. He must be just beyond the door, the farthest one to the right. There is a creak of hinges, a sliver of sunlight. “That’s just too damn bad, fellas. You got a nice little hideout here, and you’re gonna have to share it—”

The door opens. Two unfamiliar faces, too shellshocked to raise their rifles in time. You close an eye, line up your sights, fire twice, and that’s all it takes: one headshot, one in the throat, blood like a fountain, spurting scarlet ruin, thuds against the carpet strewn with neon stars, gurgling and spasms as their brains send out those final electrical impulses: danger, catastrophe, apocalypse. Rhaena is screaming. Helaena is covering her ears with both hands.

You run to the doorway; there are more booms of gunfire out in the parking lot. You cross into the late-morning light to see the other two men on the pavement: one with an arrow through the eye, the other with a gaping, hemorrhaging hole where his heart once was. Rio is admiring his work, holding his shotgun aloft. He scoops a handful of Cheddar Whales out of his shorts pocket and shovels them into his mouth.

“Goddamn, I love Remington Arms Company.”

“Oh, that was awesome,” Aegon says, wan and panting, hands on his waist. “Yeah, that was…that was…” He bends over and vomits Snapple and Cool Ranch Doritos onto the asphalt.

“Everyone okay in there?” Rio asks you.

“Yeah.” Behind you, Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are stepping through the doorway. Your thoughts are whirling sickly: I killed someone. I killed someone. “They wouldn’t leave?”

“We told them the bowling alley was ours,” Aemond says, not looking at you. “We asked them very politely to keep moving. They chose to try to intimidate us into letting them stay. They weren’t good people, and these are the consequences.”

You click on the safety and re-holster your M9. You’re wearing Rio’s on your other hip. They seem to weigh so much more than they did ten minutes ago. I’m not supposed to be a killer. I’m a builder.

“Aegon, are you okay?” Daeron asks, a palm on his brother’s back.

Aegon retches again. “Shut up. You can’t even buy fireworks.”

“Zombies.” Luke is peering through his binoculars. “Not many, just two. Way up the road.”

“There will be more.” Baela’s cradling her belly; you don’t even think she’s aware of it. “They heard the gunshots, the sound carries for miles.”

“We’re leaving,” Aemond says. “Right now. Everyone get your things.”

As backpacks are hastily zipped and Daeron and Aegon stand guard in the parking lot, you kneel down beside the men you murdered and check their rifles. They are M16s, either stolen or illegally purchased: there’s a little switch by the trigger to choose between semi-automatic or the so-called machine gun mode.

“They barely had any bullets left,” you tell Rio. Just like us when we were trapped on that transmission tower.

“Yeah, same story for the other two guys. Four bullets in one magazine, a half dozen in the other. But it only takes once. We don’t have any ammo that will work with M16s, do we?”

“No, we definitely don’t.”

“Fantastic. Well, we’ll throw them in a Walmart cart and take them with us just in case.”

You’re staring down at the man you shot through the head. His eternal resting place is a puddle of blood and brains in a bowling alley in rural Ohio; surely no one deserves that. “He was a real person,” you say, dazed. “Not a zombie. Just a person.”

“Hey.” Rio grabs your shoulders and spins you towards him. From where he is helping Luke gather up the remaining food, Aemond’s head snaps up to watch. “You hurt him before he could hurt us. You did the right thing.”

“Sure.”

“I killed a dude too. I blew his heart right out of his chest. You think I’m going to hell for that?”

“No,” you admit, smiling. “And if you’d be there with me, I guess I wouldn’t mind so much.”

Rio grins, wide and toothy. “Well alright then. Let’s finish packing.”

The ten of you depart from Shenandoah, Ohio heading northwest on Route 603 just like Aegon marked on his map, Jace chauffeuring Baela in one shopping cart, Rio pushing another loaded high with food and M16s.

“It looks like rain,” Helaena says.

Everyone else peers up into a clear, cerulean sky, wondering what she means.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re a few miles north of Shiloh when the storm rolls in, cold rain and furious wind, daylight that vanishes behind dark churning thunderheads, jagged scars of lightning in an opaque sky. The road is only two lanes, surrounded by fields of wildflowers and ravaged crops and untilled earth; it would look like the patchwork of a quilt if you were gazing down from an airplane, but of course the FAA grounded all flights over a month ago when the world went mad: Revelations, Ragnarök, the fabric of the universe unweaving as death burned through families, cities, nations like a fever, like plague.

