#flash-forward several decades

[reiding-writing]

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐝’𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭.

a case involving female students being murdered in their dormitories brings the team to stanford university. You have more of a connection to it than you originally realise.

s8!cold!reader ❅ 8.4k ❅ series masterlist. ❅ main masterlist.

CW | typical criminal minds violence, violence against women, detail of murder and injury, abuse of power, student-professor relationships, miscarriage and abortion, character death, manipulation, cynicism

“Three women, all doctorate students of Stanford University, have all been killed inside their dorm rooms in the last two weeks,” There’s a click of a button, and then three images flash up on the screen, headshots of the girls. “All three were found with their stomachs cut open and their reproductive organs removed,”

What a lovely way to start a Monday morning.

“So much for the best University in California,” Morgan nudges your arm with his elbow, and your roll your eyes.

“What was the medical knowledge of the unsub?”

“You tell me,” JJ clicks another button on her remote, and the smiling photos of the victims are replaced with their crime scene photos.

Hands and feet tied to their beds, a large incision at the pelvic bone that had been stretched open to leave the internal organs bare, and the uterus cut out of the body. The surface knowledge was there, but the execution was not. Messy lines and uneven incisions that left the gap left in the victims more blood and tissue than actual hole.

“So we’re not looking for a professional then,” Morgan points out the obvious with a cross of his arms, leaning back in his chair.

“They clearly know something about it though,” Spencer leans forward as Morgan leans back, squinting his eyes like it’s going to make the images clearer. “There’s several different ways to perform a hysterectomy, but for a complete hysterectomy like our unsub is doing, the most common method is to start with an incision just above the pelvic bone,”

We’ll discuss the details of hysterectomies whilst we’re on the plane,” Hotch taps both of his hands on the table as he stands. “Gather your things, wheels up in thirty,”

There’s a chorus of “Yes Sir,”s as you all follow him out of the conference room to return to your respective desks and gather your belongings for the flight, an air of fatigue still surrounding the group even through the graphic imagery you were presented with.

“Going back to your alma mater, how do you feel?” Morgan clasps his right hand into a fist and holds it out to you like an invisible microphone.

You push it away without much thought as you pack your laptop into your bag, rolling your eyes at him for what feels like the tenth time since you’d walked through the door an hour ago. “It’s been almost— no, it has been ten years since I graduated, what’s there to ‘feel’?”

“Okay robot face, damn, no lingering love for the College that gave you your career?” Morgan’s taunt is laced with that familiar air of light-heartedness that’s there to remind you that he really is just poking fun, but you’ve never been very receptive to his humour.

“No.”

He lets out a sharp laugh in a mix of amusement and surprise, opening his mouth to make another comment, but the expression on your face tells him you’re definitely done talking about the topic.

He does have some self restraint.

—

Stepping out of the San Jose International Airport almost felt like going into a time machine, spitting you right back out where you’d left that decade ago just 18 miles from your old campus.

It felt even more surreal actually reaching Stanford’s main site, walking around the place you’d dedicated four years of your life to. Not much had changed since you’d left, not that you really expected it to, but it felt almost foreign to you to walk around the campus as you were now, a properly matured adult compared to the almost naive teenager you started as.

You began where you always did, at the most recent crime scene, a college dorm room on the south-east side of the campus.

It was pretty standard, a bedroom big enough for a double bed and a desk, a built in wardrobe, and a private bathroom; Decorated how you would expect from a girl in her early twenties, covered in memories and interests that gave it a personality outside of the off-white paint on the walls.

Of course, it was mildly ruined by the fact the previously pink bedsheets were stained in a pool of oxidised blood that dripped down onto the rug adorned floor and ledger small spatters on the skirting boards, but what can you really expect when the girl had been cut open whilst she was still alive and most definitely struggling against it.

“There’s no signs of forced entry,” All Morgan could do was shrug as he examined the fire door that acted as the room’s only entrance. “The inside lock was unfastened and there’s no marks indicating it was forced open, or that it even could be without heavy grade tools,”

“So our unsub had his own key then?”

“Or,” Emily’s suggestion was side-stepped by Spencer, “He was let in,”

There’s a small hum from Hotch as he stands beside you, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed. “Alright,” He turns his eyes onto you with a small nod, “Take Prentiss to the Mortuary and check the autopsy. Morgan, Reid, get Garcia to find a list of professors the victims shared and go and speak with them, they might’ve noticed a change in the girls’ behaviours before their deaths.”

“Will do,”

“Got it,”

There’s a series of shared nods between you as you spilt up, leaving Hotch, Rossi and JJ at the crime scene in search of any more information they could utilise.

—

Trying to catch a Professor when they’re not busy is harder than most people would think. So hard in fact that Spencer and Morgan had been left with standing inside one of the lecture rooms to endure the last twenty minutes of a forensic psychology lesson so they could get the professor between classes.

“Professor Callahan?”

“For any personal feedback on your essay please send me an email,” The professor doesn’t so much as look up from the papers he collects and organises on his desk, seemingly already in a rush even after barely two minutes of the lecture ending.

Morgan and Spencer share a glance.

“My name’s Dr Spencer Reid, and this is Agent Morgan, we’re from the FBI,”

Callahan looks up this time, rectangle glasses reflecting the two back to each other through the overhead lighting.

“We were hoping we could ask you a few questions, Sir,”

Spencer watches the Professor’s eyebrows knit in confusion before his eyes spark with a hint of realisation, and then understanding.

“Yes, of course,” He nods, collecting the pile of papers in his right arm. “Please, follow me into my office,”

His office is filled with bookshelves stacked with psychology texts and framed accolades lining the walls. Small busts of philosophers in the mpty spaces. His desk is littered with small rememberences of his former students, and lining the opposite wall is another, a small plaque reading Dr. Wittchen at it’s forefront.

“Did you notice any changes in the girls’ behaviour, or anything unusual leading up to their deaths?” Spencer’s question is cautious, if not a little bit emotionally insensitive.

Callahan’s expression shifts to one of concern. “Honestly, I hadn’t noticed anything alarming. They were all such high achievers, incredibly driven. The stress of their programs sometimes affected them, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

Spencer nods, then glances toward the accompanying desk. “What about Professor Wittchen? Does he interact with the students much?”

Callahan hesitates, his brow furrowing slightly. “Robert is highly respected, very dedicated to his work. He can be a little tough on their grades, but more often than not he’s sat in here doing one-on-one tutoring in his spare time,”

Spencer hums softly at Callahan’s assessment. “Do you know if he turoed any of the girls? He might have a better insight into any changes in their mannerisms,”

“I’m not sure I’m afraid,” Callahan shakes his head, “I leave him to his teachings most of the ime, but I can let him know you’ve asked,”

As they speak, Morgan’s gaze drifts to a nearby display shelf adorned with photographs of past students on the far wall, each one framed and labeled with a name and a date.

Etched into the wood of the shelf itself an engraving reading, “Shelf of Stars.” stood front and centre, and as Morgan’s eyes wandered the pictures, a certain label caught his attention.

Front and centre, there you sat, “2006 PhD” followed by your name, a picture of you and your Professors in what’s presuambly your first year.

“No way,” Morgan breathes out a laugh. “Reid come look at this,”

“What? What’s wrong?” Spencer and Callahan’s expressions mirror each other as they glance over at Morgan in concern, only for him to quash any need for worry as he holds up the frame in their direction.

“Look how different she looks! What happened, did she get hit by a truck when she turned 20 or what?”

There’s a flicker of recognition in Spencer’s eyes, one that almost turns to fondness as he takes in the bright smile printed behind the glass. He’s not sure he’s ever seen you smile like that since you’ve been with the team.

“You know her?” Callahan raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, yeah, she’s on our team,” Morgan nods with a chuckle as he places the picture back where he found it, pulling out his phone to snap a photo, probably to make fun of you later.

“Really?” Professor Callahan looks more than a little surprised at the revelation. “I knew she was destined for great things, but the FBI, wow,” He breathes out a short sigh, nodding. “Robert’ll have a field day when he finds out she chose forensics over clinical,”

Spencer gives what’s almost a laugh, clearing his throat. “Well, Professor, thank you for speaking with us, we’ll contact you if we find any more information,”

“No problem at all, my door is always open,” Callahan follows Spencer and Morgan over to the office door, holding it open for them as they leave.

“Oh, Agents?” He stops them before they get too far. “If you have any time in or after your investigation, ask her to pay us a visit? It’d be nice to catch up,”

“We’ll let her know,”

—

“From what I can tell, the removal of the uterus was done antemortem, and the victims cause of death was the blood loss that resulted from it,” The Coroner lifts the muscle torn by the initial incision to give you and Emily a proper look at the damage.

“The nature of the incisions tells that they were most likely done with proper surgical instruments, a scalpel most likely, but their nature is unpracticed, see here for example,”

She points towards the left side of the victims pelvis, where the muscle had been separated from the uteral lining. “In a professional hysterectomy, this tissue here would also be removed, but in this case it’s been left attached to the surrounding tissues, and the same can be said for the others,”

“So our unsub knows the basics, is that something that would require medical training?” Emily furrows her eyebrows at the sight, and you’re much the same.

The sight is almost enough to make you feel nauseous, but you don’t need sickly thoughts clouding your judgement right now.

“Possibly, although with how the internet is, it’s possible they read an article or watched a documentary on how the procedure is done,” The coroner sways her head side to side, “I’d say that whoever did this has had some training, but not necessarily in the field,”

Emily hums, turning her gaze from the victim towards you. “Medical student maybe?”

You hum absently, eyes trained on the gaping hole left in the girl’s stomach. “Maybe, probably won’t still be a student though,”

It affects you more than it should, you think, a malingering nagging in the back of your head that won’t leave you alone but also won’t tell you why it’s there in the first place.

You sigh, “We should look at biologists too, clinical fields,”

Emily gives you an agreeing nod. “I’ll call Garcia,” She pats your shoulder deftly as she leaves the room.

“Was there anything else strange about the body?” You tear your eyes away from the girl to look up at the coroner, who only gives you a small shake of her head.

“Not that I can see,” Her gaze, though objective, flickers with small amounts of uncertainty. “It’s so upsetting, things like this, what spurs someone to do something so… primally horrific?”

“A rejection probably, a denial of a sexual relationship or children that’s projected onto other women because he can’t get to the person he really wants to hurt,” You shrug out an exhale. “More common than you’d think,”

She frowns. “it’s awful,”

“Yeah,” You purse your lips together. “But it is what it is,”

—

“Did the three girls have any clear connections?”

Garcia taps away on her keyboard, and the jingling of her earrings over the reciever suggests that she’s shaking her head. “Apart from being Stanford students, not really. Julie was doing an MsC in Pediatric Therapy, Ophelia doing an MA in History of Medicine, and Marie doing a PhD in Psychology.” She sighs. “None of them had any classes together, no mutual friends, I don’t even think they knew the others existed,”

“There has to be some overlap,” Morgan groans exasperatedly, glancing over at the mostly bare profile board that him and Spencer were trying to put together. They’d spoken to most of the girls’ professors by now, and apart from offhanded comments about stress and pressure, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

It was frustrating, really frustrating, and for all they knew, the team was on a time limit before another girl suffered the same fate. They needed a break in the case, sooner rather than later.

“What about the students Emily asked you to look into? Spencer bends almost awkardly towards Morgan’s phone, trying to raise his voice into the speaker whilst still writing against the whiteboard.

“Nada, I’m afraid, no one who had connections to all three girls, past or present, I’ve hit a wall,”

“No kidding,” Morgan exhales heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose with the hand not holding his phone. “Thanks anyway, sweetness,”

“Of course my love, I’ll hit you back if I find anything, Penny G out,” —

“So we’ve got three dead girls, no connections, and no signature to help us track down this guy, lovely,” Emily sips on her coffee, leaning back into her chair with a sigh.

“Isn’t this like every other case we’ve ever had?” You raise an eyebrow is disinterest, stretching you arms above your head and almost hitting Morgan in the face as he and Spencer reenter the room from their lunch break.

The Psychology department had been kind enough to loan you one of their staff rooms during your investigation, and comments had already been made about Hotch’s demeanour as he walked around you like he was keeping an eye on a group of toddlers.

“There’s something we’re missing here,” Rossi pours over the whiteboard with a disgruntled sigh, his palm dragging down the side of his face. “There’s always something,”

Reid nods, tapping his pen against his notebook as he takes a seat. “Even perfectionists leave traces. It’s just a matter of understanding their logic—how they justify their actions.”

“Change of subject quickly,” Morgan holds up a hand as he walks around the table, his other hand landing on your shoulder. “Talking of leaving traces, who was going to tell us that you actually knew how to smile?”

You shrug his hand off of you with a furrow of your eyebrows. “What?”

“I’m talking little nineteen year old you beaming like you were trying to compete with the sun,” He digs his phone from his pocket, holding the screen out to face the group. “I mean look at this, look at you, its weird,”

You snatch the phone from him as soon as you recognise the picture. “Why do you have that picture?”

“We took a trip to see one of your old Professors,” Morgan wrestles the device back out of your hands before you have a chance to what he assumes will be deleting the evidence of your past sunniness. “He asked to see you at some point by the way, wants to ‘catch up’,”

“Delete that photo, Morgan.” You cross one leg over the other with a huff.

“No way, Ice Queen, I’m gonna make fun of you with this forever,”

“I hate you,”

”I love you too,” He blows an air kiss in your direction.

The shrill ring of the door opening cuts through the room, snapping everyone to attention. A mildly out of breath PD officer leaning against the doorframe.

“There’s been another one,” she says, her voice tight.

The room erupts into motion.

—

When you arrive, the scene is eerily similar to the others. The victim, a young woman in her early twenties, lies in the middle of her dorm room, fully clothed and carefully positioned. Her face is serene, as though she’s simply sleeping. The blood pooling out of her lower abdomen tells you that she’s not.

“Victim’s name is Natalie Yu. Twenty-one, Psychology major. She fits the profile—academic, driven, top of her class.” JJ fills you in easily.

You step closer, your heart sinking as you take in the meticulous staging. The unsub’s reverence for his victims is apparent in every detail. No signs of a struggle. No personal belongings out of place.

Reid crouches near the body, his eyes narrowing. “Same as the others. No physical trauma that would suggest a cause of death other than bloodloss. Removal of reproductive organs.”

Morgan stands by the door, his jaw clenched. “This guy’s escalating. Three murders in three weeks, and now this. He’s not slowing down.”

Something catches Prentiss’s eye. She kneels beside the victim and carefully lifts the edge of her blouse. Tucked neatly into the waistband of her jeans is a folded piece of paper.

“What’s this?” she murmurs, pulling on gloves before unfolding the note. The room goes still as she reads aloud:

“It was meant to be you.”

You lean over Emily’s shoulder to get a glance at the writing yourself. And then you immediately regret doing so. The handwriting is unmistakable—sharp, angular strokes that you’d recognise anywhere.

But you can’t say that. Not yet.

“‘It was meant to be you’?” Rossi repeats, stepping closer. “What the hell does that mean?”

Reid frowns. “It’s personal. Direct. He’s targeting someone specific now.”

“It could be a taunt,” JJ offers. “A way to throw us off or instill fear in the team.”

Morgan shakes his head, his expression grim. “No. This is different. This isn’t just about control anymore—this is about sending a message,”

“It’s personal,” Reid says again, his gaze sweeping the room. For a brief moment, his eyes land on you, and you feel like he can see right through you.

“Excuse me,” you manage, your voice steady despite the panic clawing at your chest.

You step outside, the crisp air hitting you like a jolt. Your hands shake as you pull out your phone, staring at the screen without really seeing it. The note wasn’t just a taunt—it was a reminder. He knew you were here. He’d known the moment you stepped onto campus.

It was meant to be you.

The words echo in your mind, a sinister promise that leaves no room for doubt.

—

“This is different from the previous victims,” Spencer says, “The note changes everything. If we assume the unsub has been fixated on someone specific all along, the other victims could have been surrogates—stand-ins for the real target.”

Prentiss looks at him sharply. “You think the unsub is escalating because the real target is now within reach?”

He nods. “Exactly. The murders were practice, perfecting the method. But now that the target is accessible, he’s shifting focus.”

“Great,” Morgan mutters. “Wonderful.”

JJ gestures to the note. “We need to figure out who he’s targeting—and fast.”

You stand by the door, your stomach twisting. You can’t let them figure it out, not like this.

“I’ll follow up on the note,” you say, forcing a calm you don’t feel. “Maybe there’s something about the phrasing or handwriting we can use to narrow down suspects.”

Morgan eyes you, his brow furrowed. “You sure you’re good? You’ve been quiet since we got here.”

You nod quickly, brushing off his concern. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it go.

—

You barricade yourself in the staff room, spreading out the case files across the table. You stare at the note, the handwriting glaring up at you like a brand.

“It was meant to be you.”

You were just a kid, desperate to prove yourself. He saw that. He used it.

You grip the edge of the table, your knuckles white. You can’t let him win. Not again.

A knock at the door pulls you out of your thoughts. It’s Spencer, holding a cup of coffee.

“Thought you could use this,” he says, setting it down in front of you.

“Thank you.” You manage a display of gratitude, but his gaze lingers, sharp and questioning.

“You’ve been off since we got here,” he says softly. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”

Your heart skips a beat. Reid is too perceptive for his own good, and you know he won’t let this go.

“I’m fine,” you lie. “Just tired.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he nods, stepping back. “If you need to talk, I’m here.”

As he leaves, you let out a shaky breath. The walls are closing in, and you don’t know how much longer you can keep this to yourself. Not if you don’t want anyone else to die because of it.

—

Spencer stands near the board, absentmindedly tapping his pen against his palm. Morgan is leaning against a table, arms crossed, while Prentiss and JJ exchange quiet remarks by the coffee pot. Rossi, as always, is seated with his chair tipped back, his eyes fixed on the board.

But it’s Hotch who breaks the silence. “This unsub’s timeline is escalating, and the note makes it clear they’re getting bolder. If we don’t figure out their connection to Stanford soon, someone else is going to die.”

Morgan sighs. “We’ve gone through the victim profiles a dozen times. There’s no overlap other than the school. No shared clubs, professors, dorms, nothing. It’s like this guy’s picking them at random.”

“Not random,” Spencer interjects, his voice sharp. “The victims are stand-ins for someone else. I’m sure of it. The note confirmed it—‘It was meant to be you.’ The unsub isn’t just killing; they’re trying to send a message to someone.”

Rossi tilts his head. “None of them bear any significant physical relation to each other,”

Reid nods. “It doesn’t have to be physical. It’s an ideal, there’s something specific that ties all of the victims together, something linked to whoever the unsub is actually after,”

JJ frowns. “But who is it? If it’s not one of the victims, how do we figure out who the unsub is fixated on?”

You tense in your chair, your hands curling into fists under the table. You can feel their eyes shifting to you, their collective attention like a spotlight burning against your skin.

Morgan raises an eyebrow. “You did go here. Maybe there’s something you’d recognise—something we’ve missed.”

You meet their gazes with forced calm, willing your voice to remain steady. “Just because I went to Stanford doesn’t mean this case has anything to do with me.”

Prentiss leans forward slightly, her tone gentle but insistent. “No one’s saying it does, but if there’s even a chance—”

“There’s not.” you cut her off, sharper than you intended. The words hang in the air, and you immediately regret your tone. It doesn’t change anything though. “We’re here because of the victims, not because I graduated from here a decade ago.”

The room falls quiet, and the tension thickens. Hotch watches you carefully, his unreadable gaze a weight you can’t escape.

“I need some air,” you say abruptly, standing before anyone can argue. “I’ll be back in a few.”

You leave the room before anyone can stop you, the sound of your boots echoing down the sterile hall.

—

Stanford’s campus feels both foreign and familiar as you wander its paths. The sprawling quads and ivy-covered buildings haven’t changed much in the years since you left, but the memories they stir feel sharp and raw.

You stop at a bench near the Psychology department, the cool breeze doing little to calm the storm inside you. Your arms wrap around yourself as if trying to hold yourself together.

“You’re not fine.”

The voice startles you, but you don’t turn around. You’d recognise that soft, observant tone anywhere. Spencer.

He sits beside you, leaving a respectful distance between you, his lanky frame folding awkwardly on the bench. “You’ve been different since we got here,” he says after a moment. “Quiet. Hesitant. That’s not like you,”

You don’t respond, staring out at the students passing by, their laughter and chatter a stark contrast to the weight in your chest.

“I know it’s not just the case,” he continues, his voice gentle but unyielding. “There’s something else. Something you’re not telling us.”

Your jaw tightens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do,”

His certainty grates on your already frayed nerves, and you finally turn to him, your eyes flashing. “What are you trying to say, Reid? Spit it out.”

He hesitates, his brow furrowing as he chooses his words carefully. “I think you know who the unsub is. Or at least… you suspect,”

You laugh, the sound bitter and sharp. “That’s a hell of an accusation.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he says quickly. “I’m worried about you. You’re not acting like yourself, and the way you reacted to that note…” He trails off, shaking his head. “It was different. You looked like you’d seen a ghost,”

“Maybe I’m just tired,” you snap, the defensive edge in your voice sharper than you intend.

