#drawing the entire motley crew was too time consuming

[dross-the-fish]

May I give everyone little kisses?

As the group gathered to say their farewells Anon went around and kissed them all good bye.

Quincey Harker, with much sniffling, wrapped them in a bear hug and gave them a loud kiss on the cheek in return.

Lawrence Talbot shied back for a moment before awkwardly looping an arm around them and accepting their kiss.

Selma Morris took their face in her hands and whispered softly, "Y'all don't be a stranger now, ya hear?" before kissing each of their cheeks and allowing them to return the gesture.

Dr John Watson accepted his kiss with all of his usual dignity and grace, though he couldn't hide the tell tale watering of his eyes and the slight quiver of his mustache when Anon drew back.

Theodora Kipp recoiled at first, surprised that Anon would want to kiss her and fearing the coldness and pallor of her skin would repel them. To her surprise it did not and Anon wrapped their arms around her and put their lips to her cheek. She held them tightly in return and reluctantly let go so they could continue saying farewell to the others.

Erik held out a hand, expecting that they would part on a handshake as was the custom for gentlefolk. Anon grasped his hand in theirs and drew him down. They lifted the corner of his mask just enough to kiss his exposed cheek. The gesture made Erik turn away, shoulders shaking with emotion.

Hyde scowled at them, "I suppose its my turn then. Well get on with it" he grumbled though it lacked the usual bite of anger. He accepted Anon's kiss and even ventured to rest a hand momentarily on their shoulder in return.

Adam lingered behind and when Anon got to him he tried not to look hopeful that he too would be granted a kiss. Anon gestured for him to bend down. Taking his face in their hands they kissed his forehead and were surprised when he gathered them into his arms and hugged them tightly, openly weeping. After he put them down he composed himself with some effort and righted Anon's rumbled clothing.

Anon took one last look at the Motley Crew and waved goodbye, promising to return soon and write often.

[chaozsilhouette]

Imprisoned yet Unshackled

I was so inspired by the large support my last post received, I was able to finish this scene in record time. One thing that was wedged into the back of my mind was, just how does one pass the time when you're trapped under a mountain for five hundred years? Here's my take on Sun Wukong's second imprisonment in @winterpower98's Swap Au. I hope I managed to capture the brilliant yet insane nature of the monkey tyrant.

_____________________________

Sun Wukong, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, had to smile at his plight.

Once again he was trapped underneath a prison of magic and stone. Only this time the entrapment had not been orchestrated by the Buddha, but by his dearest beloved, a motley crew of demon rejects, and one despicable monk.

He should be infuriated. His rage should invoke the horrible sense the end of days had arrived. Heaven should tremble, Narakas should rush to defend its gates, but no. No, the Monkey King’s temper had cooled to a dangerous degree. Now he could smile and look back on his past with fondness.

Why?

Because he refused to be caught unaware twice.

He may not have been able to stop his imprisonment, but he was able to leave a little insurance for his release. His darling was wise to seal the mountain with the Ruyi Jingu Bang. The infamy of his trademark weapon would be more than enough to strike fear into the hearts of countless demons. Its immense weight prevented all, but the strongest from getting it to budge let alone lift it.

However, for the Handsome Monkey King, it would be a minor feat. Just before the seal was completed and the mountain crashed down, he created a hair clone and sent it out into the world in the appearance of a young human boy. He couldn’t have it mirror him or it would have been hunted down before it could free him. As a precaution, he sealed any memories the clone would have as being, ya know him.

During his time in hiding, he made many new alliances and took on countless servants, many of which joined him after they experienced a thorough humiliation by his darling. The only upside of that worthless journey was all the laughs he got after hearing about all the different demons his beloved trounced on the way.

Seriously, how could one monk keep falling for the same trick over and over again? Maybe Tripitaka enjoyed being abducted? Either way, he had faith that at least one would connect the dots if they knew what was good for them.

He had no doubt the entire Celestial Realm would act to create thousands of mystical and physical barriers to secure and hide the mountain. The villagers would spread tales of destruction and fear, but that would draw in as many as it would push away. Princess Iron Fan would no doubt lead the concealment project herself out of spite. Her husband would personally engage the weaker demons in a fruitless attempt to lessen his fury.