“Maybe we should cut across one of these fields,” Jace says, pointing. He is soaked with rain; it drips from his curls, runs into his eyes. Baela is in her cart again; each time she tries to get out and walk, she’s gasping and can’t keep up within half an hour. You’ve all taken turns pushing her, much to Baela’s dismay. She’d be humiliated if she wasn’t too exhausted to keep her eyes open.

“Here, let me do it,” you offer, and Jace gratefully relinquishes the cart. Baela gives you a frail wave of appreciation.

“We stay on the road,” Aemond insists, flinching as rain pelts his scarred face. “Farmhouses have driveways and mailboxes, we’ll pass one eventually. If we lose the road, we might not be able to find it again. We’ll end up wandering around in circles in the woods.”

“Just like the Blair Witch Project,” Aegon says glumly, his Sperry Bahama sneakers audibly soggy.

“There!” Luke announces, spotting something with his binoculars. “Up ahead on the left. Past the bridge.”

You can’t see what Luke does until there is an especially brilliant flash of lightning: a farmhouse, old but seemingly not derelict, and with a number of accompanying buildings, guest houses and stables and barns and towering silos.

“Home sweet home!” Rio says. “And I don’t care if I have to kill a hundred of those undead bastards to get in, it’s mine.”

“Well, hopefully not a hundred,” you reply, in better spirits now that a sanctuary has been found. Aemond keeps glancing back at you as you push Baela’s cart. If he wants to say something, he’s doing a good job of resisting the temptation. “We don’t have that much ammo.”

There is a concrete bridge over a river, probably unremarkable and only five or ten feet deep normally but now torrential with rain. Water rushes by beneath, a muddy incline on each side as the earth rises back up to meet the road. A reflective green sign proclaims that you are only two miles from Plymouth, which Aegon plans to skirt along the edges of. It’s a decent-sized town; he thinks you might be able to find a car to steal there, something with gas in the tank and keys on a hook just inside the house.

“I call the master bedroom,” Jace says craftily, rubbing his palms together. You’re near the center of the bridge now, another ten yards to go. “Nice big bed, warm cozy blankets, and I was up for half of last night keeping watch so tonight I am off duty, I am a free man, it’s going to just be me and my girl and eight glorious uninterrupted hours of sleep—”

Rhaena shrieks, and then you hear it over the noise of the storm, pounding rain and rumbling thunder: moans, growls, hisses like snakes. Not one zombie. A lot more than one. They’re crawling up from under the bridge, from the filthy quagmire at both ends. There was a hoard of them waiting, aimless, dormant, almost hibernating. But now they are awake. They are grasping for you with bony, dirt-covered claws. They are snapping with jaws that leak blood and pus and bile as their organs curdle to a putrid soup.

“Get off the bridge!” Aemond is shouting. He has his Glock in his right hand, a baseball bat in his left. He’ll shoot until he’s out of bullets, and then, and then…

Rio helps you get Baela out of the cart, then opens fire. His Remington doesn’t just pierce skulls, it vaporizes them. When he’s out of shells—there are more in his backpack, but no time to reload—he yanks the M16s out of the other Walmart cart and empties each of them, mowing down zombies as the rest of you scramble across the bridge. All around you are explosions of gunshots, thunder, lightning, zombie skulls crushed by bullets and blunt force trauma. Baela is firing her Ruger as you half-drag her, one arm hooked beneath hers and around her back. When the last M16 is empty, Rio starts clubbing zombies with the butt of it. You’ve all reached the north side of the bridge, except…

“Fuck off, you freaks!” Jace is screaming. They’ve backed him up against the guardrail, a swarm of ten or more. His Remington shotgun is out of ammo; he’s swinging it wildly, but he doesn’t even have enough room to maneuver. There are still more zombies emerging from under the bridge. You can hear them snarling and groaning. You swipe an M9 off your belt and put a bullet in the brain of a zombie as its fingers close around your ankle, then you start picking off the ones mobbing Jace. You aren’t fast enough. As they lean in to bite him, teeth gnashing at the delicious throbbing heat of his jugular, Jace throws himself over the barrier and into the surging water below.