He doesn’t flinch, his gaze steady and unwavering. “It’s more than that. I can see it. You’re scared,”

The word hits you like a slap, and for a moment, you can’t breathe. He’s right, of course. You are scared. Terrified, even. But admitting that feels like surrendering, like letting him win.

“Stop it,” you say, your voice low and dangerous. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Spencer leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he studies you. “I think I do. I think this unsub has a connection to you. And I think that’s why you’ve been avoiding us—because you don’t want us to figure it out.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, and you glare at him, your composure threatening to crack. “You don’t know what he did to me.”

The words slip out before you can stop them, and the moment they do, you see the understanding dawn in his eyes. “Who?” Spencer presses gently. “Who are we talking about?”

Your chest heaves as you fight back the tears threatening to spill. “One of my Professors.”

“Did he…” Spencer hesitates in pressing the subject, a mix of his usual timidness when it comes to you and the fear that he’s broaching on a very concerning topic.

“It was consensual.”

Spencer watches you closely, his eyes searching your face for a sign, some clue, as if trying to understand the puzzle that is your inner workings.

He doesn’t push, but the silence between you both is suffocating. His voice is almost a whisper when he speaks again, but it still cuts through the heavy air between you.

"You were just a kid," Spencer murmurs, his words soft but no less sharp. "He took advantage of you when you were vulnerable, when you were still figuring things out. That’s manipulation."

You flinch at the truth of it, at the way he so easily sees the pieces of your life you've tried so hard to bury. You didn’t want to think about him anymore, didn’t want to remember how he twisted every gesture, every word, until it was all about him, all about what he wanted.

You can still feel the weight of his hands, the way he made you feel like you didn’t have a choice, that this was all part of the price you had to pay to succeed, to be seen as worthy of your place in academia.

Spencer shifts slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “He used his power over you. You were just a kid, and he was a professor. Someone you trusted.” His words are steady, but they cut deep. "You were in a position where you thought you had to do what he wanted. But it wasn’t your fault,”

“It was consensual.” you say again, more firmly this time, though it feels like you’re trying to convince yourself rather than him, the words raw and drenched in a cold calmness you didn’t really feel.

“Was it?” Spencer asks gently, his voice low. “If you were 19 and you thought you had to do it to get ahead, was it really? Was it truly your choice?”

You feel the air leave your lungs, and you want to scream at him, to deny everything, to make him stop asking these questions, because the answers are too painful, too complicated.

But he’s right. You were a child—so young, so desperate to succeed, to make a name for yourself in a field dominated by people like him. You thought you were lucky when he took you under his wing, when he offered you guidance, extra attention, time. But you weren’t.

“I had an abortion,” you finally confess, the words coming out in a broken whisper.

Spencer’s eyes widen, and for a moment, he’s silent, processing your admission. His lips part as though he wants to say something, but nothing comes. He doesn’t push, though, just watches you, his expression a mix of sympathy and concern, but there's no judgment in it. Not like you expected.

“In my shitty college dorm room,” Your voice catches, and you blink rapidly, trying to stop the sting in your eyes. “I thought I was dying. The amount of blood—” You let out a shaky breath, your hands trembling in your lap. “I didn't know how to make it stop.Sometimes I wish it didn’t.”

“Don’t say that.”

Spencer leans in a little, his gaze intense, but gentle. “You were just a kid,” he says softly, his words like a balm, soothing yet cutting through the guilt. “He took advantage of you. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t deserve that.”

You want to believe him. You want so badly to hear those words and let them erase the shame that has clung to you for so long. But the voices of doubt are louder in your head. The fear that somehow, deep down, it was your fault. That maybe you could’ve said no, maybe you could’ve gotten away before it went too far.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” you say, your voice low, almost ashamed of the vulnerability. “I couldn’t tell my parents or my friends… or anyone. It was like everything I worked for, everything I had, was tied to him. If I said something, everything would’ve been ruined.”

Spencer’s brows furrow, and he lets out a soft exhale. “No one should ever have to carry that weight alone, especially not at your age.” His voice is steady, but there’s something deeply empathetic in his tone. “It’s not a burden you should’ve had to bear by yourself.”

“I lied to him too,” you whisper, the confession hanging heavily in the air. “I told him I miscarried. He was devastated. He wasn’t even angry—just sad. But I didn’t. I didn’t feel anything.”

“You…” Spencer starts, hesitating to make sure he words his response correctly. “Being in a state of shock is normal after a traumatic event,”

You shake your head. “I know what shock feels like. I was just numb. I murdered my own child and I didn’t even feel guilty about it.”

Spencer’s jaw tightens slightly, a flicker of anger flashing in his eyes, but it’s not directed at you. It’s directed at him, at the man who should’ve protected you, not preyed on you. His voice is tight, but he keeps it calm.

“You did what you had to do. That’s not your fault.”

“It was alive. Seventeen weeks. I flushed it down the fucking toilet,” You drag your palm down your face, leaning forward until your elbows are resting on your knees.

“I didn’t even want to graduate after that,” you admit, your voice raw. “I couldn’t face him. I just wanted to disappear, but I was not going to put myself through hell without getting something out of it.”

Spencer is quiet for a long moment, taking in everything you’ve said. His gaze never wavers from yours, like he’s trying to understand every piece of you, trying to reach that place where you’re still hiding, still locked away from the rest of the world.

“You don’t owe anyone an explanation for what happened. You did what you needed to survive. And you are surviving. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

You close your eyes, letting the weight of his words settle over you. The storm inside you hasn’t calmed, but for the first time in a long while, it feels like it’s not threatening to swallow you whole. The walls you’ve built around yourself feel just a little more porous, itching to crumble.

“I’m scared,” you say, the vulnerability you’ve been holding back creeping into your voice. “He’s murdering people because of me.”

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. He sits up straighter, his expression serious. “We’ll figure this out. We’ll help you, and we’ll make sure that he doesn’t hurt anyone else.”

“You can’t tell anyone what I just told you.”

He lets out a sigh of your name.

“Promise me, Spencer.”

“Okay,” He nods solemnly. “I promise.”

—

The moment you walk through the doors of the empty lecture hall, you feel it—that same nauseating mix of dread and anticipation curling in your stomach. The air is stale, thick with the weight of memories you spent years trying to forget.

He’s already there, standing at the podium like he belongs there, like nothing has changed. Like he hasn’t left a trail of bodies behind him.

“Ah,” Professor Wittchen exhales as if relieved. “There you are,”

Your fingers twitch at your sides. “I should’ve known you’d pick this place.”

His lips curve into a small smile, a smile that used to make you feel seen. Now, it makes your skin crawl. “It’s fitting, don’t you think? This is where it all began,”

He watches you with the same unwavering gaze he always had, the one that used to make you feel special—chosen. Now, it just feels predatory.

“I missed you,” he says simply, stepping closer.

You don’t move.

“You should’ve visited,” he continues, his voice warm, inviting, like this is a casual conversation and not a confrontation between a killer and his last loose end. ���You were my brightest student,”

“I was your victim.” you correct, voice sharp.

His expression doesn’t falter. If anything, he looks pleased. “Victim?” he echoes, like he’s rolling the word around in his mouth, testing its weight. “That’s not how I remember it.”

You swallow hard, jaw clenched. You knew this was how he would react. Knew he would twist things, make them blurry, like he always had.

He tilts his head, studying you. “I heard you became a profiler. That’s impressive. Though I always thought you were more inclined to be a Psychiatrist.”

“You shouldn't be surprised,” you say flatly. “I learned from the best manipulators.”

A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “Now, that’s not fair,”

Your nails dig into your palms. “I know it’s you,” you say, cutting through the act. “You murdered four innocent women because you couldn’t move on.”

He exhales, almost disappointed. “That’s not quite right.”

You don’t let him continue. “Why are you doing this? Why now?”

His gaze darkens, and for the first time since you stepped into this room, the warmth fades from his expression. “It’s been ten years since you left me,” he says simply. “You never even had the decency to say goodbye. I tried to find a substitute, but they weren’t like you. No body is. You’re special.”

A shiver runs down your spine, but you force yourself to hold his stare. “I didn’t owe you anything.”

Wittchen exhales through his nose, shaking his head like you’ve disappointed him. “That’s not true. I shaped you. I made you.”

A bitter laugh escapes you. “You ruined my life.”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable, and then—slowly—he steps down from the podium, closing the distance between you. “You don’t believe that.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t move.

He stops inches from you, his voice dropping to a murmur. “I see it in your eyes. You still need me.”

You know what he’s doing. You know how his mind works, how he bends reality to his will, how he rewrites history to suit his narrative.

And for the first time, you don’t fall for it.

“You’re pathetic,” you whisper. “You think killing people will make me what? Love you? Miss you?” You shake your head. “You mean nothing to me.”

Something in his expression shifts. It’s subtle, but you catch it. The crack in his mask. The first glimpse of the monster beneath.

His fingers twitch at his sides.

There it is. The control slipping.

Good.

You see the flash of something dark behind his eyes—anger, frustration, maybe even desperation. He knows he’s losing control, and for a man like him, that’s unbearable.

You take a step forward. Not away, but closer.

“I hate you.” you say, your voice sharp, cutting through the heavy silence of the room.

Wittchen’s lips barely twitch, but you see the flicker of amusement in his eyes, like he thinks you’re still playing a game with him. Like this is another debate, another test of wills.

“No, you don’t,” he murmurs. “Not really.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Don’t tell me how I feel.”

He sighs, tilting his head like you’re disappointing him. “I did anything you didn’t ask for,” he says, like it’s a fact. “You wanted me.”

Rage burns through you, hot and all-consuming. “I was nineteen,” you spit. You knew exactly what you were doing. You took advantage of me.”

Wittchen exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “It wasn’t like that,”

“It was exactly like that,” you snap, stepping closer. “And do you want to know the worst part? I spent years telling myself it wasn’t. That maybe I did love you, that maybe I wanted to be with you. But I didn’t.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t deny it.

“I don’t regret leaving you,” you continue, voice trembling with fury. “I don’t regret moving on, or never looking back. But do you know what I do regret?”

He doesn’t answer, just watches you carefully, like he’s waiting for the killing blow.

“I regret ever letting you touch me. I regret every second I spent thinking you were something special, that you cared about me. You didn’t. You only cared about what I could give you.”

Something shifts in his expression—subtle, but enough. His fingers twitch again.

You steel yourself and drive the dagger deeper.

“You think I miscarried?” you ask, voice dropping to a whisper. “That’s what I told you, right? That I lost the baby?”

His face remains eerily blank.

“I lied,” you whisper. “I had an abortion.”

His entire body stiffens.

“Because the thought of being tied to you for the rest of my life made me sick. And I would’ve rather died from sepsis than deal with you.”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

For a moment, Wittchen doesn’t react. Doesn’t breathe.

Then, without warning, he moves.

His hand goes for his waistband, and in a split second, you see the glint of a gun.

But you’re faster.

Your own weapon is already in your hands before he can fully draw his, aimed directly at his chest.

“Don’t.” you warn, your voice steel.

Wittchen hesitates, his gun halfway raised, his eyes locked onto yours.

For the first time, there’s something close to uncertainty in his expression.

—

The team is listening.

They hear every word.

Spencer’s grip on his gun is tight, knuckles white, jaw clenched so hard it aches. The rest of the team stands tense beside him, ears trained on the conversation happening just beyond the door.

They could go in. They should go in.

But they don’t.

Not yet.

Because this isn’t their battle.

Still, when they hear the shift in the conversation, the moment Wittchen reaches for his gun, every muscle in Spencer’s body tenses, ready to move.

And then—

Silence.

A long, stretching silence.

Then a single gunshot.

—

“You’re lying,” Wittchen snaps, his voice rising as his fingers curl tighter around the revolver’s grip. He pulls back the hammer with a metallic click, the sound loud in the charged silence of the lecture hall.

His arm is steady, the barrel aimed at your chest, but you don't flinch. “You miscarried. You were sick. That’s the truth. I took care of you. I was there when you needed me.”

Your lips curl into a bitter smile.

“The baby was fine,” you say, voice cold and firm. “I just didn’t want it.”

The words hang between you, heavy and raw.

For a split second, something akin to disbelief flickers in his eyes. But he recovers quickly, his jaw tightening as his grip on the gun tightens. The cold, calculating look is back.

The man who used his power over you is right here, still trying to control the situation. But he’s unraveling, and you can see it now—the cracks in his façade.

“You think you can just walk away from all this?” Wittchen growls, his voice a low threat. His eyes dart between you and the gun in your hand, calculating the distance, the time it would take to react.

“You’re going to watch me.” you reply, your voice steady despite the chaos swirling inside you. You take a step forward, gun lowered in favour of a pair of handcuffs.

He lets out a sharp breath, taking a step backwards, his arm still outstretched, but his expression is one of rage and something else—desperation.

“I gave you everything,” Wittchen sneers. “I could’ve given you more. You were a star, you were going places. But you threw it all away.”

“I didn’t throw away anything.” you say, voice sharp, anger curling in your gut. “I made my life what I wanted it to be.”

You take another step toward him. Your hand grips your gun tighter, its cold weight a reminder of how far you’ve come, how much you’ve survived.

“I was a kid,” you say, quieter now, more dangerous. “A kid who wanted to make something of herself. But you? You made sure I’d always be tied to you, that I’d never escape your reach. You took that from me. And now?”

Now, you’re not just angry. Now, you’re done.

“I don’t need you anymore,” you continue, voice quiet but lethal. “And I don’t need to live in fear of you. Not anymore. Just give up.”

Wittchen’s face hardens. His finger moves closer to the trigger, and for a moment, it feels like time stands still. His eyes are cold, calculating—he’s trying to force you to back down, to make you fear him again. But you don’t. Not anymore.

And he knows it.

The silence stretches out, suffocating. And then, without another word, he turns the gun away from you and towards himself.

For a moment, the world is frozen.

The sharp scent of gunpowder lingers in the air.

You don’t flinch.

You don’t move.

Wittchen stares at you, almost smiling.

A slow, dark red stain spreads across his chest. His gun falls from his hand, clattering uselessly to the floor.

Then, his knees buckle.

He collapses.

The impact is dull, almost anticlimactic.

His breath comes in shallow gasps, and for the first time since you walked into this room, he looks small.

Weak.

The man who once held so much power over you is nothing more than a dying, pathetic heap on the floor.

And somehow, there’s no satisfaction in it.

You watch as the light fades from his eyes, as the last breath leaves his lips.

And then—

It’s over.

—

The gunshot sends the team into action.

Spencer is the first through the door, gun raised, eyes scanning the room for threats.

But all he finds is you—standing still, gun loose in one hand, handcuffs in the other, staring blankly ahead.

Wittchen is on the floor, unmoving. Blood pools around him.

For a second, no one speaks.

Then you move.

Without looking at any of them, you turn away from the corpse.

And then, numbly, silently, you walk past them.

You don’t stop when Spencer calls your name.

You don’t stop when JJ reaches for you.

You just keep walking.

Because it’s finally over.

And yet, somehow, it doesn’t feel like a victory at all.

—

The air outside the lecture hall is thick with tension.

Your gun feels heavy in your hands, and at some point, you register someone gently taking it from you. You don’t resist.

The hallways of Stanford feel different now. The ghosts you tried so hard to forget have been exorcised, but their shadows still linger.

You reach the nearest exit and step outside, inhaling sharply as the crisp night air hits you. You brace your hands on your knees, grounding yourself.

Then you hear footsteps behind you.

You know it’s them.

You straighten, forcing yourself to meet their gazes.

Hotch stands with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his presence steady. JJ and Emily exchange a look, worry etched into their features. Rossi, as always, watches with quiet understanding.

Then there’s Morgan.

He looks… shaken.

Guilt lingers in his eyes, and when he steps forward, his voice is lower, softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You blink, caught off guard.

“For what?” Your voice is hoarse, raw.

Morgan exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw with his eyes full of regret. “I didn’t know.”

You swallow hard. You don’t want to talk about it. But there’s something in his voice, in the way his usually confident demeanor falters, that makes you nod stiffly.

“I know.”

It’s the closest thing to forgiveness you can offer right now.

Morgan nods, accepting it.

Spencer is the last to approach.

He doesn’t say anything at first—just stands there, his hands shoved into his pockets. His eyes, though, say everything.

You hold his gaze for a moment before sighing. “What?”

“I don’t know what to say,” he admits. His voice is careful, but there’s an edge of something else—frustration, sadness, maybe even anger. Not at you. Never at you. But at what happened. At what Wittchen took from you.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you murmur.

—

The hum of the jet is steady and low, a constant presence that fills the silence between breaths.

You sit by the window, staring out at the clouds, your reflection barely visible against the dark glass.

You should be exhausted.

You are exhausted.

But sleep won’t come.

Your mind won’t let it.

The seat next to you shifts slightly, and you glance over to see Spencer settling beside you.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t ask if you’re okay, because he already knows you’re not.

Doesn’t try to fill the silence with empty reassurances.

He just sits.

And somehow, that’s reassurance enough.

Sleep comes a little easier after that.

[damienkarras73]

An essay on Furiosa, the politics of the Wasteland, Arthurian literature and realistic vs. formalistic CGI

Mad Max: Fury Road absolutely enraptured me when it came out nearly a decade ago, and I will cop to seeing it four times at the theatre. For me (and many others who saw the light of George Miller) it set new standards for action filmmaking, storytelling and worldbuilding, and I could pop in its Blu Ray at any time and never get tired of it. Perhaps not surprisingly, I was deeply apprehensive about the announced prequel for Fury Road's actual main character, Furiosa, even if Miller was still writing and directing. We didn't need backstory for Furiosa—hell, Fury Road is told in such a way that NOTHING in it requires explicit backstory. And since it focuses on the Yung Furiosa, it meant Charlize Theron couldn't return with another career-defining performance. Plus, look at all that CGI in the trailer, it can't be as good as Fury Road.

Turns out I was silly to doubt George Miller, M.D., A.O., writer and director of Babe: Pig in the City and Happy Feet One & Two.

Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga is excellent, and I needn't have worried about it not being as good as Fury Road because it is not remotely trying to be Fury Road. Fury Road is a lean, mean machine with no fat on it, nothing extraneous, operating with constant forward momentum and only occasionally letting up to let you breathe a little; Furiosa is a classical epic, sprawling in scope, scale and structure, and more than happy to let the audience simmer in a quiet, almost painfully still moment. If its opening spoken word sequence by that Gandalf of the Wastes himself, the First History Man, didn't already clue you in, it unfolds like something out of myth, a tale told over and over again and whose possible embellishments are called attention to in the dialogue itself. Where Fury Road scratched the action nerd itch in my head like you wouldn't believe, Furiosa was the equivalent of Miller giving the undulating folds of my English major brain a deep tissue massage. That's great! I, for one, love when sequels/prequels endeavour to be fundamentally different movies from what they're succeeding/preceding, operating in different modes, formats and even genres, and more filmmakers should aim for it when building on an existing series.

This movie has been on my mind so much in the past week that I've ended up dedicating several cognitive processes to keeping track of all of the different ponderings it's spawned. Thankfully, Furiosa is divided into chapters (fun fact: putting chapter cards in your movie is a quick way to my heart), so it only seems fitting that I break up all of these cascading thoughts accordingly.

1. The Pole of Inaccessibility

Furiosa herself actually isn't the protagonist for the first chapter of her own movie, instead occupying the role of a (very crafty and resourceful) damsel in distress for those initial 30-40 minutes. The real hero of the opening act, which plays out like a game of cat and mouse, is Furiosa's mother Mary Jabassa, who rides out into the wasteland first on horseback and then astride a motorcycle to track down the band of raiders that has stolen away her daughter. Mary's brought to life by Miller and Nico Lathouris' economical writing and a magnetic performance by newcomer Charlee Fraser, who radiates so much screen presence in such relatively little time and with one of those instant "who is SHE??" faces. She doesn't have many lines, but who needs them when Fraser can convey volumes about Mary with just a flash of her eyes or the effortless way she swaps out one of her motorcycle's wheels for another. To be quite candid, I'm not sure of the last time I fell in love with a character so quickly.

You notice a neat aesthetic contrast between mother and daughter in retrospect: Mary Jabassa darts into the desert barefoot, clad in a simple yet elegant dress, her wolf cut immaculate, only briefly disguising herself with the ugly armour of a raider she just sniped, and when she attacks it's almost with grace, like some Greek goddess set loose in the post-apocalyptic Aussie outback with just her wits and a bolt-action rifle; we track Furiosa's growth over the years by how much of her initially conventional beauty she has shed, quite literally in one case (hair buzzed, severed arm augmented with a chunky mechanical prosthesis, smeared in grease and dirt from head to toe, growling her lines at a lower octave), and by how she loses her mother's graceful approach to movement and violence, eventually carrying herself like a blunt instrument. Yet I have zero doubt the former raised the latter, both angels of different feathers but with the same steel and resolve. Of fucking course this woman is Furiosa's mother, and in the short time we know her we quickly understand exactly why Furiosa has the drive and morals she does without needing to resort to didactic exposition.

Anyway, I was tearing up by the end of the first chapter. Great start!