Hehe, the poor demon couple.

Once the heads of a rising court no one would ever dare cross, reduced to celestial dogs as they mourned the loss of their son. The screams of the Demon Bull family curled his toes in the most delightful ways as he forced them to watch their precious matchstick collapse under the fury of his own flames. Unfortunately, the mountain was sealed before he could witness Red Boy’s demise by the True Fire of Samadhi, but even if he survived no one could walk away from that unscathed.

It would take time for his clone to remove the staff, leaving him little to do but think. What else was he going to do trapped under another mountain? This time, not even his face was free to take in the fresh air or watch the stars. He had forgotten how spiteful his darling could be.

They would work on that once he was freed.

Sun Wokong acted too rashly, he could admit that now. He had spent so much time away from his beloved, confident in his capabilities that he failed to account for other dangers. He underestimated Guanyin’s monk. This mortal was the one expected to teach him humility, how could he expect his darling Macaque to survive unaffected.

He thought back to the simple days on Flower Fruit Mountain after Macaque had accepted his invitation to live with him. When it was just the two of them against the world. Their days were filled with training, experimenting with their powers, and making quick trips to scare humans and demons alike. Sun could still picture the easy smile that would grace his beloved’s face after a fulfilling day or whenever he groomed that silky mane.

The playful chirps and growls of the other monkeys filled the background as they went about their normal lives. He watched with pride as families grew and newborns matured into colorful pranksters all their own. Each generation instinctually knew who he was and learned to give him respect, but he didn’t mind them crossing a few lines. What kind of leader would he be if he discouraged what made him happy?

Anytime hunters or an upstart demon attempted to set foot on his mountain, Wukong and Macaque would switch guardian duty. While he definitely enjoyed killing any idiot who dared to intrude upon his territory, watching his beloved slaughter in his name brought him even more pleasure. Unlike his personal tastes of crushing his opponent’s skull after ripping off their limbs, his beloved took a more surgical approach. Delicately Macaque would toy with his prey, methodically tearing apart their physical strength and their sanity, until nothing was left but a pitiful husk who begged for death.

Ah, each one of those performances was nothing less than pure poetry all designed for him.

He wanted that back. He wanted all of those pleasures back and more! And he would get them. Once he was freed, he would find his wayward beloved and undo all the damage Tripitaka did. Macaque would be reminded of their ambition to conquer. But more than anything he would remember who he belonged to.

Fortunately, neither of them was in any danger of dying. During his little stay in the Celestial Realm, he saved a couple of souvenirs. A peach of immortality, a bottle of heavenly wine, and a gourd of pills from Loa Tzu’s lab; each capable of granting the consumer immortality and combined with the safeguards they had already taken.

Macaque had become just as much a fundamental part of reality as himself. He didn’t even have to lie. Despite Macaque being concerned for the consequences of his actions, the six-eared immortal couldn’t help but kneel over laughing as Wukong mimicked the expressions of his celestial servants whenever they tried to ask something of him. Wukong looked on in adoration as his mate indulged in the bounty of the Celestial Realm, tying their futures together until time itself ceased to exist.

It did not matter how long it took. The seal would be broken and all of creation would know fear. Time held no meaning for him. He could afford to be patient.

[wunderlass]

Heart-Shaped Box

For RIPRoswell Day Three: grief, joy, remembrance, acceptance. 

We don’t see Halloween celebrated in season one, but the timing of the finale suggests we’ve passed it by somewhere along the way, probably in the six weeks that passes between episodes eight and nine. It’s implied that Liz and Max haven’t seen each other much, if it at all, during those six weeks. For the purposes of this story, I’m going to act like they did cross paths a handful of times while Liz worked on a cure for Isobel.

Thanks, as always, to @maxortecho for her beta skills. All Spanish errors are mine. Anything Max gets wrong about the traditions are a clueless white girl taking advantage of having a clueless white boy to write about.

For A. 13 years. You picked an apt day to die. No altar, no roadside memorial, but a candle for you tonight.