“No!” Baela cries. She careens off the road and into the field, running parallel to the river as swiftly as she can. You are helping her, steadying her, firing at any zombies you have a clear line of sight on. The others are here too: slipping in the muck of the flooding earth, shouting for Jace. He surfaces through the frothing current, flails pitifully, disappears beneath the water again. You glimpse a white hand, a shadow of his dark hair, a kicking shoe. There are more zombies on the opposite side of the river, trailing after Jace, lurching and slobbering viscous, gory saliva. They cannot swim, but they can follow him until he washes ashore.

Jace bursts up through the waves, gasping. “Help! Aemond…Aemond, for the love of God, help me…” He blubbers and then is dragged under. Aemond and Luke are continuing frantically after him. Baela is hysterical, sobbing, trembling with adrenaline. Aegon is yowling as he swings at zombies with his bloodied golf club. Helaena is darting around almost invisibly, always cowering behind Daeron or Aegon or Rio.

You glance north towards the farmhouse, growing not closer but farther away. We can’t leave shelter. We can’t leave the road. You lock eyes with Rio. He’s thinking the same thing.

“Aemond, we have to go,” Rio says, but in the midst of the rain and the turmoil it barely registers.

“Jace, we’re coming to get you!” Aemond swears. The ground is increasingly sodden, deep, difficult to trudge through. Jace resurfaces, coughing and sputtering.

“Jace!” Aegon wails. He caves in the skull of a zombie who was once a registered nurse as Helaena crouches behind him. “Jace, I’m sorry! I’m gonna miss you, man!”

Jace splashes in the rising river, his arms flailing helplessly. He is being swept away far faster than any of you can move on foot. “Aegon, you dumb bitch!” Jace manages, then slips beneath the water and doesn’t reappear.

“Where is he?!” Baela is saying. “Aemond, where…?”

You are trying to soothe her, to bring her back to reality. She was always so pragmatic before; you have to wake her up. “Baela, listen, we can’t stay here, he would want you and the baby to be safe—”

“Aemond! Aemond, we have to go!” Rio catches him, wrenches him around, roars into his face as driving rain pummels them both: “We have to go, or we’re going to die here too!”

It hits Aemond all at once; he understands, horror and agony in his sole blue eye. “We have to go,” he agrees. And then louder, to everyone: “Get to the farmhouse!”

Baela collapses into the mud, howling, tears flooding down her face. “No, he’s still alive, he’s still alive, we can’t leave him!”

You and Rhaena are trying to haul Baela to her feet. Now Aemond is here, pulling you away from her—his fingers tight and urgent around your wrist—as he and Luke take your place. “Go,” he commands. “You run. Don’t wait for us. Rio?”

“I got her,” Rio replies, grabbing your free hand with an iron grip. Gales of wind rip at you; every millimeter of your skin is soaked with rain. As you flee across the fields towards the farmhouse, dozens of zombies pursue you. More are still staggering along the banks of the river, swept up in the hoards chasing Jace and the promise of his waterlogged corpse when it reaches its final destination. Daeron has run out of arrows and is shooting with his .22, which is very much not his preference. Aegon trips, getting covered in mud as he rolls, and Rio stops to help him. While he is distracted, you look back at Aemond. He, Luke, and Baela are moving quickly, but not quickly enough. A drove of zombies is closing in on them. You have a spare few seconds at last. You yank your backpack off, grab a box of ammo inside, and reload your M9.

“Chips?!” Rio calls over his shoulder.

“I’m fine.”

He knows you well enough to listen. The world goes quiet as your finger settles on the trigger. There’s a rhythm one slips into, an impassionate lethal efficiency. It’s easier to keep going than to stop and have to find it again. You fire over and over, dropping eight zombies. You sheath your M9 and whip Rio’s out of your other holster, the sights finding grotesque decaying faces illuminated by lightning. You pull the trigger: blood, bones, brains, corpses jerking and convulsing as they fall harmlessly to the mud. Aemond is here; when did he get here?

“I told you to run!” he’s shouting through the storm, furious. He’s shoving you towards the farmhouse. You resist him.

“Let me kill as many as I can—”

“Go! Now!” Aemond orders over the clashing thunder, and then sprints with you all the way to the front porch to make sure you listen. Everyone else is already there. Helaena has fetched a spare key from under the doormat and is turning it in the lock.

Daeron observes her anxiously. “We don’t know if it’s safe in there, Helaena.”