2. Lessons from the Wasteland

Most movies—most stories, really—don't actually tell the entire narrative from A to Z. Perhaps the real meat of the thing is found from H to T, and A-G or U-Z are unnecessary for conveying the key narrative and themes. So many prequels fail by insisting on telling the A-G part of the story, explaining how the hero earned a certain nickname or met their memorable sidekick—but if that stuff was actually interesting, they likely would have included it in the original work. The greatest thing a prequel can actually do is recontextualize, putting iconic characters or moments in a new light, allowing you to appreciate them from a different angle. All of season 2 of Fargo serves to explain why Molly Solverson's dad is appropriately wary when Lorne Malvo enters his diner for a SINGLE SCENE in the show's first season. David's arc from the Alien prequels Prometheus and Covenant—polarizing as those entries are—adds another layer to why Ash is so protective of the creature in the first movie. Andor gives you a sense of what it's like for a normal, non-Jedi person to live under the boot of the Empire and why so many of them would join up with the Rebel Alliance—or why they would desire to wear that boot, or even just crave the chance to lick it.

Furiosa is one of those rare great prequels because it makes us take a step back and consider the established world with a little more nuance, even if it's still all so absurd. In Fury Road, Immortan Joe is an awesome, endlessly quotable villain, completely irredeemable, and basically a cartoon. He works perfectly as the antagonist of that breakneck, Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote-ass movie, but if you step outside of its adrenaline-pumping narrative for even a moment you risk questioning why nobody in the Citadel or its surrounding settlements has risen up against him before. Hell, why would Furiosa even work for him to begin with? But then you see Dementus and company tear-assing around the wasteland, seizing settlements and running them into the ground, and you realize Joe and his consortium offer something that Dementus reasonably can't: stability—granted, an unwavering, unchangeable stability weighted in favour of Joe's own brutal caste system, but stability nonetheless. It really makes you wonder, how badly does a guy have to suck to make IMMORTAN JOE of all people look like a sane, competent and reasonable ruler by comparison?!?

…and then they open the door to the vault where he keeps his wives, and in a flash you're reminded just how awful Joe is and why Furiosa will risk her life to help some of these women flee from him years later. This new context enriches Joe and makes it more believable that he could maintain power for so long, but it doesn't make him any less of a monster, and it says a lot about Furiosa's hate for Dementus that she could grit her teeth and work for this sick old tyrant.

3. The Stowaway

Here's another wild bit of trivia about this movie: you don't actually see top-billed actress Anya Taylor-Joy pop up on screen until roughly halfway through, once Furiosa is in her late teens/early twenties. Up until this point she's been played by Alyla Browne, who through the use of some seamless and honestly really impressive CGI has been given Anya's distinctive bug eyes [complimentary]. It's one of those bold choices that really works because Miller commits to it so hard, though it does make me wish Browne's name was up on the poster next to Taylor-Joy's.

Speaking of CGI, I should talk about what seems to be a sticking point for quite a few people: if there's been one consistent criticism of Furiosa so far, it's that it doesn't look nearly as practical or grounded as Fury Road, with more obvious greenscreen and compositing, and what previously would've been physical stunt performers and pyrotechnics have been replaced with their digital equivalents for many shots. Simply put, it doesn't look as real! For a lot of people, that practicality was one of Fury Road's primary draws, so I won't try to quibble if they're let down by Furiosa's overt artificiality, but to be honest I'm actually quite fine with it. It helps that this visual discrepancy doesn't sneak up on you but is incredibly apparent right from the aerial zoom-down into Australia in the very first scene, so I didn't feel misled or duped.

Fury Road never asks you to suspend your disbelief because it all looks so believable; Furiosa jovially prods you to suspend that disbelief from the get-go and tune into it on a different wavelength. It's a classical epic, and like the classical epics of the 1950s and 60s it has a lot of actors standing in front of what clearly are matte paintings. It feels right! We're not watching fact, we're watching myth. I'm willing to concede there might be a little bit of post-hoc rationalization on my part because I simply love this movie so much, but I'm not holding the effects in Furiosa to the same standard as those in Fury Road because I simply don't believe Miller and his crew are attempting to replicate that approach. Without the extensive CGI, we don't get that impressive long, panning take where a stranded Furiosa scans the empty, dust-and-sun-scoured wasteland (75% Sergio Leone, 25% Andrei Tarkovsky), or the Octoboss and his parasailing goons. For the sake of intellectual exercise I did try imagining them filming the Octoboss/war rig sequence with the same immersive practical approach they used for Fury Road's stunts, however I just kept picturing dead stunt performers, so perhaps the tradeoff was worth it!

4. Homeward

Around the same time we meet the Taylor-Joy-pilled Furiosa in Chapter 3, we're introduced to Praetorian Jack, the chief driver for the convoys running between the Citadel and its allied settlements. Jack's played by Tom Burke, who pulled off a very good Orson Welles in Mank! and who I should really check out in The Souvenir one of these days. He's also a cool dude! Here are some facts about Praetorian Jack:

He's decked out in road leathers with a pauldron stitched to one shoulder

He's stoic and wary, but still more or less personable and can carry on a conversation

Professes to a certain cynicism, to quote Special Agent Albert Rosenfield, but ultimately has a capacity for kindness and will do the right thing

Shoots a gun real good

Can drive like nobody's business

So in other words, Jack is Mad Max. But also, no, he clearly isn't! He looks and dresses like Mad Max (particularly Mel Gibson's) and does a lot of the same things "Mad" Max Rockatansky does, but he's also very explicitly a distinct character. It's a choice that seems inexplicable and perhaps even lazy on its face, except this is a George Miller movie, so of course this parallel is extremely purposeful. Miller has gone on record saying he avoids any kind of strict chronology or continuity for his Mad Max movies, compared to the rigid canons for Star Trek and Star Wars, and bless him for doing so. It's more fun viewing each Mad Max entry as a new revision or elaboration on a story being told again and again generations after the fall, mutating in style, structure and focus with every iteration, becoming less grounded as its core narrative is passed from elder to youth, community to community, genre to genre, until it becomes myth. (At least, my English major brain thinks it's more fun.) In fact there's actually something Arthurian to it, where at first King Arthur was mentioned in several Welsh legends before Geoffrey of Monmouth crafted an actual narrative around him, then Chrétien de Troyes added elements like Lancelot and infused the stories with more romance, and then with Le Morte d'Arthur Thomas Malory whipped the whole cycle together into one volume, which T.H. White would chop and screw and deconstruct with The Once and Future King centuries later.

All this to say: maybe Praetorian Jack looks and sounds and acts like Max because he sorta kinda basically is, being just one of many men driving back and forth across the wasteland, lending a hand on occasion, who'll be conflated into a single, legendary "Mad Max" at some point down the line in a different History Man's retelling of Furiosa's odyssey. Sometimes that Max rips across the desert in his V8 Interceptor, other times driving a big rig. Perhaps there's a dog tagging along and/or a scraggly and at first aggravating ally played by Bruce Spence or Nicholas Hoult. Usually he has a shotgun. But so long as you aren't trying to kill him, he'll help you out.

5. Beyond Vengeance

The Mad Max movies have incredibly iconic villains—Immortan Joe! Toecutter! the Lord Humongous!—but they are exactly that, capital V Villains devoid of humanizing qualities who you can't wait to watch bad things happen to. Furiosa appears to continue this trend by giving us a villain who in fact has a mustache long enough that he could reasonably twirl it if he so wanted, but ironically Dementus ends up being the most layered antagonist in the entire series, even moreso than the late Tina Turner's comparatively benevolent Aunty Entity from Beyond Thunderdome. And because he's played by Chris Hemsworth, whose comedic delivery rivals his stupidly handsome looks, you lock in every time he's on screen.

Something so fascinating about Dementus is that, for a main antagonist, he's NOT all-powerful, and in fact quite the opposite: he's more conman than warlord, looking for the next hustle, the next gullible crowd he can preach to and dupe—though never for long. For all his bluster, at every turn he finds himself in way over his head and writing cheques he can't cash, and this self-induced Sisyphean torment makes him riveting to watch. You're tempted to pity Dementus but it's also quite difficult to spare sympathy for someone who's so quick to channel their rage and hurt and ego into thoughtless, burn-it-all-down destruction. When you're not laughing at him, you're hating his guts, and it's indisputably the best work of Chris Hemsworth's career.

It's in this final chapter that everything naturally comes to a head: Furiosa's final evolution into the character we meet at the start of Fury Road, the predictable toppling of Dementus' precariously built house of cards, and the mythmaking that has been teased since the very first scene becoming diagetic text, the last of which allows the movie to thoroughly explore the themes of vengeance it's been building to. A brief war begins, is summarized and is over in the span of roughly a minute, and on its face it's a baffling narrative choice that most other filmmakers would have botched. But our man Miller's smart enough to recognize that the result of this war is the most foregone of conclusions if you've been paying even the slightest bit of attention, so he effectively brushes past it to get to the emotional heart of the climax and an incredible "Oh shit!" payoff that cements Miller as one of mainstream cinema's greatest sickos.

Fury Road remains the greatest Mad Max film, but Furiosa might be the best thing George Miller has ever made. If not his magnum opus, it does at least feel like his dissertation, and it makes me wish Warner Bros. puts enough trust in him despite Furiosa's poor box office performance that he's able to make The Wasteland. Absolutely ridiculous that a man just short of his 80th birthday was able to pull this off, and with it I feel confident calling him one of my favourite directors.

[whatswrongwithblue]

The Fire in the Sin

Chapter 16 - Possessed

Word count: 7,613. Read on AO3. Series Masterlist. <- Previous Chapter.

Summary: The consequences of Alastor being bested are felt by more than just himself. Trigger Warnings: Canon typical violence, possession, mentions of masturbation, alcohol and tobacco use, and self-harm/self-mutilation.

Series Summary:

In the 1950's, Alastor met the woman he would eventually marry but unfortunately his Radio Demon persona went for her soul rather than her hand. He has to learn what it means to love, and cherish, without possessing and he does. Their relationship is beautiful, strong, unbreakable . . . but he carries a dark secret through their marriage for decades until eventually he has to face the consequences of that secret and leave her, without warning, for seven years. He returns, finding her at the Hazbin Hotel, and has to convince her to forgive him, while being literally bound to secrecy, unable to tell her any of things he now is desperate to explain to her.

(This is a duel timeline fic, timestamps will be a the top of every chapter.)

Chapter 16 - Possessed

1984

It only took Rosie’s people a couple hours to gather up their resources and investigate just what had happened to Mina and who was involved. They reported their findings to her and Rosie used the information to quickly come up with a plan; one that would be very fortuitous for herself.

That is how, come midafternoon that very same day, Rosie walked through the same door Mina had that morning and heard the same bell chime its welcome to her.

“Good afternoon,” she said to the same two assistants that were still manning the register.

Another shopper had peaked around one of the stacks, spotted Rosie, and scurried past her and out the front door.

“And where would the owner of this fine establishment be?”

The boy was staring at her open mouthed, but the girl seemed to have a little bit more wits about her, so she wordlessly leaned forward and banged on the little bell in front of her.

“What is it?!” Theodore shouted from somewhere in the back.

Without taking her eyes off Rosie, the girl hit the bell again.

“Oh for fucks sake, if those two have run off again-“ Theodore stopped his rant as he walked up front, freezing in place when he saw Rosie.

“Children,” Rosie said, turning to the desk attendants. “Theodore will no longer be needing your assistance. See yourselves out.”

“Hey, now wait a minute, I own their souls. You can’t just-“

“Oh, and a word of advice, my dears,” Rosie said, ignoring his protests. “Once you get out those front doors . . .” She flashed them her toothiest smile. “Run.”

The assistants made haste and left the store, moving quicker than Theodore had ever seen them move before.

“I didn’t do anything,” he began once the door had swung shut.

Rosie laughed. “A liar and a coward. And Mina always spoke of you with such regard to your character.”

He swallowed nervously with an audible gulp.

Rosie made a show of looking around the place. She peaked through the curtain of the front window, inspecting the neighboring buildings, and then turned towards the small spiral staircase, looking up at the landing above that housed more books.

“You know, this neighborhood is really only a few minutes away from Cannibal Town. And I’ve been thinking for a while that I should expand my boarders. Getting a bit too dense in there, if you know what I mean. But I’m backed up against so many other sections of the city, there’s really nowhere to go. I’m a reasonable woman after all, and no one has given me a reason to take over what’s theirs. Until now, that is.”

“What-you can’t! It was just me! You can’t just take over several other businesses because of what I did to one girl!”

Rosie tsked at him, disapprovingly.

“They let those ghouls into their neighborhood. They watched as Mina was dragged from your shop. I can’t have simpletons like that so close to my boarders. But don’t worry about them. The other businesses around here will have a choice. Join me, and learn how a real Overlord runs things, or . . . be on the menu.”

Theodore began to back away, trying to put the front desk between himself and Rosie.

She just smiled at him, allowing him to make his small retreat.

“How did you find out?” he asked as he sidestepped behind the desk.

“I have my ways,” she answered with a delicate shrug.

“And just to be clear, you’re implying you won’t be giving me the same choice as you’ll give the others?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Like I said, lots of people in Cannibal Town these days. Gotta give them fresh meat sometimes.”

Behind her, the door opened again, and half a dozen cannibals filtered into the shop.

Theodore reached for the shelving hidden behind the desk and pulled out a gun. Rather than pull it on Rosie or the Cannibals, he lifted it to his own head and pulled the trigger with no hesitation.

The trigger clicked a tiny, useless sound and Theodore stared at the gun.

“Like I said,” Rosie smiled, “I have my ways. Did you think I was going to leave you with an easy way out? Let you respawn and hide somewhere else? The chase could be fun . . .”

Her cannibals were circling the desk, two on either open ends and two standing at the front, completely caging him in.

“But I’m a busy woman,” Rosie stated, “and I don’t have time for that kind of nonsense.”

The two Cannibals at the front of the desk leaped over the barrier as the four at each side closed the distance as well.

Outside the building, several demons passing by stopped as the screaming began and then quickly headed in the opposite direction when they saw the large mass of Cannibals walking down the middle of the street, breaking into smaller groups and entering several neighboring businesses at once.

_____

The rest of that first day was the hardest for Mina.

Once she came to, it became evident that while she was no longer in physical pain and had longer bouts of clarity than just the couple of seconds she had shown at Rosie’s, the mental attack she was fighting was far from over.

Alastor hadn’t chained her to the wall at first. He couldn’t bring himself to. She was still sound asleep and peaceful looking. He had only kept the shackles around her neck as a precaution against her morphing into her larger form, but he hadn’t really believed it would be an issue anymore.

He laid her down on the sofa in the main room of the radio tower, careful to move the links of the large chain so that they were more comfortable for her. More of her hair had fallen in her eyes so he brushed the strands away and pressed his lips to her forehead.

“I love you,” he whispered to her, and she made a soft, sweet whine in her sleep in response. His strained grin lifted at the corners just a bit, his hope growing that she would be okay now.

He dressed her using his magic, her usual orange sundress appearing first as a wrapping of shadows around her sleeping form, before solidifying as clothing, zipped up and fitting her body perfectly.

Alastor sat on the couch beside her, watching her sleep for several minutes. He was just barely keeping his rage at bay. So much of him wanted to go find Kassandra right then and there and rip her soul apart in the streets for everyone to see. But he made himself sit there, quietly, and keep guard over Mina until she was well again. He had been speaking the truth when he told Abaddon he knew Mina would want her revenge. As hard as it was for him to imagine his love being beaten, undressed, and her mind assaulted, it had to be all the more difficult for her. The best thing he could do for her was force himself to settle now so they could seek their vengeance together later.

It wasn’t long before she began to stir. First her eyes opened and blinked, then she sat up, feeling the shackle around her neck, and Alastor could see the moment when Mina recalled what had happened that day.

“It’s just a precaution,” he said, feeling ashamed he had left her in them. “I’ll remove them the second we’re sure your alright.”

Mina’s hands dropped from her neck to her lap. “You should have chained me to the wall.”

“I would never,” he insisted.

“Rosie’s going to kill me.”

“She will do no such thing, believe me.”

“If I were anyone else, she would have.”

“But you’re not anyone else. You're mine.”

Mina looked at him then, and Alastor tried to force his smile into something softer and more reassuring but as tears began to gather in her eyes, he felt his anger returning. She was not a woman who cried easily. It took a great amount of emotional distress to bring her to tears and watching her break like this was pulling at every last shred of Alastor’s sanity.

He was not a good or tender man. Alastor didn’t necessarily view himself as evil, he possessed some kind of moral compass, however broken and twisted it was. But he was well aware of the reasons as to why he was in Hell. And his first instincts when he saw the woman he loved hurt and crying, was not to comfort her, but to lash out at the thing that had done this to her. It was a great mental effort for him to remind himself that one had to come before the other, and he reached his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to his chest, letting her sob out her frustrations.

“I’m so sorry,” she cried into his jacket, “I’m so sorry. I tried. I tried. I tried to fight them off. I tried to get her out of my head. But she’s so strong Al’. I didn’t mean to do the things I did. I didn’t want to. The whole time, I was trying to stop, I really was-“

“Mina,” he said sternly, cutting her off. “None of this was your fault.”

“But I was weak. That’s what Kassandra wanted to show everyone. That you had given yourself to someone weak. And she’s right­­-“

“Stop it,” he said and grabbed her shoulders, pulling her away enough to make her look at him. “That’s just her in your head. You and I are going to kill them all for what they did to you, so that’s enough talk of weakness, my dear.”

Mina seemed to relax a little then. Her tears were still falling but she wasn’t sobbing in earnest anymore, and she sank back into him, seeking comfort in his embrace.

Alastor sighed and closed his eyes, resting his head on the back of the couch, trying to ignore the rush of hormones in his body as Mina’s figure pressed against his but his thoughts began to wander.

She was crying, and soft, and warm against his body, she needed him to show her that she was his, that she was safe in his possession, that no one but him would ever again be allowed to touch her like this.

He was snapped from his rut-induced train of thought when she suddenly tensed against him and shame coursed through him, thinking she had somehow caught on to the fantasy emerging in his mind.

But then Mina began to growl and her hands shot up, clutching the sides of her head. She screamed a guttural, desperate sound as she struggled against another mental onslaught.

Alastor sat up with her, taking hold of her forearms.

“Mina,” he said, unsure of what to do or say.

“I CAN’T GET HER OUT!” she screamed. Her face was turning red with effort, her cheeks wet with fresh tears, and Alastor saw a trickle of blood running down her wrist and realized too late she was clawing at herself.

He made the mistake of trying to force her hands away from her, just to keep her from hurting herself further, and she lashed out at him with another feral shriek, and bit into his shoulder.

Her teeth tore through jacket and shirt and sank into the meat of his shoulder and his survival instincts kicked in. Shadows forced themselves around her, pushing her off him and wrapping themselves around her, holding her down on the couch. His real shadow appeared on the wall, spreading itself up and out, hissing down at her as she continued to struggle and scream, once again completely out of her mind.

Alastor sucked in a breath of air and pressed his hand to his bleeding shoulder, looking at Mina with pity and concern. He had underestimated by a long shot just how much she would continue to struggle for command over her body and mind.

“I’m so sorry, Mina,” he said, though he was sure she couldn’t comprehend his words, and stood, grabbing the ends of the chains.

His shadows forced her along behind him so she wasn’t dragged, and he chained her to the wall on the opposite side of the room, keeping tentacles of shadow around her wrists so that she couldn’t do any further damage to herself.

She looked like so many of the souls he had brought misery to in his time in Hell. With a chain around her neck, his shadows forcing her down, her screams of desperation and rage against him filling up the room.

Alastor turned away, unable to watch.

Had there really been a time when this is what he had wanted to do to her? To own her soul and keep her in chains, completely at the whim of his own will and power? He had done it to thousands of others easily; joyfully even. And he would do it again a thousand times over. But to Mina? It seemed abhorrent and unnatural to see her like this.

Several long minutes went by with her in that state until she eventually collapsed to the floor, crying quietly but when he said her name, she didn’t respond. She was still out of it, unaware of her surroundings, it was just that her body was too exhausted to struggle.

He summoned a mattress beneath her and once she had fallen truly asleep, he let his shadows dissipate from around her.

It was going to be a very long 48 hours for him.

Looking down with disgust at the tent in his pants, he realized he wouldn’t be able to care for her alone like he wanted to. Not when he would have to keep leaving her side to take care of that.

He left her briefly for a few minutes, chaperoned by his shadow, and transported himself to the bathroom to clean up the blood from his shoulder and relieve his other problem, before heading back upstairs and summoning Niffty.

She got to quick work, cleaning up the discarded mess he had left around his workstation, and then the blood that had splattered on the floor and couch from Mina’s attack, before making tea with honey to sooth Mina’s throat once she woke up.

Alastor would never have even thought about her throat being hurt from all her screaming and allowed himself to relax a little once Niffty had considered it, knowing for sure he had made the right decision by bringing her into this.

“Thank you, Niffty,” he said as she placed the tray down on the small dining table in the room where he and Mina had shared their first meal together. She even had a tea cozy around the pot and a little candle burning beneath it to keep it warm until Mina woke again. Alastor wasn’t sure where she had gotten such a thing, but Niffty was often as mysterious in her abilities as Alastor himself was.

“It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?” she asked, watching Mina sleep from across the room.