A cluster of aliens swarms down the street, heading for the patrol car and quickly surrounding it. There’s no escaping them now.

Max slumps back against the headrest and heaves out a weary sigh. Cam is still inside Beam Me Up and they aren’t going anywhere until the kids have finished trick or treating down this road. 

Aliens. All of them: ET, Yoda, Buzz Lightyear, a bizarrely adorable xenomorph, and an entire galaxy’s worth of Star Trek characters. It’s a beloved Roswell tradition at Halloween, and one he’s always hated.

One of the kids, a preteen in a generic little green man mask, is jiggling the handle of the car. Max grabs the bucket of candy and rolls down the window to distribute it out to the delighted mass.

They’ve moved on by the time Cam saunters out of the coffee shop, and he doesn’t think it’s a coincidence. She hands him his tea and stares after the motley crew. 

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it. There’s nobody in sheets pretending to be ghosts. No little witches on broomsticks. Every last one an alien.”

“There are always some rebels,” Max replies.

“Oh yeah?”

“Isobel always had to be a princess. The closest compromise she could reach with my parents was Princess Leia.”

“Is she even an alien?”

“As far as Iz was concerned, she was from a galaxy far, far away, so she couldn’t be human.” It was hard logic for their mother to argue with, especially not when Isobel argued it so decisively. Almost as if his sister was identifying with the idea.

“And you?”

“Me? I wanted to be Harry Potter.” He ducks his head, grinning to himself as he remembers his yearning for a pair of spectacles. He’d practiced drawing a lightning scar on his forehead with his mother’s eyeliner.

Cam laughs. “Figures.”

“Yeah. But my mom insisted I had to keep up the tradition, so she put me in an old bathrobe and sent me as a Jedi instead. I didn’t have the right hair to be Luke Skywalker though.”

That hadn’t been so bad, out of the options. He’d never had to go as a murderous alien, or the little green man, a reminder of his origins and the loss of his people in the crash. His costume had sent Max down a rabbit hole, watching the movies and then discovering all the tie-in novels, marveling at the powers the Jedi had and wondering if they came from the same galaxy. Max didn’t have powers, not yet, just his bond with Isobel, but Jedi powers seemed like a cool trade-off to being an alien. Maybe even better than being a wizard.

Until he got his powers and then it wasn’t cool at all.

“That sounds on your level of nerdery,” Cam says. “And your mom was right, Jedi is cooler than Harry Potter.”

“Hard disagree. If I wasn’t in uniform, I’d be in my wizard robes right now.”

It’s not true. He hasn’t put on a costume since childhood, and this night of all nights isn’t one he observes with any merriment anymore. Instead, it’s a countdown until midnight. That’s the only holiday—holy day in the traditional sense—that he honors these days.

That’s private though. For after their shift is over, under the cover of darkness. When he can head to the cemetery gates.

~

The cemetery is quiet and still, its gates locked early to keep out any teenagers who might decide it’d be a special kind of thrill to run riot through it tonight. Max has nudged the patrol in this direction several times in their circuits of the city, and Cam was far from suspicious: given Sheriff Valenti’s stern warnings to keep their eyes on it, it made good business sense.

Max left Cam at her door half an hour ago and made his way here instead of heading to his own home. This is the tenth year of his tradition, but the first time he’s visited Rosa’s grave since Liz returned to town. Not since that night he caught Liz herself here after midnight. He doesn’t want to intrude on her, not when he’s promised her space, not when she has every right to her grief and he has no right to her time.

It must have been harder for her to clear the gates—for him, it’s an easy spring and drop onto the path on the other side, flashlight clutched between his teeth. The gates really don’t serve much of a deterrent to anyone, teenagers or drifters alike, but the place is silent around him. Silent as the grave.

He knows he can come up with a better metaphor than that.

Doesn’t matter. He’s not here to write. Tonight he is here to remember, to honor Rosa in ways her family no longer risk publicly. Using the beam from the flashlight, he picks his way through the rows of graves until he finds her. Shoved in a back corner, the grass a little long around here, like even the caretakers don’t want to do right by her. The gravestone is thankfully free of graffiti—he brought stuff to clean it off if he needed to. Instead, from his rucksack he gets out what he’s here to bring.