“Not in,” she says, insistent. “Through.” Through this building, and maybe through the next one too. The average zombie is not terribly clever. If they lose sight of you, without the benefit of the momentum of a hoard they are lost. Helaena opens the door. The living rush inside, and she locks it behind you. As you are bursting out the back door, you can hear zombies pounding their rotting palms against the front one. You soar through a stable full of dead horses and donkeys, leaving the doors open; this should keep the zombies distracted if they make it this far. Then you race to the farthest guest house. Luke, swiveling with his binoculars, spies no zombies approaching as you steal inside. There is no spare key this time; Rio punches out a first-floor window for you to climb through. Once everyone is inside, he and Aegon move a bookshelf to cover the opening.

You all stand in the living room, gasping and shivering, dripping rain down onto the rug and the hardwood floor. The air is dusty but clean of any trace of vile, swampy decay. Outside, thunder booms and lightning flashes bright enough to illuminate the lightless house. The sky is so dark it might as well be nightfall. Baela sinks to her knees, clamping both hands over her mouth so she won’t sob loudly enough for a zombie to hear. Rhaena and Luke are beside her, both weeping quiet rivulets of tears, trying to comfort her in whispers. Helaena is rummaging around searching for candles; she has already taken a lighter out of her soaked burlap messenger bag.

“Daeron, bro, come over here,” Aegon chokes out. He embraces Daeron, clutches him tightly and desperately, doesn’t let go. Rio is reloading his Remington 12 gauge.

Jace is dead. Jace is dead.

Aemond says to you, his voice low but seething: “What the fuck was that?”

You blink the raindrops out of your eyes as you stare at him, bewildered. “You needed help.”

“I told you to run.”

“I’m an asset, I have skills that can keep you alive, why am I here if I’m not going to be useful—?”

“You’re not in the fucking Navy anymore!” he hisses. “When I tell you to run, you run, you don’t stop, you don’t look back, because I can’t worry about you and take care of everyone else.”

“Nobody asked you to worry about me.”

“But I do.”

“Aemond,” Aegon pleads, waving him over. Aegon’s plump sunburned cheeks are glistening with rain and tears. “Man, it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters now. Please come here.”

“I’m going to clear the house,” Aemond says instead.

Rio raises an eyebrow at you—this is one fucked up guy, Chips—and then pumps his shotgun. “Me too.” He sweeps with Aemond through the main floor and then vanishes up the staircase.

Helaena is lightning candles she found in the kitchen and arranging them around the living room. Daeron starts gathering food from the pantry. Rhaena and Baela are murmuring to each other softly, mournfully. It doesn’t feel like something you should intrude on. Luke is peeking out of a window with his binoculars, vigilant for threats. Aegon sniffles, wanders over to you with large, sad, shimmering eyes, pats your shoulder awkwardly.

“Hey, Chocolate Chip. You doing okay?”

“No,” you answer honestly.

“Yeah. Me either.” Then he flops down on the hideous burnt orange couch and lies there motionless until Daeron brings him a can of Dr. Pepper. Aegon pops the tab, slurps up foam, and then begins singing to himself very quietly, a song so old you can remember your grandfather saying it was one of his favorites as a boy: A Tombstone Every Mile.

When Rio comes back downstairs—heavy footsteps, he can’t help that—you meet him at the bottom of the steps. “The house is good,” Rio says. “And Aemond’s in the big bedroom on the right if you’d like to go up there and talk to him.”

“I don’t think he wants to see me right now.”

“I could not disagree more,” Rio says with a miserable, exhausted smile. Then he goes to the couch to check on Aegon.

You pick up one of the flickering candles, white and scentless, and ascend the staircase. You find Aemond in the master bedroom, the same accommodations that Jace laid claim to when he was still alive. He is sitting at the edge of the bed and staring at the wall, at nothing. Tentatively, you sit down beside him, placing the candle on the nightstand.

“Aemond…what happened to Jace…it wasn’t your fault.”

“Criston said I was in charge, that’s the very last thing he told me. They might be the last words I ever hear from him, and I just…” His voice breaks; he wipes the rain and tears from his face with open palms. “I really wanted to get everyone home.”

“I’m so sorry about what I said at the bowling alley,” you confess, like it’s a dire secret. “I don’t want to fight with you, Aemond, I…I want to help you. I can see what you’ve done for everyone here, me and Rio included, and I believe in you. I want to be a part of this.”

He nods, an acceptance of peace, but he still doesn’t look at you.