Alastor nodded, accepting a cup of the tea as Niffty handed it to him, unsweetened like he preferred it. “It is, my dear. Unfortunately, it is. But it won’t be for much longer, I’m sure of it.”

Niffty wandered around the room, restless as usual for something to do, now that she had cleaned the place from top to bottom. She stopped at one of the large windows, peering down at the street below.

“Oh no,” she said, wringing her small hands nervously.

“What is it?” Alastor asked and strode over to see what she was looking at.

A large crowd of demons, Sinners and Hellborns alike, were gathered around the radio tower. Most were keeping a safe distance, but many were standing directly beneath them, gawking up at the tower as if they could catch a glimpse of something through the one-way windows.

“I guess word has gotten out about what happened today, huh?” she asked, peeling her eyes away from the scene below to look up at Alastor.

The teacup shattered in his grip as his smile widened to an unnatural width across his features.

“’Eat shit and die,’ that was the supposed message for me. What do you think, Niffty?”

She climbed up on his shoulder, looking down at the crowd from her improved vantage point.

“I think you should burn them, sir,” she said with a smile that matched his own.

They shared a knowing look and laughed together, and then in unison turned their gaze back on the demons below.

A shadow grew at the base of the tower, spreading like flowing water across the street, reaching out to the furthest members of the crowd.

Alastor tilted his head, enjoying how many of them began to nervously lift one foot and then the other, pathetically trying to avoid the shadow’s reach.

With a squint of his eyes and a snap of his fingers, the shadow ignited, and green flames devoured the entire crowd as one. Dozens, maybe even a hundred, demons screaming in unison as their souls were devoured and then added to his collection.

It was his turn to leave a message to all of Pentagram City. The Radio Demon didn’t have to step a foot out of his tower to be a threat, regardless of the slight against his own hours before.

“Alastor?” Mina’s rough voice called for him, and both he and Niffty turned away from the window, the green glow of the blaze reflecting behind them.

Niffty jumped from his shoulder and ran over to the teapot, pouring out a cup and began to walk towards her.

Mina pulled away as Niffty approached her, pressing herself against the wall.

“Stay back,” she warned, and Niffty stopped, glancing over at Alastor with a questioning look.

“She’s just trying to help,” Alastor told Mina.

Mina’s ears went flat against her head and she looked away, ashamed and submissive. “I don’t want to hurt her,” she said in a small voice.

Alastor sent a tendril of shadow from his back that stretched across the room and carefully took the handle of the teacup before carrying it over to Mina.

The tentacle held it in front of her face and she reached out, taking it in both hands and then meeting Alastor’s eyes again.

“For your throat,” he explained.

Mina sipped at it for a few minutes and then laid back down on the mattress, turning her back to the other two occupants, and remaining silent.

Niffty stayed a while longer, cooking them all a meal while Alastor watched over Mina, excusing himself for a few moments of privacy every once in a while to deal with the affects of his rut.

Mina didn’t touch her food that was left in a bowl beside her, too upset to eat, or perhaps to repulsed by food because of Kassandr’a presence in her head. It was hard to say.

She fell to her insanity a couple more times before twilight officially fell over the city.

Alastor and Niffty watched her as she struggled against her bonds, her body attempting to morph even with the chains on. Mina was on all fours, pulling backwards against the chain on her neck, her body long and barely human anymore as it strained with all its might against the angelic power forcing it to stay small. Her spine protruded out from between her shoulder blades, her ribs stretching the fabric of her dress nearly to the point of tearing it with every heaving breath she took, and her claws tore into the mattress below her, desperate to gain leverage in her struggle against her chains. Alastor kept his shadows hovering over her, ready to force her still should she turn those claws on herself again.

All the while, she screamed and cried, her face contorted in misery as she fought for control over her body.

“You can go now, Niffty. I’ll call on you sometime tomorrow. Go and get some rest now,” Alastor said to her.

Mina’s struggles were only getting more intense and though he probably could still use Niffty’s help, it was getting to the point where he wanted Mina to keep what was left of her dignity and not have anyone else witness the worst of what she was going through.

Niffty nodded dutifully as shadows engulfed her, sending her back to wherever she had been when he had summoned her.

Mina continued with her battles throughout the night, off and on, nearly until morning when she finally collapsed for several hours on the mattress.

Before she had truly fallen to sleep, trusting in that longer moment of lucidity, Alastor had risked undoing the chains from the wall and had his shadow escort her to the restroom so she could at least take care of that one bodily need in private. He had sighed in relief when she had returned, quickly and peacefully, though she laid down and again turned away from him when he hooked her back to the wall.

He took off his jacket and laid down beside her, reaching an arm around her to her spoon her from behind, but she tensed and pulled away.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed, and then said softy, “please. I’ll hurt you.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” he said, and reached his arm around her again, succeeding that time in pulling her against him.

“I bit you,” she protested, still tense but no longer trying to put distance between them.

“Oh, it’s nothing worse than what you’ve done in moments of passion, my dear,” he said lightly, pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder, right in the middle of one of his particularly favorite leopard spots.

“It’s different,” she mumbled.

She was right, of course. Her love bites were always painful, but pleasant. Enough to break the skin and draw blood, but the pain during intercourse was thrilling. What she had done in her moment of madness had truly hurt and had been a much deeper wound. But still, it had healed within the hour and he was confident in being able to read the warning signs of an attack now, as well as his ability to hold her back even if she did manage to get another bite or scratch in.

Right now he just wanted to comfort her, to hold her after everything she had been through that day. And, he couldn’t deny, his own body was desperate to touch her.

Her breathing began to slow and he knew that she had fallen asleep. He stayed there, exhausted as well, and closed his eyes as he tried to drift off to sleep.

Dozing off, and half asleep, his hand wandered over her body. The smooth backside of his clawed nails trailing up and down her arm, a soothing rhythm for both of them. Then the smell of her overtook his senses and his hand left her arm, now following the curve of her hip and upper thigh over the fabric of her dress.

His eyes snapped open, the dim red glow of them illuminating her silhouette, as his hand found the bunched up skirt near her upper thigh.

He imagined that hand slipping beneath the dress, following her smooth skin up, exposing the soft round flesh of her ass. She had it pressed against him just right and he could feel himself growing hard against her. It would take so little effort to adjust her body, pull aside her panties, and take her right there. He thought of Kassandra in her mind and it only made him harder, made him want to at least claim her body, remind that bitch that Mina was untouchable, that she was his, and her warm little body would always be his, and no one else’s, for the taking. Mina would likely even stay asleep through the act, he could just quickly slip himself inside and-

Alastor yanked his hand away from her and stood up.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

His rut was no excuse. Even in her heat, even while drunk, Mina had better control of herself than he did. It was embarrassing. He was thoroughly disgusted with himself at even entertaining the thought of using her body that way, when she was in no state to consent.

Even with his mind shouting at him for what he had nearly done, his body still sought what it was after.

In a rage, Alastor disappeared from the room, turning to shadow and leaving Mina sleeping as he did what he had to do in the bathroom below.

Afterwards, as he washed his hands, Alastor looked up, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror.

That stupid fucking smile.

He had never hated it so much. Never hated himself so much as he did in that moment. He wanted to cut it off his face like he had his tail so many times in the past.

Alastor punched the mirror, watching it shatter, only to have the broken glass reveal a dozen more smaller reflections of the same damnable smile back at him.

With a shout, he ripped the mirror off the wall and threw it across the room. It hit the edge of the claw-footed tub and settled on the floor, completely broken, with his reflection finally hidden from him.

He gripped the edges of the sink, breathing hard, and looked down into the basin of the sink.

Alastor watched as droplets of water hit the porcelain and after a moment, realized he was crying.

Everything caught up to him in that moment. What had been done to Mina. How horrifically her body and mind had been violated. He had failed her. He had let a threat build under his very watch and it had come for her. And now he was helpless as she fought for herself. He couldn’t even heal her; he had needed Abaddon for that. And now he had to just watch as she fought off that demon in her mind and in her moment of weakness, as she fell asleep in his arms, still trusting him to watch over and protect her, he had nearly raped her. All because he couldn’t control himself during his rut.

Alastor dropped to his knees, still clutching the edges of the sink, and broke down into sobs.

He hadn’t felt this horrid in a very long time. It was like being surrounded by a dark cloud, that pressed against his mind and ate up every emotion except pain. No longer anything as clear as anger or guilt, just pain. Just an endless dense fog that kept him from thinking or feeling anything coherent.

As an adult, he had found a release from these moods. By embracing another kind of darkness, he had dispelled this blackness from his heart and aimed it towards others. That was when he discovered the glory of murder, how beautiful his wrath could be when targeted towards those who deserved it.

But as a child and as a teen, there had been no other outlet but the one tugging at his subconscious now.

It was a method he hadn’t relied on since well before he had died, unless one considered what he had done to his tail. He reflected on those nights now, his mind clinging to the release he had felt watching that band of red fur fall to the floor after spending agonizing minutes sawing through flesh and bone and cartilage to be free of the assaulting appendage he had hated so much. But through the physical pain and agony, there had been a kind of clarity. A release from the feeling of self-hatred, from the helpless way his anger overpowered him during his first few years in Hell.

But Mina loved his tail . . . he couldn’t risk her finding out about this pathetic and empty habit of his. It would break her heart and worse, she would pity him.

Something simpler then, like what he had indulged in as a juvenile.

Before he had time to consider his next actions, the knife was in his hand. Serrated and sharp, with a well-balanced handle that fit perfectly in his grip.

Then he was on the floor, leaning against the wall by the sink, amidst the plants and the humidity and cool, soothing tile, with his jacket off and one sleeve rolled up.

One . . . two . . . three . . .

The knife drew long, shallow lines of red, one after the other, down his forearm and with every cut, he felt a little more clear headed.

. . . four . . . five . . . six . . . seven . . .

The first slice was already beginning to heal and Alastor watched, fascinated as the blood trickled down his arm from a wound that was no longer there.

His breathing stilled, his sobs subsiding then.

And then he thought of Mina; his dear, sweet, strong Mina, alone upstairs, getting no reprieve from the monsters in her mind, and he began cutting again, starting once more from the top.

One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . . seven . . .

Pause. Another tilt of his head as he considered the flesh stitching itself back together.

One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . . seven . . .

He continued this pattern, over and over again, never bothering to keep count of how many times he had to start over before his powerful, undead body healed itself. He just continued on, waiting for the cloud in his mind to dissipate, for the pain to end, so that he could return to where he knew he needed to be.  

Alastor sat there, alone in the bathroom, waiting for that blessed composure and control he had wielded for decades to finally return to him, while Mina slept upstairs, unaware.

____

He didn’t sleep at all the rest of the night, though that wasn’t unusual for him.

What was unusual was that he normally kept himself busy to force himself awake; but that night and into the early morning, he wouldn’t have been able to sleep if he wanted to. His body was too on fire, raging with hormones, and his mind was too emotionally wrecked.

Alastor was exhausted but he didn’t deserve rest.

Once he was sure Mina would sleep until morning, he added a comforter and a large, comfortable pillow for her, and tucked her in, whispering to her sleeping form once more that he loved her.

Then he kept his distance, afraid of losing control again.

So he sat in the chair he kept by his main workstation and spent the night looking out over the city, occasionally smoking his pipe and going through several glasses of whiskey.

It took a lot for him to get drunk, at least to the point of blacking out, but he did find that it helped dull his senses enough to tame the urges brought on by his rut and it kept a certain organ of his body from acting up quite as often.

By sunrise, he was still fuming, barely keeping his rage below the surface, and feeling more restless than he could recall since ending up in Hell. But he was too exhausted, and a sore combination of hung over and still a bit tipsy, to really be feeling any kind of sexual desire. It was quite the accomplishment, given how deep into his rut he was.

Mina shifted under the covers and when he turned to look at her, she was sitting up, clutching at her head.

At first he was concerned that another bought of possession was taking hold of her but then she groaned and it was just a normal, headache induced moan.

“God my head is killin’ me,” she said, her accent extra thick in her sleepy state.

Alastor summoned a glass of water and brought it over to her, sitting down on the edge of the mattress next to her.

She took it gratefully, taking several large sips before setting it back down.

“I apologize for making you sleep out here. Truly, I would have preferred to let you rest in our bed but . . .”

“No, it’s fine, I was plenty comfortable,” she said, brushing off his apology. “Thank you, for keeping me safe yesterday. I still don’t feel  . . . alone in here,” she said, tapping her temple, “but her voice is quieter now. It’s a bit easier to resist the urge to tear at your throat, at least.”

“May I take these off then?” he asked, reaching for the shackle around her neck.

She slapped his hand away. “Don’t you dare.”

“Mina . . .” he said, frowning. “I hate to see you in such things.”

“They help. Really, I think they do.” She sniffed at him. “Have you been drinking?”

“I-“ he started, feeling heat come to his face. “It was a rough night.”

Mina tilted her head, confused for a moment, then her eyes widened as she realized what he meant. “Your rut! Oh God, Alastor, I’m so sorry. Ugh, this is all my fault,” she said, burying her face in her hands.

Alastor put a hand around one of her wrists and gently pulled her hand away from her face.

“Mina, listen to me,” he said, and he was relieved to see no tears in her eyes, only a bit of shame. “I may be incredibly angry about all of this, but I am neither angry at you, nor do I place any of the blame on you. I only wish I could help you more.”

“Oh, Al’,” she said, twisting her wrist out of his grasp so that she could hold his hand properly, and placed a kiss across the black skin of his knuckles. “You are everything I need you to be. You were strong enough to do what needed to be done to keep me from hurting myself or you.”

“I wish I could be more . . .comforting,” he said, unconsciously wrinkling his nose at his distaste for the word.

Mina laughed softly at him and squeezed his hand. “Why, so I could bite you again?”

Her smile suddenly turned to a frown, and she dropped his hand, scooting backwards across the mattress.

“What? What is it?” he asked.

She held her head again and took several long, steadying breaths. “Just give me a moment.”

After a minute she relaxed a bit and met his eyes sheepishly.

“Troubles not over then, is it?” he asked.

“No,” she sighed, “I’m afraid not. But I can handle it.” After another moment went by, she returned to her train of thought. “Alastor, I love everything that you are. Please, don’t ever try to be anything less or more than your natural self for my sake. I do not want the kind of man that will wallow in pity for me when I am hurt. I want you angry, so be fucking angry, okay? Because I want that bloody bitch dead by the end of tomorrow. You want to show me how much you love me? Let me watch while you tear her to pieces.”

Alastor smiled and for the first time since Mina’s capture, it was a genuine expression. He reached in and pulled her close, kissing her softly on the lips.

It was a small mistake. The intimate moment fueled his rut and Mina’s body tensed, almost losing control of her senses because of the distraction, and they pulled away at the same time, though regretfully.

“Best to save that for afterwards as well then?” Alastor said, irritated at the reminder.

Mina nodded, looking as sad about it as he felt, and again moved herself until she was on the far end of the mattress.

The rest of the day went by a little better.

Alastor had been moved by her words, her appreciation for his character more evident than ever. It soothed his guilty conscience over the night before now that he knew for sure he had behaved the way Mina had wanted him to, even when she couldn’t communicate that to him.

She had several episodes where she nearly lost herself again, but she was able to fend off the mental attacks before they escalated to the point of her screaming and lashing out.

Alastor summoned Nifty again, who was happy to cook and clean, and even helped sooth Mina during some of the more difficult spells. Eventually, it became evident that between the help of Nifty and the presence of his shadow, he would be able to leave Mina’s side long enough to take a shower. He knew he smelled of booze and the shower would give him the opportunity to linger on caring for his physical needs, leaving him more satisfied and calmer than before.

As evening fell and it had been a few hours since Mina’s last episode, Alastor sent Nifty away, and he unhooked Mina from the wall. With his shadow in tow, but her chain still around her neck, Mina disappeared from the control room, daring to use the restroom and take a shower for herself.

Alastor paced around the main room of the radio tower, more nervous than he had let on for Mina’s well-being. He knew it was a risky move but at some point they had to start testing the limits of her sanity and his shadow would alert him if she slipped again into madness.

That was when Abaddon decided to show up.

They stepped through the portal and into the Radio Tower as if they had done it before. Alastor bristled at the audacity.

“What are you doing here?” he asked with no pleasantness in his tone or expression despite his smile.

“Oh, calm down, I’m here for Mina, not you. I have a gift for her,” they replied with a dismissive wave of their hand and began walking around the room, staring openly at the décor. “Where is she?”

“Taking a shower. How did you get in here?” Alastor was in no mood for the angel’s games.

“Really?” they asked, turning around and looking at Alastor with surprise. “She’s already well enough for that? I have to say, I wasn’t expecting her to recover that quickly. But the constitution on that woman has always been impressive, to say the least.”

“How did you get in here?” Alastor repeated.

Abaddon chuckled and then turned back to the small display case of antiques and artwork.

“You may be in a relationship of sorts with her, but Mina is still under my protection. If you didn’t realize I had come here to make sure she would be safe here well before she moved in, then that’s your problem, not mine.”

Alastor snorted. “And you would have been able to stop her if you decided I wasn’t good enough for her?”

“You aren’t good enough,” Abaddon said simply, “but you are safe enough. For now. Are these real shrunken heads?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Alastor asked, ignoring Abaddon’s last question.

“Exactly what it sounds like,” they challenged. “That one day you’ll choose something else over Mina and it will either break her heart or get her killed.”

Alastor laughed in their face. “That. Is. Ridiculous. What preposterous scenario does your holiness foresee in which I would ever do that to her? Please, enlighten me.”

“Oh wow, you really believe it, don’t you?” Abaddon said, looking at Alastor as if this was a sudden and fascinating realization. “Cuz I feel like I’m going insane, watching you two. I seem to be the only one around here who knows you are the kind of man to always choose power over everything else. Men like you, demons like you, can never hold onto anything good. One day, you’ll make a move for more power and you’ll leave Mina behind. And I’ll be sure to be there for her when you do.”

“Get out,” Alastor said.

Abaddon had struck a deep and tender nerve, and Alastor could feel his antlers growing already. He couldn’t win a fight against Abaddon, he knew that. He also knew if Abaddon pushed him any further, he wouldn’t be able to help himself in starting one.

“No,” Abaddon said, turning their back on him, unthreatened by the display, and smiled sweetly over their shoulder at him.

Alastor snapped. The room shrunk around him as he increased his height and he felt a number of tentacles begin growing out his back.

“GET OUT OF MY FUCKING HOUSE BEFORE I-“

Alastor stopped in his tracks as his shadow darted into the room, attaching itself at his feet. Within the blink of an eye, he returned back to his normal form, a microsecond before Mina appeared in the room.

He was still breathing hard, his fury held in check by a hair, and he was sure his eyes were betraying him, having either turned to radio dials, or green, or black, or some combination of the three. The blasted things always gave him away.

Mina paused for a moment, looking at Alastor and then at Abaddon, and then rolled her eyes.

She may not know the extent of how much those two hated each other, but she wasn’t blind to the fact that they didn’t care for each other. Alastor being at the peak of his rut didn’t help, so she held no surprise that they had clearly been arguing.

She had dressed thankfully, even adding her usual light sweater that she normally forewent when they were home alone together. Alastor assumed the increased modesty was more to help with the symptoms of his rut rather than any precognition that Abaddon had arrived.

And she still had the shackle around her neck.

“Mina, good to see you feeling more yourself. And so quickly. I’m impressed,” Abaddon said, striding over to her and pulling her in for a hug.

Mina hugged them back but looked over their shoulder at Alastor, her eyes looking concerned as they met his.

He hadn’t moved a muscle, remaining stiff as a board as he watched Abaddon.

“What can I say?” she shrugged as she pulled away. “I’m impressive.”

“Are you really okay?” Abaddon asked, more sincere and serious.

“Not out of the woods yet, apparently,” she said and Alastor’s eyebrows rose up, catching the implication that she had nearly lost control while alone in the shower. “I’m okay,” Mina continued, looking at him, and then gestured at his shadow, “that helped me get through it just fine.”

She then turned to Abaddon. “I’m sure your healing me helped tremendously. And Alastor as been nothing short of wonderful. It was a hard night, for both of us.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t heal you completely,” Abaddon said, and Alastor suppressed the urge to make an audible, disgusted noise at the display of concern from them. “But even direct angelic interference is only an aid when it comes to possession. The fight is ultimately up to you. But, as we can all see, you’re one hell of a fighter. Here,” they said as they held out their hand and a small vial of golden liquid appeared hovering above their open palm, “this should help you win the final round.”

Mina took it, looking at it skeptically.

“This is . . . blood?” she guessed, turning the vial and studying the viscosity of the liquid.

Abaddon nodded. “I was inspired by Kassandra’s power. Now, I’m really not supposed to get involved in the politics of Overlords. It’s frowned upon, as you know. But we’ll just keep this one between the three of us and no one will know.”

“It’ll help me get rid of her?” Mina asked.

“Not exactly. Once you feel like you’re ready to take her on in person, drink this. It’ll increase your powers enough to take on even the strongest Overlords. Just temporarily though. Don’t go taking over the city once your done with Kassandra.”

“You won’t be in my head like she is?”