He’s sure he does this all wrong. It’s not his tradition, and he doesn’t know anyone he can ask for more information, except for Liz. Then she’d know, she’d have to know, and he’s not sure if she’d understand. He isn’t doing this for atonement. He’s simply doing it to keep the memory of a girl who died far too young alive, in his own fumbled way. 

Besides, he’s been doing it so long he’s kind of made his own traditions, and it would feel weird to change them now. Even if it was to correct himself.

The first thing out of the rucksack is the bouquet of marigolds. They’re a little crushed and wilted after a day in his locker at the station, but they’re vibrant against the night. He lays them in front of the stone, and though the grass almost swallows them, their orange glow refuses to be diminished.

Next comes the pan de muerto he picked up earlier in the day. They’re only wrapped in a little paper bag, so he’s sure the only thing consuming them year after year are rats, but it was in the list when he Googled all those years ago. He doesn’t even know if Rosa liked them. He’s not even sure if he likes them: after all this time, he’s never been able to bring himself to try one. They’re too associated with the girl he’s offering them to, and the thought of swallowing them chokes him, guilt rising like bile.

Third, he pulls out the cardboard cup to put next to the bread. He had to quit leaving thermoses out here, knowing they were only getting broken or stolen. This is the cheaper, more environmentally friendly option. Others might have brought a bottle of tequila, but he cannot in good conscience leave that for Rosa. Instead he brings her tea: good tea, his favorite, now cold but still aromatic.

And lastly, his calavera literaria.

It’s not in Spanish. It has no humor to it, because that’s never been his strong suit, and to joke with her or about her is too intimate for a girl he barely knew. But the little poem he writes for her every year is the best he can do, a small exchange of his soul for hers. This, he tucks down into the grass, hoping it will be rotten long before the grass is cut or anyone comes to the grave.

He doesn’t say a word. He can never find the words when he’s here, not like he can when he has a pen in his hand and the entire year to think of what to say to her next. The hundred ways he can apologize and it never be enough, never fix what happened. Rosa would probably laugh if she got a chance to read these poems, like she did when she read his letter to Liz. Laugh, shove him away, remind him he’s a stupid boy. And he wouldn’t stop her.

His ritual complete, Max wends his way back to the gates. The wind rustles through the grass, and he almost wishes he could hear it whispering to him, the sound taking on a voice. What words would it say to him? Forgiveness? Not likely. 

But the wind is just the wind. This is just a field on the edge of the desert, where the people of this town plant their bones and pretend their loved ones are here when they visit. The dead are just the dead, and there’s no changing that.

~

The cruel irony of this night is that to get home from the cemetery, he must drive along the road where he staged the crash with his siblings. He has learned to avert his eyes when he passes by—if he does, instead of taking the long way around, but that’s not feasible at this time of night. He’s in that state of exhaustion where he’s becoming wired up again, and that makes him a dangerous driver. It’s not much of an issue on roads as quiet as these, but he needs to get home and find ways of subduing himself.

Instead he grips the wheel and tries to keep his gaze off to one side, away from the three memorial crosses wedged into the roadside dirt. All he needs to be aware of are headlights, ahead or behind, otherwise he can drive half in a trance and he’s only a danger to himself.

Just this once, there are headlights. And they aren’t on the road. They’re stationary, at the side of the road.

He’s alert enough not to slam the brakes, instead allowing his Jeep to roll to a stop near the lights. His eyes adjust to make out the scene through his window, and he swallows.

A car is parked beside the memorial, engine off but lights on. A car he recognizes.

He should keep driving, but it looks weird now he’s slowed down. In fact, she’s turned to look at him, her brow wrinkled in question, her stance alert, tense. She’s expecting trouble.

He rolls down the window to show who he is, to prove she’s in no danger.

“Liz,” he says over the rumble of his engine. He’s not seen her in a few weeks, not since Isobel went into the pod. She’s a sight for sore eyes, but one he tries not to look at too intensely, averting his eyes into the shadows around her. It’s like trying not to look at the sun during an eclipse. It’s like trying not to look at god. It will be painful afterwards, but it might just be worth the pain.