“Can we start over? I’ll never bring it up again, okay? I wasn’t trying to guilt you or upset you or anything. I should have just dropped it. I overreacted. And I understand why being with someone like me maybe wouldn’t be…super appealing.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what’s it about?”

Aemond wrings his hands, shakes his head, at last turns to you, golden candlelight reflected in his eye, his scar cloaked in shadows. His words are hushed, clandestine, soft powerless surrender. “I’m already so afraid of losing you.”

He cares, he hopes, he wants me too? “I’m here right now, Aemond. I don’t know what else I can say. I’d promise you more if I could.”

He reaches out to touch you, to ghost his thumb across your cheekbone, wet with rain. Then he kisses you, so gently you cannot help but imagine the wispy borders of calm white summer clouds, the rustle of leaves as wind blows down the Appalachian Mountains. You don’t have to ask him what he’s thinking, what it feels like. You can read it in the startled, firelit wonder on his face.

You taste like the beginning of something, here at the end of the world.

[bonny-kookoo]

LO King Yoongi, how did Yoongi and MC meet? How did their relationship evolve?

A/N: Warning for injury, blood, this is LO we're talking about after all haha

You hiss at the rather rough manner the nurse is cleaning the large gash over your back, your tears just quietly falling by now. Neither this planet nor their ruling species do really care much for empathy- you've learned that over the years you've been working at the palace here.

It's better than earth however, since you do have shelter and food here, at least.

You notice how a door opens, and everyone moves away- probably to address whoever just entered the room accordingly. And from the way the nurse closest to you bows, you can only assume who it might be.

"Leave." His voice is the only thing suddenly heard, low and rather monotone. "I'll take over from here." He states, and with that, you simply believe he's probably talking about getting rid of you. After all, you probably embarrassed him to high heavens- you honestly don't know what you were thinking.

It's quiet, the only thing you can hear the jewels on his robes moving as he takes the wet rag to tend to your wound- surprisingly enough a lot more gentle than the people before him. "Do you think of me as a king unfit for his role?" He asks, while he looks around for the needle and thread to sew the worst portion of the gash shut.

"..no." You mumble, voice quivering as you try and control your breathing as you spot him pick up the utensils necessary. His hands are warm against your skin, and you like to pretend that he's trying to sooth you with his touch rather than just doing it to push your skin back together.

"Then why did you do what you did?" He wonders, stopping for a split second as he feels you flinch from the needle going through your skin.

"..you weren't looking." You hiccup, wiping your cheeks quickly before you cover your front properly again. "It.. it wasn't fair." You just say, unable to shrug since you know that would just hurt.

Yoongi simply continues to sew your wound, hand at your front pushing you into a more straightened position, fingers able to feel you trembling from the pain. Did they not give you anything for the pain?

How long can you endure this with your weak body?

What you're correct about is the fairness of it all. The fight had been done, finished as the young man had willingly admitted defeat- just to get up and try to end the King while his back had been turned to return to his throne. And that's where you came in.

Hired from earth as a cheap worker at the palace, you'd been a little bit of a troublemaker all the time. According to other workers, you cry easily, or you'd hug and smile even more whenever someone showed you just a minimum of basic kindness. You're very openly emotional, something that doesn't fit within the usual standard of this planet's ruling species-

but he dismissed it, because down the line, you never complained, and never slacked on your assigned role. In fact, more often than not, you'd work like a ghost- Yoongi had to truly sharpen his senses to even hear you move around in the palace sometimes.

You're not even in a high position at all. You're just a helper that the general staff can use whenever they need you.

So when you jumped entirely out of line and shielded him from the attack he didn't notice quick enough, he didn't really know what to feel at first. In his culture, this is nothing but an insult to his abilities- but you're not of the same species, let alone culture.

You're human, and humans do things that sometimes don't make sense.

"You could've died." He says, trying to make it as quick but thorough as he can.

"..you're more important." You say, shrugging now- and immediately whimpering from it, making the king click his tongue in annoyance before he pushes the front of your shoulder again to make you sit straight.

"Keep that posture or you'll rip the stitches." He scolds, and you just sniffle, continuing to cry. "...I'll order them to give you something to sleep later." he mumbles.

"I have to finish the palace floors-" You start, but he cuts you off.

"You'll do none of that." He denies, quietly finishing your back before he moves to clean everything one last time, beginning to dress it. "You've earned your place." He simply tells you, placing the patches of dressing material dipped in medicine over your wound. He's silently impressed by how well you push through this- he's heard of humans passing out from much less than what you're experiencing right now.