Abaddon frowned, looking a little insulted. “Even if I could, I wouldn’t do that to you, Mina. Especially not after what you just went through.”

“I know,” Mina said, pressing her palm to her forehead and shaking her head. “I know, I’m sorry. There’s just . . . lots of noise up here right now.”

“Of course,” they said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “No need to be sorry. Anyway, I should get going. Alastor,” they said with a polite nod, “Always good seeing you.”

A portal opened behind them and then turned to walk through it.

“Oh, and Mina?” they said, before they had stepped through. “Kick her ass.”

Then they were gone, the portal closing behind them.

Mina turned to Alastor as soon as they were alone.

“Are you okay?” she asked softly.

“No,” Alastor answered truthfully, his voice deeper and more warped than usual. “I could use a few minutes alone.”

Mina gave a nearly imperceptible nod and Alastor disappeared, leaving her alone with his shadow.

Next Chapter ->

Tag list: @inuhalfdemon @saccharine-nectarine @whoknowswhoiamtoday

[shrub-jay]

The New Arrival (Danny Kent)

CW: Body horror, teeth

TL;DR: The Kents take in another alien.

-------

The American Southwest has some of the highest found-meteorite density regions. New Mexico has a found meteorite rate of 1.9 per 1,000 square miles. Kansas trails with 1.8. A single farm in Smallville, Kansas, at just under 800 acres, has reported 23. One Dr. Kent reported iron meteorities landing in June, following northwesterly winds and a low chance of precipitation, over the course of several decades. It was an idle curiosity among Kansas meteorologists. A bizarre coincidence.  

“How big you think this one’s gonna be?” Jonathan Kent mused as he eyed the streak of green in the sky, leaning on a pitchfork. The still-young corn crop rustled in the breeze. 

“Not too big, or Clark would already be here,” his wife, Martha, mused from the porch. She looked up from Bubble Wubble Blast 2 on her phone. “Sweetie, you’ve gotta stop holding the pitchfork like that. I’m not ready for people to start comparing us to American Gothic.” Jonathan grumbled before leaning it against the porch railing, whistling sharply. 

“Shelby! Come here, girl!” A rambunctious golden retriever mix trotted around the corner, tail wagging. The streak in the sky had faded, disappearing behind the barn.  “Shelbs and I are going to go check it out on the four wheeler.” Martha perked up.

“And don’t forget to–”

“Log the coordinates, you’ve taught me well,” Jonathan finished, waving his hand dismissively and sending her a smile. The ATV engine roared to life, and he was off. It rumbled to a stop in front of a smoking crater. A head popped up, and two large eyes blinked back. Jonathan’s phone flash went off as he snapped a picture.

The figure recoiled, hissing. Ghostly white hair flickered around their face like fire, and a green sheen swirled across the wet surface of their eyes like rainbows on the surface of a bubble. Green tinged skin stretched across their features, and huge, wrinkled ears angled themselves back cautiously. Their dark nose twitched as Shelby approached the edge of the crater. A series of clicking noises rang out before their long, slender limbs collapsed beneath them like scaffolding.

Shelby darted forward.

“Woah girl, you don’t want to scare ‘em,” Jonathan whisper-shouted, hastily dismounting. It was too late. Shelby was already weaving joyfully between the new arrival’s arms, tail going a mile a minute. They obliged the dog with gentle scratches, and Jonathan smiled. “Looks like Clark might be getting a new sibling.”

It wasn’t hard to get them to follow. It was disconcertingly easy, in fact. Jonathan texted Martha to scrounge up some of the leftovers from their early dinner. He wasn’t sure if their new charge ate, given that he hadn’t seen a mouth. Perhaps they could photosynthesize like Clark, if the green hued skin was a clue. 

“How do you think they eat? If they eat at all?” Martha murmured, leaning forward on an elbow. Their guest prodded inquisitively at a gently warmed plate of food. The skin beneath their nose was taut and seamless. “I can never believe how lucky we got with Clark.” 

“Hell if I know,” Jonathan responded, tucking into his own plate of food. The smell of shepherd’s pie always whet his appetite. Their company watched him carefully. Jonathan gestured with his fork with ‘cheers’ motion before relishing the forkful of luscious potato, mouth already watering from the well browned beef. 

Jonathan Kent was a man who sometimes wondered if the point of life was to hear food sizzle while cooking. Cracking fresh eggs and wiping freshly minced garlic from the slightly tacky blade of a knife were simple tasks and simple joys. He wondered if Clark was eating well. 

He was pulled from his thoughts by a sharp crack and a soft gasp. The figure’s pointed chin had lowered, the muscles of a jaw straining into visibility. Where their mouth would be, the skin stretched tighter still, before caving in like the hollow of a cheek. They emitted a high pitched, painful whine, eerie as a theremin, limbs tangling around their head like a self imposed cage. Martha lurched forward in concern.

The skin began to split. Fibrous layers burst forth, as if they had only been held together by tension. Their face bloomed like a roll of tissue shredded by a cat's claws. Pieces began to flake and fall off, and the whine intensified as something began to protrude. 

A tooth. A startlingly human looking incisor. Jonathan’s fork clattered onto his plate, and he winced in commiseration. They began to claw at the flaking skin, slowly excavating a set of pearly whites. When they finished, piles of white flakes littered the room. They sneezed, shaking their head, rubbery ears slapping against their face.

They gnashed their newly grown pair of human teeth with apparent glee. 

“It seems like they might be able to fit in just fine.”

[what-even-is-thiss]

hi there, hope you are having a good day!!

my mutuals keep reblogging your "God told me to" post so i wanted to let you know i'm in kinda the same boat!

my transition is deeply tied to my faith, and while the full story is a long one the tl;dr is that years ago, before i realized what i was doing, i asked for clarity & direction by the time i was ~30 and committed to studying & practicing the things God would show me to focus on. flash forward almost 2 decades and He basically said "cool, now that you got those little things* done you should know that you are trans. congrats!” and things have been going great since then!

*little things included cross country relocation, self care overhaul, rebuilding a few super close friendships, and facing several life changing events head on

It’s always good to hear faith stories from other trans folks. It doesn’t happen nearly often enough. Peace and love be with you.

[euphreana]

The Shape of Truth - Chapter 1: Mercy

Chapter 1 here we go - written in collaboration with @bitsy83! (Also available on ao3 here!)

Masterpost

-

Ambrosius was there when the sword went off. The deadly blast caught everyone by surprise - Ambrosius barely had a moment to think before grabbing his sword. It was a moment though, just long enough for him to gather his wits and knock the sword from Ballister’s hand before anyone else got hurt, Ballister included. The sword fell to the ground, sparking as it disintegrated into pieces. Ambrosius and Ballister stared at it, then at each other in shock. Then the guards leapt into action. Ballister was so stunned he didn’t fight back when they pinned his arms behind his back and forced him to his knees.

“I didn’t do it.” his voice was barely audible over the noise of the stadium. Then the guards started dragging him away, past the stunned cadets, back into the tunnels below the Glorodome. “I DIDN’T DO IT!” he shouted, finding his voice. “SOMEONE SWITCHED MY SWORD!”

Ambrosius had watched in shocked silence. There was nothing else he could do.

~ ~ ~

The queen was dead. It was all over the news. Killed by the commoner knight himself. What remained of the blaster-equipped sword was locked away as evidence while The Institute investigated the event. Everyone was saying it was an open-and-shut case - replicas of famous swords were easy to get, and Ballister could have easily gotten one and hidden an energy weapon in it. Why was the question that was bothering Ambrosius.

He’d read the write-ups explaining the psyche of the ‘deranged, previous street urchin who’d snapped under stress’, but he’d known the man for over a decade - the profile didn’t fit. Ballister wasn’t a murderer… unless the last ten years had all been an act. Had their friendship been a facade? Had Ballister been planning this for years? Was this his revenge on a system he felt had mistreated him for so long? Or had he been telling the truth on the night of the murder - that someone had switched his sword out, that he’d been set up? But then who had done it? Some terrorist faction that was just now showing itself? The kingdom had been peaceful for decades, why would something surface now?

Ambrosius needed to make sense of this. He trusted The Institute to take care of it, but impatience was getting the better of him. He’d asked for visitation rights several times in the days since the Queen’s murder, but each time he’d been denied. That man was a raving lunatic, they’d told him, and he needed to be kept calm and isolated.

That wasn’t what the dungeon’s camera feed was showing. Ambrosius sat back in his chair in The Institute’s security room, perplexed. The feed showed Ballister looking dejected, sitting in a cell, sometimes pacing, but mostly just… sitting there, not saying a word. No mad ravings like the guards had described. Ambrosius fast-forwarded the feed. Hours of footage, all showing the same thing; nothing. The guards were lying. Why? Why was nothing adding up?

Ambrosius turned away from the computer, rubbing his head. Staring at big screens always made his eyes hurt. Smaller screens, not so much. He flicked his phone open. A news article flashed on the screen; ‘Breaking News: Ballister’s Written Confession Revealed’. Ambrosius blinked. When had that happened? He’d already skimmed through the bulk of the security camera footage from the last few days, and he hadn’t seen anyone go to interview him.

He tapped the article. Sure enough, there it was. A confession of murder, along with enough broken grammar to convince anyone that the author had lost it. Ambrosius stared at the screen until his eyes hurt again. Why would Bal implicate himself if he'd said he was innocent? Now with a confession made clear, all that was left was the sentencing, and there was only one punishment for murder in the kingdom; death.

Years of feelings began to surface - the times they’d stayed out late getting nachos, the times Bal had comforted him when his parents had died - so many experiences built on love and trust. Ambrosius didn’t want to believe Ballister was a murderer. He didn’t want to lose him. He couldn’t lose him.

Ambrosius got up. The article had mentioned the sentencing would be that evening. There was something he could do - he’d heard of an old custom that someone of noble blood or of high status could call for mercy on a convict - not a full pardon, but a punishment could be lightened. As Gloreth’s direct descendant, Ambrosius could get a judge to give a lifetime of house arrest over hanging… if it was still valid.

Ambrosius headed to the court building. They would know if he could declare mercy and how. If he hurried, maybe he could save Bal’s life.

The receptionist knew about the custom, but didn’t know if it was still legal or who would handle it. It hadn’t been done in decades. She made some calls to different departments to see. Ambrosius dug his nails into his palm every time a call turned out fruitless. Time was ticking away. Time he didn’t have.

Finally, they found the answer; the custom was still legal. Better yet, they found out who would handle the proceeding - someone in the judicial building across the campus. There would be paperwork involved. Ambrosius hated paperwork.

Ambrosius didn’t say who he was pardoning, but he could see the confusion on the clerk’s face when he handed him the sheaf of necessary papers. There was only one person in line for sentencing, and who would pardon an obvious murderer?

Ambrosius sat in the lobby and pored over the forms. He needed proof of his lineage. He needed the exact charges against Ballister. He needed the name of the judge. So many fields. So many signatures. He didn’t have time for this! Maybe he could get the first page done, declare mercy, say he’d missed a page, and then finish the rest afterward. Anything to stall the proceedings long enough to get it all filled out.

The records building was his first stop. It wasn’t far, just a few minutes walk. Ambrosius jogged across the campus green. How much time did he have left? He glanced at a nearby clock tower. Then he froze.

In the distance, there was a black flag flying above the judgment tower. The papers in Ambrosius’s hands crinkled as he tightened his grip. A black flag meant an execution was in progress. He’d missed the sentencing.

Ambrosius broke into a run. Forget the paperwork. He’d declare mercy on the spot and worry about that later. But he needed to get there. He needed to get there NOW!

People hurried out of his way as he tore through side streets and courtyards. He ran, his pulse pounding in his ears. The flag was still at full mast. He could see the front doors to the tower in the distance, two guards out front.

The guards stepped in front of the doors as he approached.

“Closed event. Nobody else allowed in.”

Ambrosius didn’t stop. “Let me in! I need to mercy—”

“No one. Else. Allowed.” The guard stated again.

Ambrosius rushed them. It almost worked - they hadn’t expected that from Gloreth’s descendant. He’d nearly gotten his hand on the door handle when they grabbed him and shoved him backwards. Ambrosius didn’t relent. He pushed back, digging in his heels, reaching past them for the handle.

“Let me in!”

His fingers touched the handle briefly. Then he found himself thrown onto the ground, paperwork falling from his hand.

“Don’t make this difficult.” a guard growled.

Ambrosius was back on his feet in an instant, frantic.

“Or what?! I am a knight! Descendant of Gloreth!” He charged again, this time trying to grapple a guard.

“That doesn’t matter.” The other guard grabbed Ambrosius from behind. “Closed event. Direct orders.”

Ambrosius landed on his back again, his head hitting the pavement. He looked up at the sky for a moment, dazed. The black flag. It was being lowered.

“NO!”

The tower door opened and a reporter stepped out, absently scrolling through a notepad. The guards moved to let her pass. Ambrosius seized his chance and barrelled through the opening, past the guards, into the courtyard.

“STOP! I DECLARE MERCY!”

His voice echoed off the walls, startling the audience in front of the gallows. Everyone turned to look at him. Ambrosius charged through the crowd, ignoring them. The gallows looked empty. Where was the convicted?

“I declare mercy!” He shouted again, pushing his way to the front. Then he froze. He could see the base of the gallows now. A tower worker was working the noose off an all-too-familiar figure laying in a crumpled heap on the ground.

Ballister Boldheart was dead.

-

Chapter 2

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

The District Sleeps Alone Tonight - A Songfic

Pairing: None 

Rating: General, although my blog is, as always, 18+ only 

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: angst, breakups, mentions of Teresa x Patrick Jane

Summary: I am a visitor here. I am not permanent. 

A/N: @whatsnewalycat said that The District Sleeps Alone Tonight by the Postal Service was a Marcus Pike song and then I listened to it during a thunderstorm and imagined a whole scene based on it. I’m not sure whether or not to call this a songfic, but there are several direct quotations from the lyrics and the “plot” of this follows the song pretty closely.  For best results, listen to this song while you read. The lyrics are posted at the end of the fic <3

Masterlist

A lone figure cuts through the wet fog, his collar turned up and shoulders hunched forward in a futile attempt to ward off the elements. The faded leather jacket may have been sufficient enough for even the coldest winter days in Austin, but against the drizzle and wind in this new climate, it only succeeds at keeping him dry. Mostly. The notion that he may not be as well-prepared as he had originally thought himself to be grates on him, shame niggling at the back of his spine at the realization that he doesn’t even know where to go to purchase a winter coat.

A gust of wind sends thousands of miniscule, stinging droplets of water into his face, making him grimace, and Marcus wonders to himself how it could possibly still be raining with temperatures so close to freezing.

It seems as though he’s stopped at every street crossing, because of course he is, and he squints against the endless line of headlights and brake lights extending in either direction, blurring and distorting in the soggy weather, as he waits for the traffic lights to turn.

It gets dark so early here.

His phone buzzes against fingers shoved in his pockets, and he fishes it out to read the text message that flashes on the screen.

Sorry, I think you might still have my spare key? If so can you mail it back? Thx.

The cavity of his chest feels empty and raw as his vision seems to darken around the words, twisting and warping them much like the rain and the headlights. Marcus pockets the phone again without responding and stares blankly at the ground. He thinks about the endless, pitch-black tunnels stretching out in every direction beneath him, wondering how many feet of asphalt and concrete there are between the bottoms of his feet and the top of the cavernous expanse of the DC underground. He imagines the sidewalk crumbling, sending him down into the unknown depths.

In reality, he takes the escalator across the street.

The station is buzzing with life–as it always seems to be, no matter the hour–and Marcus watches vibrant humanity swirl around him. Two teenagers sharing the same pair of headphones. A tired-looking mother with two young children. A woman in a business suit, eyes glued to her phone. A disheveled old man, smelling of booze, that everyone subconsciously steps around without even a look in his direction. 

Marcus fishes in his pocket for his metro card, his fingers bumping against the badge he had immediately unclipped from his lapel upon leaving work–the one that spells out a single word with big block letters, just another indignity upon all of the other indignities he’s suffered this week.

When he had asked why his regular badge–the one he’s clipped on his lapel every morning for over a decade–wasn’t sufficient, the bored door attendant tried to explain about building access being tied to his network credentials, which were tied to something called “Active Directory,” and it couldn’t be done right now because they were experiencing downtime after a backup server failed, and Marcus didn’t really understand what any of this meant or why this hadn’t all been set up beforehand, but there was hardly a point in trying to get answers to his questions because none of it would speed up the activation of his new credentials, nor the delivery of his new laptop, which wasn’t arriving until Monday.

None of this was done with malicious intent, of course; nor is he the only new employee affected, going by the line of badged Agents standing in line every morning this week to get the day’s temporary access, but Marcus still feels like a marked man. Separate. Apart. Singled-out. 

I am a visitor here. I am not permanent. 

It only compounds upon that same feeling inside of him: that feeling that he’s on some sort of strange vacation, and that soon he’ll be able to return home. Home. To his little duplex in Austin, where he shared one wall with Mrs. Ruth Galloway, the eighty-five year-old widow he had a cup of tea with every Sunday at two pm. To the city he knows, the field office where he’d spent most of his career, with familiar rooms and familiar faces… where she walks through the familiar halls. With him. 

Marcus swallows thickly, shoving the painful lump down into his stomach. 

No, he can’t go home.

The spacious condo certainly doesn’t feel like home when he opens the door to find the large living room dark and cold and foreboding, although that’s probably mostly his fault–the walls are still lined with moving boxes, most of them still half-full with his belongings, messy and unkempt after rummaging through them to find the essentials and leaving the rest.

When he had toured the building, two weeks before the move, the large residence felt full of dreams, of possibilities, rather than empty and sterile. Marcus remembers going from room to room, his head filled with images of an idealistic future: a king-sized bed, his and hers towels in the pristine bathroom, a bookshelf large enough to fit all of their books in the first spare room, and, in the second spare room… a crib. 

Now, they’re just two empty rooms. 

The fridge is empty too, Marcus suddenly remembers, having not had a chance to find a grocery store yet. He’s been living out of takeaway containers, not even bothering to open the box of dishes and silverware. He takes out two styrofoam boxes–one half-filled with leftover Pad Thai, the other with chicken Tikka Masala, and dumps them side-by-side into the same container with a half-grimace.

Beats going back out into the weather.

There are two beers left in a six-pack bought three days ago, so he opens one and takes a long sip while the microwave heats his food. He thumbs through the mail he left on the kitchen counter absentmindedly, finding mostly junk advertisements and coupons, but a takeout menu for a Sushi restaurant catches his eye. As he sets it on top of several other menus he’d accumulated over the last couple of days, the microwave beeps, alerting him to the fact that his dinner is ready. 

Marcus sits at the kitchen table and flicks on the TV in the living room, setting the channel to some random rerun of a syndicated sitcom that he doesn’t recognize, mostly for background noise. He pulls a somewhat-soggy copy of the Washington Post he snagged from the breakroom from his messenger bag and flips through the pages without really reading any of the headlines until he finds the crossword. He halfheartedly fills out the clues as he eats, the canned laugh track from the show filtering in and out of his awareness. The clue ‘strips in geography class (6 letters)’ finally causes him to rub at his temples, setting down the pen as he rises to his feet to toss the empty container and bottle in the trash. 

The other beer is popped open, and Marcus settles down on the couch, flipping through channels. He pauses briefly on a black and white film–Roman Holiday, he recognizes after a minute or two of watching–but when Ann and Joe kiss on the riverbank, he quickly switches to a basketball game instead. Keeping the volume low, he lets his mind wander as he blankly watches the teams run back and forth on the court, not all that interested in the score. 

He needs to buy food. He needs to find somewhere he can get a winter coat. He needs to find a post office, he suddenly remembers, thinking of the text message from earlier. He checks the time–late, probably too late. Wait, no–it’s two hours earlier in Austin. Two beers is hardly enough to even feel the alcohol, but apparently it’s enough to dull his sense of judgment, because he finds himself pulling out his phone. The call goes straight to voicemail, and he tries not to think about the possibility that she’s screening her calls because of him.

“Hi, uh… Hi. I’m sure you’re busy, but I got your message earlier about the key, and… I think I do have one, yeah, but I’m not sure… where, exactly. I’m still in the process of unpacking, got a couple more boxes to go through,” Marcus says, looking at the large pile of boxes in front of him and knowing he’s got many more throughout the house. “I’ll make it a priority to find it and send it off this weekend.

“It’s really nice here,” he continues, seemingly not able to stop the flow of words once they’ve started. “There’s a Thai place down the street that you’d like, but the spring rolls are so-so. Not like that one place we found in Ridgetop, remember that one?” Marcus chuckles softly to himself, hardly recognizing the sound of his own laughter, and it sends a pang down into his chest. “I–” he stutters, blinking rapidly. “I know things weren’t perfect between us. The–the timing wasn’t right, and there were a lot of… of uh, obstacles in our way, but I’ve been doing–” he huffs humorlessly, “–a lot of thinking over the past couple of days, and I think I understand now. I saw a life that I wanted, and… I pushed for it. I pushed too hard, without–without thinking about how you felt about it, about whether you were ready, whether you even wanted a life with me. You were… you were trying to tell me, that whole time… and I didn’t listen. But I… I think I finally see it–why I was the one worth leaving. It was never going to be me, it couldn’t have been. I ignored all the signs that I was pushing too hard, not listening, pressuring you…” He takes a shaky breath, and lets it out slowly. “I’m sorry. You were right to leave. I–I wish you the best, Teresa.”