She smiles, but it’s tense. Things are still weird between them. Things will likely always be weird between them, and he knows better than to hope for different. She deserves her anger.

He knows better than to ask her what she’s doing here, especially given that she’s clutching her own garland of marigolds. Rosa’s makeshift cross is upright, a sorry rarity.

Max wonders if Liz has ever built an ofrenda for her sister. It seems unlikely, given what he knows of her scattered adulthood and the emotional ties she’d cut with Rosa.

There’s nothing to say. So he says the first stupid thing that comes into his head. “You’re not in costume.”

Her breath hitches and her fingers tighten around the flower stems.

“Sorry. That’s--”

“I don’t really celebrate Halloween,” she says. “Not since Rosa…it doesn’t feel right.”

He thinks that’s the end of it. The awkwardness lies heavily between them, a veil he cannot breach. But where he shrinks into silence, Liz seeks to escape it.

“She always did the most elaborate costumes,” she says. “She only learned to sew so she could make her own costumes, and she’d paint my face for Día de los Muertos. I loved them so much, I always insisted she painted my face for Halloween too, even though she told me it was silly, that everyone in town dresses as aliens so we had to as well.” It’s the word aliens that brings her back to the awkwardness, her voice trailing off as she finishes the sentence.

“I remember,” Max says fondly. “Rosa with her face painted silver, but you with floral patterns all over your skin.”

“Papi always goes overboard at Halloween, and we hated it. We thought it was so cheesy. It was one of Rosa’s earliest acts of rebellion—she wanted to be a bruja. Or Selena.”

Liz is smiling, though sadness tugs at the corners of her mouth. She shakes her head, looking away from him, her gaze tracing the road he has just driven down.

“Where are you coming from at this time of night?” she asks, and the question is so unexpected that he stills, glad her stare hasn’t returned to him. She always can see him. Through him.

“Me?” 

“Yeah, you,” she says, and it’s almost teasing. “There’s nothing much that way. Nothing except…” She pauses and looks back at the roadside cross “...Rosa.”

“I laid flowers on her grave.” The words are out before he can stem their flow.

Once again, she takes him by surprise. “That’s you?”

“I didn’t know anybody ever noticed,” he replies.

She nods. “My father goes on Día de los Muertos. It’s safer that day than any other day—the other girls weren’t Mexican, their families don’t visit that day. Only the other Mexican families do, and they look after papi.”

Max resists the urge to cringe until he folds into himself. To think that Arturo might have read his poems…

“He said somebody was visiting her grave,” she continues. “But he thought it was maybe a boyfriend of hers. Certainly no gringo.” She smiles again, and this time it’s teasing, light. “Though this does explain why you’ve been wasting the pan de muerto. You’re supposed to eat it, not give a whole bag to the local rodent population.”

He takes a deep breath. “I know…I know this doesn’t—”

But she silences him with a shake of her head. “Not tonight.”

She turns her back to him, crouching to place the marigolds underneath the wooden cross. For a moment he thinks this is a dismissal, but when her hands are free she turns back to him.

“Come on, pull over. I’ll show you what you’re missing.”

It takes a few moments for him to get context. She crosses to her car, reaches into the passenger seat, and brings out a little white cake box. He knows what’s in it. Shame and bile rise in unison.

The only thing he can do is follow her instructions, pulling to the side of the road and turning his engine off to give himself a moment to collect himself.

Then she’s at his window with the lid open on the box, the sugar crystals on the pan de muerto sparkling in the stark brightness of the twin headlamps. He doesn’t smile, but takes the offering reverently.

It’s soft in his hand, softer still between his teeth. Sweet, delicate, a hint of anise. This isn’t what his guilt tastes like.

Liz closes the lid, watching him as he chews. She doesn’t say anything, and for the first time he notices the lack of anger in her expression. He never thought she’d look at him without a hint of fury, but either she’s cloaking it well or she’s forgotten it in this moment. He grasps the moment, commits it to his memory for when her anger returns.

He doesn’t choke on the first bite, or the next, or the next. Maybe he won’t choke on it after all.