"What do you mean?" You ask, as he wraps the gauze around you.

"You've proven strength." He explains, carefully finishing up his work. "And it's about time I chose anyways." He simply says, fixing the gauze before he let's go- making you turn a little bit, hands still covering your chest as you look up at him with eyes still full of tears.

"Chose what?" You wonder, and he reaches out to wipe your cheeks a little roughly.

"A fitting Queen."

[coolxuli]

My thoughts on Milli and Geo’s parents.

I wanted to keep this a secret until further fanfics but I just can’t hold it in anymore. TW for murder and suicide at the end.

So Milli and Geo’s parents (let’s name them Artemis and Orion) were high school sweethearts who were both studying science at their school.

Coincidentally they were both transgender and were on HRT at the same time (not impactful to the plot or anything, it’s just a fact)

They went to college where they studied science or whatever, got married in their 20s, and enrolled to be scientists at the Umi City lab with four of their friends from high school (Orion’s brother included). During this time, Artemis and Orion grew apart because of them being assigned different tasks and stuff (one of which was probably to create Bot, maybe).

But after a few years working in the lab, because of the rise in crime in Umi City, them and all their friends are assigned to create a team of superheroes. The officials of the lab didn’t care how they did it as long as it was done so the six of them dived themselves into three groups and mix each others DNA with some mathematical items (because why the heck not!? Also, don’t ask how they did that) to create some kids with mathematical powers! Artemis and Orion were paired together, of course.

When the experiment began, the six heroes they created all developed at different speeds, and it took years for some of them to grow. But when the first hero (Orion’s brother’s child) had finished development over the course of 9 months, he came out as a newborn baby. When the lab officials saw this they were like “Wtf. Well, we can’t send a couple of newborns to fight crime, so when these babies are done, you’re all parents now.”

Artemis and Orion never thought of being parents so they were kinda dreading the time when their own kids had finished development, but then Orion looked over at Bot (who was just a helper robot at the time) and was like “Yup! I’m making this mf their caretaker now.”

Luckily for them, their kids weren’t going to fully develop for a few years, so they made the most of their time.

Unfortunately, around the time two more of the future heroes had finished development (at the same time, so they’re basically twins) Artemis had an accident in the lab that messed up her brain a little but everyone just brushed it off.

Finally, two years after the first child had finished development, Artemis and Orion’s first child, a daughter, had also finished development. They didn’t have a name for her so they asked Bot if he had any names and he remembered they mixed their DNA with measuring equipment so he decided to name their daughter Millimeters (but called her Milli for short).

Also, when one of the twins mentioned earlier was revealed to not have proper powers, the mother (who was called Yvette but that’s not important) of that child made her a dress that could make any pattern possible. (This dress came into Milli’s possession when the lab realised that three heroes were enough)

Artemis and Orion (who’s spark had been regrowing over the years) had no idea how to take care of a kid, so whenever the lab officials gave them days off to take care of Milli, they just left her at home with Bot and went partying, sometimes not coming back for days at a time. This behaviour worries Bot, but whenever he confronts them about this, they just shake him off because they just see him as a cheap piece of metal they use to take care of the kid.

More than nine months later, their son had finished development. And, same with Milli, Bot saw how shapes were mixed into his DNA and named him Geometry (but called him Geo for short).

Since Milli and Geo (and the three other kids along with the one still in development) were too small to do anything with their powers, the lab officials let the two sets of parents who’s kids were fully developed have a year off to take care of the kids. And during this year, Artemis and Orion’s relationship had full rekindled and they were practically out every night, barely spending any time with their kids who they just left with Bot.

But, as this year was coming to an end, Artemis became very sick and was bedridden. Orion tried to stay by her side but she involuntarily pushed him away because this illness would make her easily frustrated and depressed, to the point he just didn’t come home for days. She also tended to push Bot away, saying that he’d overstep her boundaries whenever he got close, making Bot feel bad and rarely going into her room.

As she recovered, she felt like her husband was hiding something, maybe even cheating. And that brain injury no one really worried about had really taken control of her psyche, maybe even to the point of murder. So when Orion came home after being gone for a few days, she was waiting for him in the kitchen with a knife.

Not going into detail of what happened but when she realised that she’d just unalived the love of her life, she did the same to herself.

Unbeknownst to them, Milli, who was two years old at the time, had seen the whole thing behind the kitchen door.