*

The District Sleeps Alone Tonight

The Postal Service

Smeared black ink

Your palms are sweaty

And I'm barely listening

To last demands

I'm staring at the asphalt wondering

What's buried underneath

I'll wear my badge

A vinyl sticker with big block letters

Adhering to my chest

That tells your new friends

I am a visitor here, I am not permanent

And the only thing

Keeping me dry is

You seem so out of context

In this gaudy apartment complex

(Where I am) A stranger with your door key

Explaining that I'm just visiting

(Where I am) And I am finally seeing

Why I was the one worth leaving

Why I was the one worth leaving

D.C. sleeps alone tonight

You seem so out of context

In this gaudy apartment complex

(Where I am) A stranger with your door key

Explaining that I'm just visiting

(Where I am) And I am finally seeing

Why I was the one worth leaving

Why I was the one worth leaving

The district sleeps alone tonight

After the bars turn out their lights

(Where I am) And send the autos swerving

Into the loneliest evening

(Where I am) And I am finally seeing

Why I was the one worth leaving

Why I was the one worth leaving

Why I was the one worth leaving

Why I was the one worth leaving

[honeybeefae]

I adore Lucien and always had the thought about like the best friend (who definitely definitely had feelings) he had to leave in the Autumn court and them meeting up again later on in life

Stop this is so adorable because I can absolutely see it too! One of my fav tropes is friends to lovers so I've been waiting for this one! Turn it up!

You, just like the rest of Prythian, had been shocked when you learned who the next heir to the Day Court was. Lucien had been born and raised in the Autumn Court and while his tan skin had gotten some looks you had just dismissed it as a genetic thing somewhere down the line of Beron.

But when Helion had stepped forward and claimed him as his own son proudly, taking the Lady of Autumn in his home after she fled from her home, it was jaw-dropping.

The fallout had been nothing short of catastrophic, especially when you took in the bruised ego of the jaded Beron, but after the dust had settled it seemed things were returning back to normal.

Well, as normal as could be when you found out that your former best friend was now the future High Lord of Day.

And now here you stood at the grand doors of Helion's home, your hands clasped in front of you as you and a few of your friends awaited to join the festivities inside. They had invited everyone in Prythian to celebrate and boy was it a party.

Music was flowing, bodies were moving, and it screamed Helion. While the party was supposed to be for Lucien you knew the kind of things the former got up to and weren't surprised by how...intimate things seemed to be.

You were surprised, however, when you heard your name being called by a voice you had yearned to hear for several decades.

"Y/N!" Lucien shouted, his white robe hugging his muscular form as a sun ray crown sit atop his russet hair.

Your feet led you directly to him before you could let the fear seep through at seeing him after so long, your eyes wide as you came to a stop in front of him. "Lucien...I can't believe it's you."

He wrapped his arms around you and held you close, squeezing you as if you might vanish, and you returned the gesture immediately. It felt like no time had passed at all as you both held each other for several moments.

"I've missed you dearly, Y/N." He said into your hair before pulling away, though his hands stayed holding your upper arms. "You have no idea how good it is to see you. I've done nothing but regret how I left you."

"Hey, I understand. You had to leave. It wasn't like you were given a choice." You reassure him with a smile, breathing in his familiar scent. "I'm just glad you haven't forgotten me after all this time."

"Forget you?" He scoffed, his gaze incredulous. "How could I forget my best friend? The girl who's been by my side since we were toddlers?"

His words dug into your soul like a knife and you were taken back to your teenage years, to the feeling of rejection as you knew he saw you only as a friend. All the longing stares, late-night conversations, it was all in your head. You were just a friend.

And you thought you could live with that, you really did. Even before you came you had reassured yourself that it was only friendship that had him inviting you. But now you weren't so sure.

Your smile was forced as you nodded and stepped back, watching as confusion flashed across his face. "Yes, best friends forever right?"

Lucien could sense how off the phrase was, how off you were, and he wanted to get to the bottom of it.

"Is everything alright?" His voice was low as he stepped closer to you, his lips close to your cheek. Your lips parted in surprise as you gazed up at him through your lashes, his presence intoxicating. "You're flushed."

"I'm, I'm alright." You swallowed thickly. "Though I do believe you should step back. You wouldn't want to give people the wrong idea."

"And what would that be?" His question was genuine though you could tell by his hooded eyelids that he was also affected by the closeness of your bodies, if only on a basic level.

"That we're...you know," You move your hand to motion between the two of you. "Together. We're just friends. I would hate for your girlfriend or mate to see us like this."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Lucien smirked, glancing around the party. "Us being together that is."

"It's not something you want so I would assume it is a bad thing." You frown, eyebrows furrowed as his head cocked to the side. The two of you used to tease each other like this often as young teens but now you didn't understand the game he was getting at. "People are staring."

"How do you know what I want, Y/N?" He murmured, two fingers catching your chin to turn your face back to his. "I feel like I've been dropping hints since we were young. Unless the feelings aren't reciprocated I don't think you understand who I've been chasing after."

"This isn't funny, Luc." You step back, crossing your arms, but before you can turn and leave he has you cornered in between a wall and his body. The air between you is thick as he stares at you intensely.

"I'm not trying to be funny. I've wanted to be with you since the Autumn Court. You have been the only person in my life who has truly gotten me, who truly understood my pain and what I've been through." His words were rushed but his voice was soft. "I've loved you since I could understand what the word meant. I just thought you didn't feel the same."

You took a moment to process the information, your head spinning as you played back every encounter with him. Had you been so dense that you didn't notice? So blind to your own insecurities that you didn't see the man who you were in love with watching you the same way you did him?

"Are you telling the truth? You've truly loved me this entire time?" You breathed, a shaky hand coming to cup his face. "How could I have been so blind?"

"Allow me to let you see clearly then." He purred before kissing you tenderly, his lips molding perfectly against your own. It sent sparks shooting through your body and made butterflies erupt in your stomach as you lost yourself in him.

It was the kiss you had been dreaming of for years and now that you had it...you never wanted it to stop.

[sinnohelitefourlore]

"The greatest fear of all is not death itself but the fear of being utterly helpless in the face of overwhelming power. War forces men to become something they are not, or lose everything they have. The idea that one can simply avoid battle is a luxury for those who do not face the brutal reality of survival. To be in battle is to face this primal fear, and to do so is the highest test of man's nature."

– Thucydides In Hoenn, they were fearful.

This is really bad, Tate Arwin communicated telepathically to his twin, in midst of the quietness of Mossdeep City. The city was still, and the clock was ticking, and it was only a matter of time until Hoenn would join the other regions of exploding into chaos. Hoennians fearfully retreated into their homes after hearing what was going on all over the world after the release of Iris's statement on a late night show. Liza looked away from her brother. We shall endure, was her reply, the same reply she had given in Striaton's restaurant.

"You are here because of your grandfather, yes, but you can do something in spite of that. The Hoenn league has faith in you, if we didn't we would have put one of your grandfather's gym trainers there instead. Please, Flannery. Don't quit. You can't lose your composure over this. You're good, but you can be great." For the first time since she became a gym leader, Flannery Moore truly realized what it meant to be a league member, what it meant to be considered great. To defend her homeland and community with everything she had and more. That's when another thing hit her. If she did happen to die for it, then so be it. Not everyone was assured a long life like Barty Pollack, but she could give herself a significant death - that she did more than what a gym leader was expected for someone who had grown up in peaceful times.

Brawly spotted a Kirlia in the distance. His ears were ringing. And Brawly did what no other league member would do when the gunpowder bursted in all five regions.

What emerged from Wattson's apartment was so ghastly it was beyond naming, but afterwards his apartment gave no indication that trainers were even there.

Juan saw the Electrode hidden behind the Sootopolis gym. It had a look in its eyes, its sight set on Wallace, who didn't seem to notice the electric-type Pokemon. Juan did, though. Electrode were fast. Juan knew that from working with Wattson over the years, and it was arguably one of the fastest Pokemon in the world. Juan also knew what it looked like when an Electrode was going to surge forward and attack. Juan made eye contact with the Electrode and he knew what was about to happen and all Juan could see was the little boy he vowed to protect after his father abandoned him. Electrode closed its eyes as sparks radiated from its body... Juan ran, faster than he moved in decades, and jumped in front of Wallace.

"Leader Roxanne, can you hear us?" Roxanne nodded. It hurt to do so. Arceus, everything hurt. The world around Roxanne Boudrot was on fire, and no one was answering her question.

"Extreme speed," May ordered the Dragonite she still hadn't explained that she had somehow acquired. In a flash, Dragonite shot forward, dispatching a pair consisting of a Darmanitan and a Dodrio that were several feet away from hitting Drake and Norman. May eyed the two trainers who had launched that attack. "Dragon pulse." When they were in Johto, right before Norman became a gym leader, May was playing with dolls.

~Sneak Peak of the League Chronicles, Chapter 65- Hoenn - Link: Ao3

[twilightbl]

[BL Twilight Fanfic] <- LINK

┃Chapter 1 / Edward POV┃

I — Eyes Through the Trees

Edward POV

———

Hunting.

Hunting no longer meant anything. Not to me, at least.

Even now, with the need humming dully in my muscles, the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other felt heavier than usual, as if every movement were a worn-out repetition.

Emmett was moving ahead to my left, crashing through the underbrush with the clumsy, elemental joy of a child toppling over building blocks. He was easily entertained. Jasper stayed farther forward, motionless at times, as if the wind whispered things to him the rest of us couldn’t hear. His face was turned to the east, the cold breeze brushing his cheeks while the damp scent of soil, pine needles, and the musky trail of a sluggish bear reached him in layers.

My own prey—a lean, fast cougar—lay forgotten several yards behind us. Beautiful in a way that, decades ago, might have stirred something like consciousness in me. But now… it was just flesh. Its scent stirred nothing. The warmth of its blood brought no comfort. Hunger had become a dead need, satisfied out of habit, devoid of spark.

I didn’t even bother wiping the blood from my lips.

Alice trailed behind us, silent, arms crossed and eyes locked on her mate’s every move. She’d only joined the hunt to stay close to Jasper. She preferred to hunt alone, she always said, and it was true. According to her, watching Emmett feed was like watching a bulldozer try to dance.

We weren’t far from human paths. Remote territory, yes—but still inhabited. Jasper kept angling his nose toward the east, then north.

And then his body went still.

It wasn’t instinctual. It was deeper. As if something invisible had struck him.

His head snapped east, nostrils flaring, silence broken.

“What is it?” Emmett asked, straightening up, lips still tinged red, his head tilted toward the breeze.

Jasper didn’t answer.

Alice’s expression changed instantly. Her voice turned sharp, clear.

“Jasper. Don’t.”

But he already had.

He bolted forward with a desperation I hadn’t seen in years. The undergrowth cracked behind him. The scent must have hit him hard—human. And recent. Not too close, but close enough to make him lose control.

“Damn it,” I muttered, and before Alice could move, I followed.

The wind lashed at my face as I ran—faster than Emmett, faster than Alice. The forest blurred past. I heard Jasper’s breathless gasps ahead of me, reckless, possessed. His thirst scraped against my senses like barbed wire. Emmett veered left to intercept him. Alice yelled something behind us—an order or a plea, I couldn’t tell. Her thoughts were a whirlwind.

And then I tasted it.

Not with the anticipated delight of satisfied instinct, nor with the heady intoxication of thirst. It hit suddenly and precisely, like someone whispering the name of a memory I thought extinct.

Blood.

Two distinct heartbeats reached me like discordant notes from the same score: one erratic, fast, stumbling—a drum out of rhythm. The other more measured, steady, though not entirely calm.

The image struck like a lone vision: a flash of warped metal, the dull snap of plastic breaking, the venomous hiss of a radiator bleeding steam onto damp gravel. A ruined motorcycle by the forest, and a trail of blood sliding down the bark of a tree like ink too thick to flow.

We reached him just as Jasper skidded to a halt, his pupils blown wide like an animal caught in a flashlight beam. The change was abrupt. Violent. His entire body convulsed as if the connection between his will and his mind had been torn out. Emmett moved instantly—a mechanical gesture from someone who’d lived through this theater before—and pinned him to the leafy ground with a strength almost casual. Jasper growled, chest trembling, jaw unhinged, his teeth bared in a gesture older than language. Thirst. We all knew it.

But I didn’t stop.

Not out of discipline. Not out of disdain. My attention had already shifted.

I slipped between trees with the automatic rhythm of someone who’d run that trail a thousand times. Something was pulling me—not like a call, not like a command. More like a barely perceptible dissonance breaking the forest’s harmony. Like a word in a language I didn’t remember learning.

And then the woods parted.

A break of gray light cut through the trees, revealing the dirt road slicing through the brush. There, just around a curve, I saw them. Not clearly. Just as one sees through water—forms distorted by urgency.

Two human figures.

One of them, a young man, maybe in his twenties, with an arm curled in pain. Blood ran down his skin with a clarity that needed no eyes to sense—only breath. His scent was sharp, mineral, clean like new metal. A poorly contained fracture. He was leaning against the wreckage of a motorcycle, body tilted, almost collapsing. His mind was dazed and irritated, trying to pull itself together, cursing nonstop.

And the other—

The other made me stop.

Not because he posed a threat. Not because I recognized him. Not because he said or did anything.

But because my mind—having already cataloged and stored away every relevant stimulus—refused to move forward. As if it would not process him.

He was younger. Perhaps my apparent age. Kneeling in the soaked dirt, his jeans torn where the rocks bit into him. There was blood on his face—a thin line running from his nose to the corner of his mouth, an uneven trail staining the pale skin of his chin—but… there was nothing.

Nothing.

I couldn’t smell him. I couldn’t feel his blood. I couldn’t taste him.

It was like looking at a photograph of something that should have been happening in front of me. My body registered the signs—the injury, the muscle tension, the low drumming of his heart, the shallow whisper of his unsteady breath—but none of it triggered the mechanisms that had damned me so many times before.

His heart was beating, yes. I could hear it clearly: a soft, restrained thud, as though it were shackled. As though it beat underwater. I watched him struggle to rise, his body tilting to one side, shielding an injured leg. And still, not a flicker of scent, not a single molecule stirred the faintest hint of hunger in me.

It was as if the air itself refused to speak of him.

I narrowed my eyes, doubting my own senses for a moment. There was blood staining his clothes. I could see it. His sweater soaked in dark red. A thin line trailing down his neck, clinging to his collarbone. His presence was undeniable, physical, defined… and yet incomplete.

Weak blood, I told myself.

Too diluted, maybe. Mixed with the acrid bite of oil, the burnt grease of the engine, the heavy stench of antifreeze pooling over wet stone, the earthy perfume of rotting vegetation wrapping everything like a shroud. The lichens of the northwest, decomposing leaves, the fungi thriving beneath the brush in cycles that had nothing to do with human time. Maybe his scent was simply lost in that saturated ecosystem. Maybe his blood was so insignificant the forest devoured it before it ever reached me.

But I couldn’t stop looking. And that was... inconvenient.

He wasn’t calling for help. He wasn’t screaming. He didn’t even seem concerned about the wound slowly soaking through the denim on his leg. His attention was... elsewhere. Not drifting, not frantic—focused, in a kind of measured curiosity. His eyes moved with a cadence that had nothing to do with panic or pain. He scanned the surroundings, yes, but not like someone seeking aid. More like someone searching for meaning. He studied the exposed roots of trees, the patches of mud, the scattered fragments of a shattered headlight... as if trying to reconstruct something.

And then he looked up.

Not directly, not as a human would upon sensing movement, but with a subtle, minimal shift. The tilt of his brow, the faint change in his focus. So slight I might have missed it. But...

Was he looking at me?

No. That wasn’t possible. I was deep within the woods, cloaked by the mist curling around the branches like an ancient breath. The fog was thick, and I was shadow. Motionless. Camouflaged by centuries of practice and a will older than my body. No one should have seen me. No human could.

And yet, his brow furrowed.

And I went perfectly still.

Though I already was. My muscles hadn’t moved since I saw him. My breath, nonexistent. A statue carved from shadow. But for one instant, that gesture—the frown, the flicker of curiosity—sparked something I hadn’t anticipated: a fissure. Not of emotion. Of attention. As if some part of me—the part I believed dormant—wanted to make sure that hadn’t been a coincidence.

In my mind, my siblings’ thoughts blurred like muffled echoes behind glass. And then, suddenly, a human voice burst into my head with grating sharpness—a familiar, dissonant vibration:

“This is the third time this month. Fixing this piece of junk is costing me more than it’s worth. I told him not to come. Should’ve left him home. Damn kid…”

The older boy. The other one. Of course. His mind was as loud as any human’s. Frustration, boredom, small flickers of guilt masked as anger. He stared at the wrecked motorcycle like the twisted metal might give him back what he’d lost. Time. Money.

“Blake, stop wasting time and help me gather the parts,” he growled, not even bothering to look at the boy.

Blake.

A name, finally.

The boy lifted his head slowly, as if the sound had reached him from very far away. He nodded without speaking. His expression didn’t change. There was no annoyance. No resentment or pain, despite the way his leg trembled under the uneven weight of his body. Blood still trickled down his pant leg, a warning left ignored. But he said nothing. He didn’t sigh. He didn’t complain.

Passive. Not with resignation, but with acceptance. As if he already knew the weight of every word before it was spoken.

And I, for the second time in that endless minute, tried once again to reach into his mind.

Not out of habit. Not for simple surveillance.

I needed to.

I wanted to know if he had sensed me. If that gesture toward the woods had been… something more. A coincidence wouldn’t have stopped me like this. It wouldn’t have shaken a certainty I had carried for too long.

I focused all my attention on him.

I tried to touch his mind.

And found nothing.

Not the usual silence that sometimes accompanies shallow human thoughts. This was something thicker. More complete. Like a polished surface that reflected no light. An invisible wall without texture. My gift didn’t slide off it—it bounced. There wasn’t a closed door. There was no architecture at all. As if the space where his consciousness ought to exist simply hadn’t been designed to be accessed. As if my ability didn’t even know how to recognize it.

And then I felt it.

A faint hum, barely perceptible, just behind my inner ear. Something that wasn’t sound or touch, yet sparked the exact sensation of electric contact. Not painful. But unnatural.

A kind of static.

“Edward?”

Alice’s voice reached me like a rope thrown down from the surface. It forced me back.

“We have to go,” I said. My voice came out rougher than I intended. “They’ll find them soon. Rangers, maybe. They’re less than ten minutes away.”

Jasper was still straining against Emmett, his body thrumming with poorly restrained desire. Alice, calm as rain, laid a hand on his arm.

“Jasper. Come back.”

And he did. To his body, to himself. To us. Barely.

I didn’t look at them as we left. I didn’t look back. Emmett still held Jasper firmly, though his mind had already drifted toward another memory. Alice whispered details about the approaching patrols. Possibilities. Branching outcomes. The exact second each route would close.

And I said nothing.

Not because I was concerned for Jasper.

My silence came from somewhere else.

Because what had just happened was not ordinary.

And I have never liked not understanding.

[bambiraptor9blog]

Thunderstruck

Another story for the keanuverse Spring Fling by @97keanu! :D

When I spun the wheel, I got:

Character: Ted "Theodore" Logan

Setting: Road Trip

Event: Thunderstorm

Ted x Me, Rated PG to T :)

Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I always hated the heat.

As far back as I could remember, the heat is what made the mile run at high school absolute torture. My calf muscles would bunch and seize without warning, my chest would constrict to the point that breathing was nearly impossible, and I was drenched in sweat. I felt like collapsing with each heavy step. All while the coach would bellow my last name like I was an ailing racehorse dragging its sorry self through the mud trenches, begging for mercy in its brown eyes while the jockey on my back whipped and bounced along, forcing myself forward despite the utter agony. I always finished last. My mile run was always 13 minutes. And in the heat? 20.

Today was no different, despite the thunderstorm arriving over the desert ridge, and the decade afterward. My goal in life in my mid-twenties was to become a paleontologist, having read the book my father gave me by Roy Chapman Andrews, compelled to follow a dream that I didn’t realize wasn’t meant to be mine at all.

I was abandoned by my field crew, too weak to continue hiking and digging in the desert Sun. They left me by the parked cars in the basecamp, forced to do the drudgery of laundry and dishes—the proper place for a weak muscled woman like me. I cried for the first hour by myself, before fear seized me on hearing the thunder in the distance.

A spray-painted green van pulled up the dirt path to the basecamp site, and as if on cue, the thunder roiled again. Lightning sent a bolt down in the distance, a flash of light blinking for several seconds.

The rapidly strumming guitars of AC/DC were blasting in the van’s stereo system, the bass thumping so loud the ground shook, akin to the dinosaur that was being pulled from its grave several miles away.

I had stopped my cleaning, grateful for the distraction, and put my hands on my hips, staring at the newly arrived van. Perhaps these are the new volunteers for the week? I wondered. I was wearing khaki shorts that zipped into pants, my oversized plaid tee shirt fluttering against my skintight black Go Beach! tee shirt from college. My brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail. My lenses were smeared with sweat, dirt and tears, but I didn’t care.