Bot rushed them to the hospital the moment he found them, but it was too late.

And that’s what happened to Milli and Geo’s parents in my AU!

[amacanada]

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[almaqead]

"Molten Copper." From Surah 18, Al Kahf, "the Force."

Every day I check the news to see if the world has put Hamas, Hezbollah, and the despotic regime of Iran into the fire so that the garden with rivers running beanth it God has promised us can start growing. But we won't it yet because the damage they have done to our way of life is still progressing.

Muhammad called relationships with people like those in these terror cells, all run by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints right out in the open a Zul Qarnian, "a cheap screw."

A Zul Qarnian means to follow a corrupt leader right into a Great Flood without a Noah's Ark waiting to pick you up. Three Courses, a world whose survivors whose habitat is a land soaked with blood, shit, rubble, and suffering as far as the eye can see...this is as far as a Zul Qarnian will go. The verse says the moment the world stops going the wrong way, which is named below, the rewards of life on earth can be reaped, but not before:

18: 83-97:

"They ask you ˹O Prophet˺ about Ⱬul-Qarnain. Say, “I will relate to you something of his narrative.”1

Surely We established him in the land, and gave him the means to all things.

So he travelled a course,until he reached the setting ˹point˺ of the sun, which appeared to him to be setting in a spring of murky water, where he found some people. We said, “O Ⱬul-Qarnain! Either punish them or treat them kindly.”

He responded, “Whoever does wrong will be punished by us, then will be returned to their Lord, Who will punish them with a horrible torment.

As for those who believe and do good, they will have the finest reward, and we will assign them easy commands.”

Then he travelled a ˹different˺ course

until he reached the rising ˹point˺ of the sun. He found it rising on a people for whom We had provided no shelter from it.1

So it was. And We truly had full knowledge of him.

Then he travelled a ˹third˺ course until he reached ˹a pass˺ between two mountains. He found in front of them a people who could hardly understand ˹his˺ language.

They pleaded, “O Ⱬul-Qarnain! Surely Gog and Magog1 (the government news media) are spreading corruption throughout the land. Should we pay you tribute, provided that you build a wall between us and them?”

He responded, “What my Lord has provided for me is far better. But assist me with resources, and I will build a barrier between you and them.

Bring me blocks of iron!” Then, when he had filled up ˹the gap˺ between the two mountains, he ordered, “Blow!” When the iron became red hot, he said, “Bring me molten copper to pour over it.”

And so the enemies could neither scale nor tunnel through it."

Commentary:

We see again, how Allah is trying to prophesy to us through the Quran. We know have allowed our enemies to tunnel through all the laws, barriers and consequences of their actions. There is at this time, no end to the potential for war or death or violence in the Middle East because we lack the wisdom to do as the Quran says stop the fighting, allowing the police and courts to finish the job those filthy Mormons started. The assassination of those Mormon operatives in Tehran was God's revenge.

There shall be no retaliation against Israel for this, only a global purge of all Mormons and Republican Party members from the world. Then we will follow the Umrah, the Aquadduct Path to Peace named in the Quran and look after those who are in need of help:

From 4: 75:

"And what is [the matter] with you that you fight not in the cause of Allāh and [for] the oppressed among men, women, and children who say, "Our Lord, take us out of this city of oppressive people and appoint for us from Yourself a protector and appoint for us from Yourself a helper"?

The Quran mentions the use of molten iron and copper, which are used to turn inept and inconvenient persons into leaders. They are huge habitual distractions from the real thing:

The Torah instructs us in Parashat Kedoshim:

“Do not make yourselves gods out of cast metal” (Levit. 19:4.).How could an intelligent person believe that a piece of metal is god?

How could an intelligent person believe that a piece of metal is god? We could perhaps appreciate how ancient pagan societies attributed divine qualities to powerful, transcendent forces of nature, like the Zodiac signs, the sun, the moon, various galaxies, the wind, etc. But why would a thoughtful human being believe god could be fashioned out of cast metal?

Even if we can explain how in the ancient, pagan world such an idea could be entertained seriously, how does this Torah commandment apply to our lives today?