“Hey Bill, I think we took a wrong turn, dude!” came a surfer dude inflection, which reflexively made me smile. The shuffling of road maps, and then another surfer dude voice:

“Ted, you’re reading the map backwards again! West is on the left!”

“Ohhhhhhhh!” this Ted person nodded. Both Bill and Ted turned then, to see me standing in the campsite, and turned to one another before getting out of the van.

“Yo—dude! Babe? We’re kinda lost,” Bill smiled at me. He was short but gangly, with a beat up gray crop top, oversized JNCO jeans, a mess of curly blonde hair, and glinting hazel eyes. He tilted his head when standing next to the young man beside him, while handing me the map.

“Bill—that’s an archaeologist babe!” Ted’s face was in stunned shock on staring at me. Ted was about a foot taller than Bill, also gangly. He had a mop of black hair that tousled in the wind of the oncoming storm, hiding his brown eyes that were wide on staring at me. His face was much longer, more angular than Bill’s, but he still had the soft roundness that teens had in their features, ‘babyface.’ He wore a Van Halen tee shirt under an unbuttoned black vest, his smiley face salmon pink windbreaker tied around his waist. His long black cargo shorts were patched up, his rolled over socks contrasting to his black and white Chucks. His legs were what drew my eyes—curse my attraction to a man with great legs!—and he noticed my stare with a big boyish grin that made my heart melt more than my body in the heat. With his grin, he tossed his hair, stood a little taller, folded his arms across his broad chest.

“I’m a paleontologist, actually.”

“What’s that?” Bill pursed his lips as I turned the map around, trying to figure out what road we arrived on. I was as bad at map reading as Ted was, but I didn’t dare to admit that. These guys needed my help, and were counting on me.

“I dig up dinosaurs,” I sighed, realizing that these two definitely shared a single brain cell, given their intense yet blank expressions. They were kind, but not the brightest.

“Whoa!” both Bill and Ted said at exactly the same time. I giggle-snorted at that.

“You can help us with our university’s history report!” Ted said in glee.

“Ted, I think dinosaurs are prehistoric,” Bill shook his head.

“Oh yeah!” Ted nodded. “Well! A great intro for it!” Bill sighed, nearly laughing now.

“The team I’m with is digging one up right now, from the rocks in the ridge over there…” I tossed my head back to the ridge behind us. The one where the thunderstorm was starting to rage now.

“Excellent!” Bill and Ted looked at one another with excitement, doing an air guitar. Somehow I heard a musical riff and I looked around, confused.

“But wait! Why aren’t you with ‘em?” Ted wondered after stopping the air guitar. Bill and Ted now wandered over to me, bent over the prep table in the makeshift kitchen. They looked around at the “clothesline” I crafted from bungee cords connected to bushes, at the disgusting blue porta-potty, at the series of tents leading to a wash, at the “sink area” with a single faucet that dripped ice cold water. The stack of dishes I was scrubbing. And at my shaking hands. My tear smeared glasses.

“Dude—I think she’s in trouble,” Bill whispered, somewhat loudly, to Ted. Ted leaned in to listen as I tried to work between them.

“Dude I know! She’s on dish duty! Ugh.”

“You think she knows where to go? She might be too upset.”

“I can hear you,” I sighed, frustrated now.

“Oh! Sorry,” Ted saw the hurt on my face, and his goofy smile faded into a pout.

“Guys…what road did you drive in from? This place is really far off the beaten track.”

“We don’t know!” Bill and Ted said in unison.

“See, we got lost when we were driving from the Grand Canyon tour we just did.”

“Yeah! And we wanted to pass through Vegas. But Bill wanted the scenic route! Ha!”

“Shut up, Ted!” Bill hissed, shoving him slightly, and Ted shoved back, grinning.

“Can you help us?” Ted wanted to know.

I wanted to cry again.

Then, the thunder startled all of us. Rain began to arrive, pelting the ground and the campsite with cold raindrops that started to grow in size much faster than expected.

“Hey, uh, let’s get into the van!” Ted suggested to me as I ran to my tent to get my things. I sensed a flash flood was arriving and I didn’t want to spend yet another night in my crappy tent in the pouring rain—the previous night my tent was nearly washed down the streambed into God knows where.

Ted waited for me, and untied his jacket. He held it over my head as I nearly bumped into him turning around from exiting my tent.

“Oh!” I startled, and he smiled again. His height helped shield me from the rain, too.

Bill already was in the van, turning the engine. “Come on, dudes! We gotta bail!” he called to us.

“You ready?” Ted wanted to know, tilting his head like a retriever.

I smiled, then felt it fade. My heart was pounding.

I’m leaving the team behind. Leaving my dreams behind. For what? Some lost surfer/skater guys in the rain? Some paleontologist I am, I derided myself.

But Ted saw my face, and said softly, “We can just sit and wait ‘til your team comes back. If that’s okay?”

I nodded, hoisting my daypack on my left shoulder and my heavy canvas duffel bag on my right. Ted saw me struggle and instantly offered his left shoulder.

“Dudes! Come on! It’s really pouring!” Bill shouted as Ted took my duffel bag.

“We’re coming!” Ted yelled back through the rain. He smiled down at me, and took my right hand in his left. “Whoa. You’re freezing! Here. C’mon. Let’s get inside the van!” And Ted led me through the rain to the van, making sure I could keep step with him all the way, watching for uneven footing or rocks. “Bill! Cut the engine dude! We gotta save gas.”

“Thank you,” I whimpered. “For helping me.” Bill stopped the engine and started to unlock the doors.

“Of course!” Ted grunted. “What—your team didn’t help ya? Some team!”

“They’re total dickweeds, huh?” Bill wanted to know. He grabbed the duffel as he opened the back doors to the van. “Whoa! This is super heavy! Jeez. Yeah. Total dickweeds. Most heinous!”

“Don’t worry. You’ve got us!” Ted smiled, reaching out his hands to me before I got into the back of the van. He gripped me and helped me up, and the thunder outside was so loud it shook the van.

“Whoa!” Bill and Ted said again.

“Some serious storm happening, huh Ted!” Bill looked up after making sure the doors were shut firmly, keeping out the rain.

“Yeah! It’s like, the storm of the century dude!” Ted agreed, looking up too.

“So metal. Being out in the middle of nowhere with the lightning like this.” They walked over to the seats in the front of the van, and I followed.

“Yeah…we’re gonna…”

“Ride the lightning, paleontologist babe!” Bill and Ted did yet another air guitar. Thunder and lightning struck the camp. They grinned at each other in the gloom, “Radical!”

I was shivering, hating this. Storms always scared me. I was in the bucket seat in the back, behind Bill in the driver’s seat and Ted in the passenger’s side.

“So. What kinda dinosaur are they digging up without ya?” Ted wondered softly, watching me with gentle intent.

“A sauropod,” I replied.

“Whoa—was it big mad?” Bill giggled. Ted laughed too.

“It was the biggest animal on Earth, besides the blue whale,” I informed them. Ted’s eyes went even wider, his brown irises disappearing in his black pupils.

“Whoaaaaaaa! That’s like…whoaaaaaa! So huge!” Ted tossed his head and hair back and forth like an overexcited dog. He held his arms out for a size comparison. “Like…how big is that though?”

“Ted! Blue whales are like, a hundred feet long dude!” Bill hit him on the shoulder playfully with the back of his right hand. “Remember? We learned that last semester.”

“Oh yeah! From biology class. That was even harder than the history class we did in San Dimas. We couldn’t use the booth either—” and Bill whacked him harder in the shoulder again, glaring at him to stop sharing that with me. “I mean…yeah.”

I raised an eyebrow at Ted and he put on a big goofy grin to distract me.

“You’re on tour?” I recognized the amp, the guitar cases, the drumkit equipment in the back of the van besides my duffel bag and daypack. The rain hammered the roof and sides of the van now.

“Yeah! Well it just finished.” Ted tilted his head back in the seat, keeping me in his peripheral view below his shaggy black hair.

“Oh cool!” I nodded. “My brother’s a musician…well. And so am I.”

“Whoa—really! That’s rad!” Bill and Ted gave me a ‘hang loose.’

“Yeah. I played the violin for a while. Since 4th grade.”

“That is a really long time.” Ted thought for a moment, a rare occurrence. Then, softly, “So why’d you give it up to do…ya know. This?”

“Ted!” Bill hissed at his best friend, irritated now. “That’s not cool to ask like that, dude!”

“Well she used to play! And she might be able to get Death to—ya know! Play better?”

“What?” I was confused by their back and forth.

“Uh—Death is the name of our bassist. He’s like, super metal. Shaves his head all the time, wears a black coat, has a scythe—” Ted went on, waving his arms in the process.

“The bass violin,” Bill explained while Ted rambled on, describing the Grim Reaper. I nodded at him, starting to understand why Ted asked that of me now.

“Plus, he’s really bad at chess. I had to show him how to move the knight. The knight always…”

“…makes an L shape,” Ted and I both said at once. Bill laughed and made an “ooooh!”

“Haha, nerds!” Bill chortled, weaving around in the driver’s seat, avoiding a toss of peanuts at his head from Ted.

We all stopped chatting once a sharp knock was heard at the back of the van.

Oh no, I thought. The PI…

“The van’s a rockin’, don’t come a knockin’!” Ted yelled and raised the volume on AC/DC’s song “Thunderstruck,” Bill snickering loudly.

“Oh princess!” came the angry voice through the back doors of the van. “You didn’t finish the dishes! Was the smack on your ass from earlier not enough encouragement for you?”

“Dude—that sounds totally gross,” Bill shot back, and the look on Ted’s face was barely contained rage.

“What—no way!” Ted got out of his seat, bending over, his hair hanging down, his eyes glinting in a dangerous way, like a caged tiger ready to strike.

“Is that your boyfriend? About time he showed up for you.”

“Who IS this guy?” Bill growled, and Ted shook his head.

“Whoever they are, they’re totally out of line!” Ted bunched his open hands into fists, weaving forward and back like a practiced kung fu master.

“Paleontologist babe?” Bill asked me, turning the key in the ignition, shifting from neutral to drive. “Whaddya say we bail? This place fucking blows!”

“Yeah! Come on the road with us!” Ted looked over at me, worried now. He saw me, sitting there, my knees pulled up to my chest. I was too scared now, lost in my tears, my body far away. “Babe?”

“A musician? Ha! What a loser. Where's your real job?”

“That’s it!” Ted ran to the doors at the back of the van. “You’re totally dead, dickweed!”

“Ted!” Bill cried. He looked at me, panicked. “Don’t die again, dude!” he whispered.

Ted threw open the doors of the van, only for it to be sitting on the beach, awash in mid-day sunlight.

The van was now a hotel suite, overlooking the turquoise waters of the Pacific Ocean. The doors were those folding French door kind, which Ted pushed open with an audible grunt.

And I was still asleep, buried in the puffy white sheets of the king sized bed.

“Hey,” Ted shuffled over to me, wrapped in a pink robe with a smiley face on the back. It reminded me of a boxer’s or prize fighter’s garb. He smelled like coffee, honey, and I stirred when he pressed his lips against my forehead tenderly. He noticed my tears. He wiped them away and sighed. “Babe? Babe. The bad dream again?” he wondered softly.

Ted rested his forehead against mine, and that boyish grin spread across his stubbled face, its wrinkles etched slightly against his skin as I opened my gunk covered brown eyes. I was so tired.

“Morning,” I mumbled. Ted grinned.

“I’m glad you chose to be here,” he whispered. “With me.”

“But I’m not a princess,” I sighed. He chuckled.

“So?” he pulled away for a moment to shrug, tilting his head, his black and gray hair wobbling with the motion. “You’re still awesome. And hey. You don’t have to ever go back to those boneheads. Okay?”

“Okay,” I nodded, wiping my eyes. Ted gave me tissues, sat with me in bed. He was tempted to get under the sheets again but waited for me to recover first.

“You had a bogus journey with them, but now things are most triumphant. And last night? Was beyond that.”

“Ted,” I blushed, feeling like the twenty-something when we first met.

“Diana,” he pressed his lips against mine, and sighed. “Everything is gonna be okay. We’re figuring this out. And I’m glad I took that wrong turn to find you. Maybe the wrong turn was what you were doing all along out there?”

“Maybe,” I nodded.

“Bill’s already downstairs. I bet he ate all the breakfast.” Ted got out of bed, nearly bouncing on the mattress, and dressed fast. He was half dressed, his jeans unbuttoned, his black boxer-briefs tight against his legs, his shirt half on, when I said:

“Ted?”

“Yeah?” he stopped, pulling down the Wyld Stallyns salmon tee.

“Can we get room service, instead?” I smiled sweetly, deviously. And Ted’s eyes went as wide as they did when he first saw me standing in the field camp.

He immediately called Bill and said, “Bill? I uh. I gotta stay up here.”

“What? Why?” Bill wedged some bacon between his teeth at the continental breakfast area.

“Just uh. Well. Uh…”

I dropped the top of the sheets and Ted swallowed hard.

“Ah,” Bill understood Ted’s strained grunts. “All right. More bacon for me!”

“I promise I won’t be late to our first set.”

“Ted. Just go, dude.”

“Right,” Ted nodded, staring at me anxiously, hanging up. He still was like a teen on a first date, after all these years. I found it so endearing. And I was so grateful for his tender embrace, far away from the thunderstorms of the past.

[whencyclopedia]

Weapons in the American Revolution

The American Revolutionary War (1775-1783) was a long and bitter conflict fought between Great Britain and its thirteen North American colonies over the Americans' liberties and, eventually, for the independence of the United States. The war, which was fought with both conventional linear tactics and guerilla-style warfare, utilized several different kinds of weapons for multiple styles of combat.

Some of the weapons used in the Revolutionary War had long been staples of European-style warfare. Variations of the flintlock musket, for instance, had been used in battle since the early 1600s and would continue to be used on Western battlefields for decades after the American Revolution had ended. Other weapons, like the groove-barreled Long Rifle, were relatively new additions to warfare; the rifle, used in a limited capacity during the Revolution, would see greater use on the later battlefields of the Napoleonic Wars (1803-1815) and American Civil War (1861-1865). Some weapons were useful in close-quarter combat such as the bayonet, tomahawk, and saber, while artillery guns were devastating at both long and short distances. None of the weapons discussed in this article were unique to the American Revolution. However, a quick description of the types of weapons used in that conflict could help give the reader a better understanding of what it may have been like to be on a battlefield during the US War of Independence.

Flintlock Muskets

The flintlock musket was the primary weapon of 18th-century European armies and was therefore used by both sides during the American Revolution. A musket was a muzzle-loading, smoothbore weapon that fired a large lead ball with reasonably decent accuracy. By the 1770s, a typical musket weighed about 10 lbs (4.5 kg), was about 5 ft (152 cm) in length, and had a caliber of about .75 (1.9 cm). A typical lead ball weighed about an ounce (28 g). As the name 'flintlock musket' suggests, such weapons relied on a flintlock mechanism to fire. This involved a piece of flint contained within the musket's cock, or hammer. When the trigger was pulled, the hammer would swing forward, causing the flint to strike a piece of steel called the 'frizzen'. This action created a spark that would fall into a flash pan below, wherein a small charge of black powder was contained. The spark would ignite the powder, which would, in turn, discharge the bullet from the gun barrel. By the time of the revolution, flintlocks had long been the most common kind of firearm; the flintlock had been developed in France in the early 1600s to replace the earlier matchlock and wheellock mechanisms and would remain in use until the mid-19th century.

Although the process of firing a flintlock musket sounds complicated on paper, a well-trained 18th-century soldier could typically fire three or four shots per minute. This is quite impressive, especially after considering what the loading process entails. A soldier would first take a pre-rolled musket cartridge – a paper tube containing gunpowder and a lead musket ball – and tear it open with his teeth. He would then pour a small amount of the powder into the flash pan and pour the rest down the muzzle. Next, the soldier would use a ramrod to pack the musket ball, powder, and paper of the cartridge down into the breech. Only after returning the ramrod to its place and fully cocking back the hammer was the soldier finally ready to take aim and fire.

The musket could be effectively fired from a range of about 80 yards (73 m); while it could sometimes be effective at a slightly greater range, musket balls rarely traveled more than 150 yards (137 m). The musket's accuracy largely depended, of course, on the man who wielded it. To increase the effectiveness of the weapon, 18th-century armies adopted the style of linear warfare; an individual musketeer was less likely to inflict damage than a line of soldiers firing coordinated, concentrated volleys. A typical battle line consisted of two or three ranks of soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder, with each man allowed just enough space to be able to present arms, fire, and reload. When the officer gave the order, the line of soldiers would fire in sync with one another (referred to as a musket volley); sometimes the first rank would kneel to give the second rank a better shot, thereby keeping up a higher rate of fire.

Continue reading...

[mementos-of-me]

Evermore

Chapter 41. I love you, I'm sorry.

Part 2

Previous chapter

Masterlist

This is a hefty chapter, but it's absolutely one of my favorites!

It's finally time to take care of some unfinished business <3

(We're on the eve of a reunion friends :^*)

pairing: Pietro Maximoff x OFC

warnings: Canon-typical violence, PTSD, Dreykov, all the feels.

It looked different from the outside, but inside it was the same.

The threshold laid before me, just a single step forward and I’d be engulfed by the walls that had once imprisoned me. I paused for a moment, watching the guards ahead of me drag an unconscious Yelena, Natasha, and Alexei into containment cells. Behind them, I watched Melina being carried into a cell; though she wore my likeness, it was exceptionally unnerving to witness. A deep, steadying breath filled my lungs, and I clenched my hands into fists at my side before taking that final step over the threshold and following the guards down the corridor. Synchronized footsteps echoed through the door of one of the rooms. I paused at the window, looking in to see a space that was modelled almost exactly the same as the original training rooms from the old Red Room; maybe a little more state-of-the-art, but nauseatingly familiar. Several young women were inside the room, weapons in hand as they followed through with one of their training sequences. Despite much of my childhood and identity being a mystery to me, this, I remembered like the back of my hand. I could do these steps in my sleep. All eyes in the room turned to me as I passed, recognition flashing over their faces but no other emotion present.

I continued on down the corridor, flanked by a single guard who waited outside the elevator as I entered. A set of wooden double doors sat before me, the last remaining barrier between me and a man I had not seen in a very long time. The man who haunted my dreams; the man who took the everything from me.

A buzzing sounded overhead just before the doors swung open. His office matched the entryway leading to it, wood and brick with glimmering, tasseled lightshades, ironically decadent for what it was. It looked just like the original. It seemed I was not the only one who had trouble letting go of the past.

In the center of it all, lounging very nonchalantly on a sofa was the man of the hour.

Dreykov.

Behind him, the armored man who’d been hunting us for the past few days stood guard, still as a statue, as if he was not even breathing.

“My God. Look at you.” He’d gotten old, even his voice reflected that. Though, the moment I heard it I had to fight to remain stoic. Every part of me threatening to tremble and sink back into itself. Dreykov stood from his seat as he continued. “So, uh, how was the family reunion?”

“Oh, it was awful.” I sighed, standing tall as he approached me, closer than I had been to him it over a decade. “They were clingy, and too emotional; needy.”

He chuckled at my words. “Just like old times, no?”

I hummed in agreement, moving my hands behind my back so he would not see how tightly I was clenching them. The leather of my gloves, the only thing stopping my nails from tearing into the flesh and drawing blood. My heart was racing so hard against my chest I was surprised he could not hear it. This feeling was not one I was particularly accustomed to anymore, this unsteadiness. I wasn’t sure if it was the familiarity of these walls or the man before me who was causing me to react this way. Whatever the reason, I chose to summon the feelings that lived beneath the fear, the simmering rage that infiltrated every fiber of my being. The feeling that threatened to boil me into ire and hatred incarnate and keep going until I was nothing but my fury.

“Yelena Belova. What’s the story with her? She was the only one affected, right?”

I nodded. “As far as I know, yes.”

“These gasses and antidotes… it’s a pain in my ass.” He was so close to me I could strike him in one hit, believing I was Melina had lulled him into a causal comfort that would make it so easy for me to attack him. Though I knew the pheromone lock would not allow me to. “It’s a problem. You need to sort it.” He spoke firmly.

“I have nine pigs that will require attending to in my absence.” I told him, attempting to keep up the charade.

Dreykov was speaking before I’d fully gotten the words out. “I don’t give a shit about your pigs.” He took a hold of my shoulders and forced me to sit in the chair opposite his very expensive looking desk. I gritted my teeth hard, using every ounce of strength I possessed to not shove his hands away from me as his hand came down over the top of my head, tilting it backward as he spoke in my ear. “Cut her brain out… Hmm? Identify the weakness.” I swallowed heavily before he moved to sit on the desk opposite me, leaning forward and gripping either arm of the chair, caging me in.

“What about Morozova and Romanoff?”

He scoffed. “Traitors, both of them. They turned their backs on their people, on their blood.” Dreykov shook his head, leaning into my face as he continued, venom dripping from his tongue. “Nadia Morozova,” He tsked. “She was nothing, a pathetic, scared little girl. I gave her a home; I gave her love. She is my greatest disappointment of all. Put that thing in her you do. You know the, uh, chemicals. Turn her into one of your pigs.” He spat. “Remind her what happens to traitors. Can you imagine what I could do with an Avenger under my control? Romanoff can meet the same fate.”