I once encountered a beautiful interpretation to these words1 which is profoundly relevant to the human psyche in all times. What this biblical verse is telling us is not to construct a god of a lifestyle and a weltanschauung that has become like "cast metal," cast and solidified in a fixed mold. A natural human tendency is to worship that which we have become comfortable with. We worship our habits, patterns, attitudes, routines and inclinations simply because we have accustomed ourselves to them and they are part of our lives. People love that which does not surprise them; we want to enjoy a god that suits our philosophical and emotional paradigms and comfort zones. We tend to embrace the fixed, unchangeable and permanent molten god. Comes the Torah and says: Do not turn your consolidated mold into your god. Do not turn your habits, natural patterns of thought, fears or addictions into a deity. Life is about challenge, growth and mystery. Never say, "This is the way I am; this is the way I do things, I cannot change." Never think, "This is the world view I am comfortable with; any other way must be wrong." Rather, you ought to muster the courage to challenge every instinct, temptation and convention; question every dogma, especially dogmas that speak in the name of open mindedness, and are embraced simply because you fall back on that which you have been taught again and again.

Let your life not become enslaved to a particular pattern just because it has been that way for many years or decades. G‑d, the real G‑d, is not defined by any conventions; let your soul, too, not be confined by any external conventions. Experience the freedom of your creator."

[writingsharks12]

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[jon-mcbrine-author]

The work that goes into producing a full-length fiction novel is enough for a full-time staff with at least a forty-hour work week. For many indie authors, including myself, it is typically a one-person operation. There are authors with teams, helpers, and roped-in family members, but even for multi-person scribe-squads, the workload can be daunting. The tasks run from the actual writing/typing, editing, marketing, and, among other things, designing the art. When it came to my debut young adult sci-go superhero novel, Unsecret Identity: Eric Icarus - Book One, I ultimately ended up tackling these assignments solo.

Simply because I wear many hats when it comes to creating this particular story does not necessarily entitle me to any special treatment or extra credit. As previously mentioned, there are numerous writers who bear the work weight on their shoulders with not much assistance. My journey so far has seen numerous learning curve-balls thrown my way as I figure out this whole author thing on the fly. I still have miles to go before I can go around boasting about my writing skill—the biggest lesson so far is that you never stop learning. Trends change, tastes differ, and technology advances. As I continue to develop my techniques, I roll with more punches than I hand out hits.

Speaking of technology, my experience as a graphic designer has proved to be greatly beneficial when creating cover art. Utilizing software programs like Adobe Illustrator, Photoshop, and InDesign, I am able to format the manuscripts as well as include interior art. As of this writing, Unsecret Identity is nearing its completion in transitioning from being only available as an ebook to a printed paperback edition. I was prepared to cross the finish line when I decided to insert more illustrations as part of the book. It’s an exciting concept that could help set the novel apart and further express my vision of the characters and settings, but… it also means more delay.

This is where tech comes back into play. I’ve been drawing my entire life, but as pencillers know, the sketching process can be time-consuming. Digital drawing has changed the game for me: using the Apple Pencil on an iPad while running the Procreate drawing program has drastically improved my illustration process. Don’t get me wrong, I believe I will always prefer the traditional method, but using a stylus on a smooth screen not only allows me to zoom in for meticulous detail (along with an overwhelming amount of brush choices), but the slick glass surface is much more preferable for me. I’m not sure why exactly, but I've always had a sensitivity to the feel of paper. So, naturally my greatest interests are writing and drawing—two paper-based hobbies. Thanks to the digital age, the only limit is my imagination (and battery life).

Well, there is at least one other limit - my time. Similar to other self-publishing authors, my writing time is usually whenever I can carve out a short period throughout a typical day. As quick and convenient as tablet drawing can be, it’s still a matter of how exhausted I am after tending to “real life” commitments. This leads to the reason I do not simply outsource the jobs: cheap labor! I don’t consider myself a control freak, though saying that, it is a bit of a point of pride to be able to complete these mounting tasks myself. The entire book-making process is a gauntlet but it’s something I can use all talents for (opinions on the end result may have some questioning the extent of this talent, but, hey, like I said, it’s cheap labor!). 

As if performing all these duties with a lack of downtime wasn’t enough of a challenge, I intend on recording the audiobook version of Unsecret Identity myself. I am not sure if I’m a jack of all trades or a glutton for punishment, but regardless, I’m ready to DIY.

Stay in the loop for more details by following Jonfcition Blog on Substack and be sure to check out jonmcbrine.com for more info about this and all my books.

Unsecret Identity: Eric Icarus - Book One is available now from the Amazon Kindle store.

https://a.co/2XAtxvH

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