Then, it wasn’t so hard to summon the anger. It rose in me all on its own, threatening to pour out of me in a tidal wave of utter wrath. “Wouldn’t you like to speak to her first?” I responded cooly.

“When you look into the eyes of a child you have raised, you always know, no mask in the world can hide that.” He leaned back, hand lifting but I caught it before it could tap the mask trigger on my temple. Holding onto it roughly, I wanted to break his fucking hand, every bone in it, just to hear him cry but as quickly as I grabbed him the pheromone lock set in and jolted me, making me release my grip on his wrist. The mask deactivating felt like the tickling of a feather over my flesh, almost sending a shiver down my spine. When it cleared Dreykov pulled it from me, a smug look covering his face. “Nadia… my Nadia, you have come home at last. What a shame it is only to die.”  The armored man immediately drew his weapon, aiming it at me but Dreykov lifted his hand. “Now, now. Don’t go breaking my new toy.” I only thought of Yelena and Natasha. I hoped by now Yelena had found the blade we’d hidden in her belt and had freed herself from the medical room before the procedure had begun. Natasha had surely activated her tracker by now and Ross would be on his way. “Was this your plan?”

I tilted my head side to side, humming. “No, my plan is to kill you.”

“I’m alive.” He taunted. “So, what do we do now.”

Without missing a beat, I asked. “Who were my parents?”

He chuckled. “Ah, where I buried them, there was this lovely tree, with little yellow flowers on it, magnificent really. Reminded me of the grave I put Natasha’s mother in. Oh, I am really trying to remember the names inscribed on those tombstones.”

“You’re a liar.” I believed my words, though my heart still stuttered at what he was saying. “I know you, Dreykov, you are nothing if not vain. You would not have gone to all the trouble you did to turn me into this if my parents were not around to see it. I know the truth now, this was personal. So at least have dignity to say their names to my face.”

His lips curved upward as he watched me, a joyous smile spreading across his face. He nodded, once, twice, another laugh coming from him as he took his sweet time as if considering my question. “No.” A word so simple and insignificant yet it was everything, if there were no pheromone lock in place I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop myself from killing him on the spot. “That would defeat the purpose of all that work I did to ensure that you disappeared completely from their lives and all that effort dissolving them from yours, as if they never even existed.” The tone of his voice made it apparent just how much enjoyment he was deriving from this.

“You don’t even feel anything?” My eyes were stinging and no matter how much I fought it the sensation only worsened. “Did you feel something when your daughter was killed?” I gritted out.

“Ah, Natasha’s haunted past? Really? That is your big trump card?” He was downright giggling at me now. “I hope you get to thank your friend for me, she gave me my greatest weapon. Although, I suspect maybe she is already listening.” He tapped his ear to signify the comm he evidently realized I was wearing as he walked toward the armored figure that had not so much as slouched since holstering the gun. Dreykov wrapped his arm around the man. “Say hello.” He muttered. When the mask released and the helmet was lifted, I realized it was not a man at all, but a girl that did not appear much younger than me. Despite the scars that covered her skin, I recognized her right away, Antonia.

Dreykov’s daughter.

“When Natasha’s bomb exploded, it nearly killed my Antonia. I had to put a chip in the back of her neck. Look at her.” He gestured to the girl again. “Do you find it difficult to look at her?” Natasha had not so much as uttered a word over the comms. “I do. She… she watches everything, and she can do it. She’s a perfect mimic.” He entered my space again then. “She fights just like all of your friends. Tell me Natasha, do you want to make her feel better? Want to tell her you’re sorry? Well, you should have thought of that before you blew her face off.” He gritted right into my ear that held the comm. “But enough of all this bullshit.” He sighed, moving away from me finally. “Go to work, I have rats in the basement, go.” He ushered Antonia out of the room like she was nothing more than another faceless soldier. The second the door closed, I pulled the gun from my holster and aimed it at Dreykov’s head.

“That was not very smart.”

He huffed. “How so?”

“You just sent away the only thing that would’ve stopped me from killing you.”

He nodded, thoughtfully. “Try then, do it.” I gripped the gun hard, pressing the trigger as hard as I could even though I knew I’d never be able to fire at him. Still, I strained to pull it. “Is the safety off?” He taunted before pushing my hands to the side and taking the gun like it was nothing. “No?” He aimed the gun at the roof and fired it easily. “Try your knife.” Before the words were even out of his lips I was swinging the blade at him. He caught my wrist and took my weapon again before leaning into my face. “You’re in trouble.”

I swallowed my pride, playing along. “How are you controlling me?”

“I’m not controlling you, Nadia. Well, not yet, but there is a pheromonal lock. Smelling my pheromones prevents you from committing violence against me.” He lifted his hand to hit me, and I flinched away, another blow to my pride. This was not a very fun part to play. He turned away from me, walking back to his desk to take a seat. “I’m very upset with Melina. It’s a shame I have to kill her.” I thought of Antonia who was headed for the basement where Melina and Alexei were being held. He pulled a tablet from his desk drawer, a camera loading on the screen to reveal Melina in the server room attempting to initiate the landing sequence for Ross. “So, this was the big plan, huh? Melina was going to land the Red Room and hand me over to the authorities.” He hit a few buttons and locked her out.

“So, what now, you’re gonna fold me into your pathetic little puppeteer act?” I baited, time for my part of the plan.

Dreykov’s eyebrows rose at my words. “Pathetic, huh?”

I nodded. “Yeah, what would you call it?”

“I would call it-” I cut him off before he could continue.

“When was the last time that you had a conversation with somebody that wasn’t forced to talk to you?” I began toward his desk.

He huffed. “You ran away to fight in the wrong war. The real war was fought here, in the shadows.”

His words had me breathing a laugh. “You didn’t fight in the shadows. You hid in the dark.”

“Real power comes from undetectable influence.”

My eyebrows rose and I planted my hands on the wood on his desk, leaning forward to talk to him just as he’d spoke to me so many times, superiority dripping from every syllable. “If no one’s noticing, then why even do it? I mean to everyone else in the world… You are nothing.” He hummed, looking away in attempted nonchalance. However, I had spent half my life being trained to observe every shift in a person's demeanor no matter how subtle. I knew I was digging my way under his skin, just the place I wanted to be. “You have nothing.”

“There are 50 people on this planet…”

I scoffed loudly. “Oh, stop it.”

He snapped then, slamming his hands against the table and standing, attempting to make himself big. “Don’t tell me to stop!” He shouted.

This time I didn’t flinch, the fearful girl from before was long gone. I leaned further into his space. “If I don’t tell you when to stop, then how will you know when to shut up?”

The impact of his punch forced me backward off of the desk, my head swinging to the side. I grunted, swinging my jaw back and forth to relieve the ache there. “Come on. You really think I can’t take a punch?” My words were laced with amusement as I laughed theatrically at him.

Dreykov rounded his desk. “Oh.” He hummed, his fist slamming into my jaw yet again, harder this time, causing me to stumble slightly. The man before me grunted with exertion.

“God damn it, you’re so weak.” I taunted, my laughter only growing.

His teeth were gritted so tightly I’m surprised they hadn’t cracked. “Weak?”

“Easier to act tough in front of defenseless little girls, no?”

“That’s enough.” He growled and punched me again, so hard I fell to the ground, unable to hide the sound that fell from my lips. I quickly moved to perch on the ground, readying myself for his next move, an amused look quickly spreading across my face, despite the pain that thrummed through me.

Dreykov kicked me back down to the ground. “You wouldn’t be so glib if you had any notion of the scope of what I’ve built.” I move back to my knees, attempting to wipe that blood that dripped from my nose. “I own this world. Me.” He insisted.

I scoffed yet again. “You seem desperate to impress me.”

“I don’t need to impress you. I don’t need to impress anyone.” He turned away from me quickly, presumably to hide the anger. His chair squeaked as he yanked it roughly out from the desk so that he could pull out a drawer with a scan pad on it. “These world leaders, these great men, they answer to me and my widows.” He scanned the large ring her wore on his pinkie, bringing up a hologram map of the world with innumerable glowing dots. “Look at them. These girls were trash. They are thrown out into the street. I recycle the trash. And I give them purpose. I give them a life.” On the screen several images appeared, profiles of each widow, countless girls that he’d subjugated, girls who were nothing to him, just a means to an end.

I heard Yelena, Natasha and Melina communicating over the comms. Yelena and Nat had the vials, but Melina was having trouble.

Dreykov spoke again then. “It’s my network of widows that help me control the scales of power. One command, the oil and stock markets crumble. One command, and a quarter of the planet will starve. My widows can start and end wars. They can make and break kings.” I saw it all before my eyes, all of the destruction, the suffering that he took pleasure in, it was all revealed to me. “And with you and Natasha, Avengers under my control, I can finally come out of the shadows using the only natural resource that the world has too much of. Girls.”

My skin felt hot as the dormant anger that had lived within me for all these years roared to life. “All that from your little console, Dreykov?”

“That’s General Dreykov to you, girl.” He thought it was a reprimand, a reminder of who had the power in this dynamic, however, all it did was reassure me that I’d rattled him. My lips curved upward. “Oh, you find this amusing? Why are you smiling?”

“Don’t take it personal, but, uh… Thank you for your cooperation. Though, you weren’t quite strong enough, so… I’ll have to finish it myself.”

My conversation with Melina’s echoed through my head.

“Even if you locate the database and get him to show you the key, you won’t be able to take it from him. For years, Dreykov has implemented a pheromonal lock in all widows, even me. So, as long as we can smell him, then we won’t be able to hurt him.

I shrugged. “So, I’ll hold my breath.”

“Not enough. This is basic science. Nadia, to block receptors in olfactory center, you have to sever the nerve.”

Dreykov chuckled again. “What are you going to do?”

I slammed my face against the desk as hard as I could, a sickening crunch filling the room as I broke my own nose. “Sever the nerve.” I felt the trickle of blood down to my lips but only smiled at the bemused man before me. “Why the long face? After all, it was you who wanted me to learn how to dismantle someone from the inside out. Tell me… how do you like having your own lessons used against you. Do you feel something now, General Dreykov?” Even when dripping with mockery, attributing a title of any rank to him made me sick to my stomach. When the reality of the situation dawned on him, he quickly reached for the tablet, but I was quicker, I grabbed his hand yanking it forward over the table and away from the device before unsheathing the knife in my belt and driving it through the back of his hand until it anchored his limb to the wood of his desk. I slipped the ring from his finger before letting go. He cried out in agony, knees buckling. So caught up in his pain that he did not even notice that I’d taken his ring. He looked like he’d seen a ghost as the blood dripped down his flesh.

The ship trembled beneath my feet causing me to stumble slightly and red lights began flashing around me, alarms ringing throughout the rooms. Melina’s voice came across the comms then. “Girls, slight change of plan. I completely demolished one of the engines and we are going into a controlled crash.”

“Fantastic. Natasha and I are heading to the widows now.” Yelena responded.

I breathed a small laugh as the room shook, his fancy glass chandeliers swaying heavily. I leant onto the handle causing it to wedge further into the wood and wiggle within Dreykov’s hand causing another shout of utter agony to wretch from his lips. “Oh, don’t worry, it’s like you said to me… pain…” I wiggled the handle again. He was pale as a ghost as I continued. “It’s just weakness leaving the body.” I finally pulled the knife out of the desk and his hand, causing him to crumple fully to the floor. He scrambled to catch himself, using his unaffected hand and elbows to drag himself away, though he didn’t get far before I kicked him in the side to make him roll over onto his back. “Not so talkative now, are you?” He moved back to his feet but I roundhouse kicked him, causing him to slam into his desk before falling to the ground again. “You took my childhood; you took my will, my choices; you took everything from me to try and break me, but you’re never gonna do that to anybody ever again.” I grabbed him by the collar, slamming him back onto the concrete and swiftly moving to pin him down.

“The only part of it I regret… is not making you suffer more, my little pet.” He managed to grunt out over the pain.

I nodded, a smile spreading across my lips. It was like I could feel flames licking at my skin as I raised my fist with the knife in it, still dripping with his blood. I gritted my teeth, the rage that lived within me clawed its way further up, it had seeped from beneath my flesh and now I was covered in it. “Goodbye, Dreykov.” I muttered. This was it, the moment I’d been robbed of before, the retribution I’d needed for all these years. Dreykov’s life would be mine, the final piece to end this all for good. I’d once said that I hated him for what he did to me so much that hate was inadequate a word. He had taken everything from me, from so many girls. He had turned me into something I despised and taken pleasure in it. This was what he deserved. Yet, as I looked down at him, hand raised, knife clutched tightly in my fist, I recognized in his eye, for maybe the first time, fear, genuine dread and helplessness. This was a moment that had played out in my head a million times now, I’d imagine this look on his face numerous times. It should have been satisfactory; I should have been pleased by it. However, all I could think about was Oksana, the way he’d pressed my hand around the gun and encouraged me to pull the trigger, I thought of all of the lives I’d taken when the red controlled every part of me. But the red was gone now. Now, it was just me. The words Tony had said to me the day he revealed my new suit, echoed through my head.

“now, you can control the red”

If I finished him, it would be in cold blood, with him lying vulnerable on the floor beneath me. As much as he may not want to die, he wanted to see my dissolution more. It occurred to me then that I was giving him exactly what he wanted. I was proving him right, being the person he wanted me to be, the one puppeteered by him. The one whose only purpose was to destroy. The red did not control me anymore, I controlled it.

Before I even had the chance to decide what my next move was every thought in my head shattered and agony overtook my body. I couldn’t move or speak as my body fell to the ground beside him, wracking with the pain of the widow’s byte that had been used on me.

I groaned with the echoes of the shock but rolled over quickly, forcing myself back to my feet before the group of widows that blocked the door. Dreykov moved through them easily. “Nobody leaves this room until she’s dead. Make her suffer.” Before he left the room he glanced back at me. “You know it has always been fascinating to me that you consider yourself an Avenger. Do you really think you are anything like your friends?” I raised an eyebrow at him. “Because you are nothing like them, Nadia. You are not a hero, it does not matter how hard you try, you will never be that. It isn’t who you are, it’s not in your DNA, I made sure of that.” With those words he turned and left.

The fact that his words had any effect on me at all was infuriating. I attempted to steel myself against them, but I could not deny that they ate away at me, corroding me inside out. Perhaps, it was nothing to do with who he was, but more to do with the fact that now the voice in the back of my head was not alone. I swallowed heavily, rolling my shoulders.

When the door was closed the group of women began to close in on me. “I don’t want to hurt you and you don’t want to hurt me.” Three of them launched forward swinging electrified batons at me, I ducked under it and pulled the girl who’d swung downward to disarm her and sweep her feet. Once I had her baton in hand, I narrowly blocked the next attack and shocked the girl who was coming at me before dropping to a knee and punching the third girl in the stomach and standing to grab her hand and point the baton away from me. I kept my grip strong as I swung her down to the ground and used the momentum to kick the widow running at me from behind. I finally got the baton from the previous girl and whirled around only to get stuck by yet another widow, the impact causing me to fall on top of Dreykov’s desk. “Okay so maybe you do want to hurt me.” I groaned to myself, turning over just in time to block another girl’s hit.

I aimed her arm toward one of the others and triggered the byte to incapacitate her. When I managed to slip from beneath her I forced her wrist away for me so she could not shock me, but she yanked away causing us to tumble over the desk in a battle to control. She punched me hard and tried to kick me over the furniture between us, but I caught her leg and yanked her over the desk to hit her. However, before my fist collided with her, I was tackled backward onto the ground. I kicked the one who had attacked me away and moved back to my feet swiftly, firing Widow’s bytes at as many of the women as I could. Most of them fell to the floor, but three grouped up to slam me into a pillar and hold their connected batons to my throat. I yanked the weapons apart and headbutted the girl in front me hard, the distraction enough to slip past the other two widows. But one of them caught me and threw me across the room, causing me to fall over the desk yet again, crumpling to the ground on the other side. By this time all the previously incapacitated widows were back on their feet, and they moved toward me. I pushed myself to my knees again, but someone’s boot slammed into my already aching face, causing me to fall back onto my stomach. I dragged myself away, but another boot collided with my head. I hit a baton away and kicked a girl’s foot to trip her before she could strike me, but it was no use as one of them grabbed me from behind, pulling me up and into a chokehold while they punched me and kicked me in the stomach, again and again.

Throughout the continuous hits all I could think about was Pietro. His letter had stuck to me like a second skin since I read it. All this time, I’d thought he hated me for what I’d done but I was completely wrong. I was not sure if that made it all better or much worse. It was a lot easier to throw myself into the fight thinking that he never wanted to see me again rather than realizing that if this was it for me, I would be leaving with so much left unsaid.

My body was in such immense amounts of pain and my mind so caught up in the thought of Pietro that I barely even registered the explosion overhead. When the blows had ceased and I collapsed forward onto my hands, I looked upward to see a flurry of glittering red specks descending on us. It was like the delicate fall of snow or rain only crimson. My body took the reins before I even had time to make a decision and I took a deep breath, filling my lungs to the brim. Finally, for just one moment there was silence; nothingness. But then every muscle in my body tensed sharply like electricity was pulsing through my every nerve ending. The flecks of red seeped into my skin, invading every part of me, my airways, my blood, my lungs. I felt it smooth over my mind last of all, penetrating every crevice of every thought and recollection and then it halted for a moment. I barely felt it hit the barrier in my mind over all the other sensations. The halt was short lived, however, as it wrapped itself around the wall, travelling along the expanse of it before digging in, pressing, constricting it from all sides until it completely shattered and suddenly my mind was filled with… everything. Images flickered past, moments, sounds, smells and sensations all overtook me, filling my head and if I wasn’t already kneeling, I was sure my knees would’ve buckled. That breath felt like the first real one I’d taken; it was like finally waking up after years of being half lidded; half conscious. I was barely even aware of where I was in the world. 

“Stars shining bright above you.”

A soft hand brushed a curl from my eyes and when I looked up, I saw the woman’s face with complete clarity. Her honeyed blonde hair, adoring brown eyes that reflected my own face. A single string of pearls hanging from her neck. “Night breezes seem to whisper…” she leaned in to press a gentle kiss to my forehead. “I love you.” 

A tug on my pigtail and then there was that familiar boy again, smiling so brightly down at me. He tightened the strap of my backpack and took my hand. “Come on, bug.” But where the moment stopped before and fizzled away to nothing it continued. I remember following along after the boy down the New York street, remembered how it felt to hold his hand and the easy conversation that flowed between us. The warm safety of his arm resting around my shoulders surrounded me. I recalled him reading to me late at night when I’d had a nightmare and sought him out for comfort. The dim glow from his bedside lamp painting everything in shades of gold as his voice pulled me to sleep. 

I could remember the way the way the peonies smelt in my mother’s garden and the soft crunch of sun-soaked grass beneath my feet. My mother… I had a mother.

“Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful girl.” There was a house on the coast, that was where the garden was. Summers spent in those halls flooded my mind, laughter pouring from room to room. We’d visit that house when my parents argued because my father worked too much. I could hear their voices so clearly it was like they were right there before me. 

My parents.

My brother. 

They were there; they had existed. They had belonged to me… I had belonged to them. I had been a part of a family, I remember now. 

I recalled sitting down for my Russian lessons when I was with Hydra, the headset that was strapped onto me day in day out, forcing me to adapt the language as my own.

And then I remembered a singular word, two syllables, the sound of it echoing through my head and wrapping tightly around me like an embrace. I could see it written, everywhere, the back of photographs, embroidered on my backpack. A word I had learned to spell, to sound out, a word that had always lived within me.

Though, the speed with which it all came back to me, the tidal wave of emotions and memories, threatened to swallow me whole; pull me beneath the surface and drown me in the breadth of it all. When it all came back to me it was still jumbled, like wading through a picture album that had been rearranged again and again and set back to front not once but endlessly. I couldn’t make sense of it.

But I remembered and the memories had not dissipated into vague moments like normal, no, they lived within me. They existed freely in my mind. Two sets of arms wrapped around me, pulling me to my feet and I cried out in pain as the jolt. When I opened my eyes, I saw Natasha and Yelena, pulling me from the center of the group and helping me stand upright.

A voice piped up then, though, she spoke in Finnish. “What do we do now?”

“You get as far away from here as possible. You get to make your own choices now.” Natasha said. The sound of metal groaning filled the room and the tower crumbled further. “We’ve gotta get out of here.” She added. Nudging me toward Yelena.

I shook my head, grabbing her by the hand, pressing the ring into her palm. “Dreykov’s files. We have to get them.”

Natasha nodded. “You two go. Find Dreykov, I’m right behind you.” She said, running back into the room. I hesitated, glancing between her and Yelena. “Nadia, go, I’m right behind you. I promise.”

With those words she turned to the drawer and began opening the digital files again.

Yelena tugged me hard toward the door before exiting herself. I wrapped my hands around my nose, forcing it back into place with a cry before finally turning and following her out as the tower continued to rattle and crumble. We took the stairs two at a time, rushing through the rooms to get out onto the landing platform where Dreykov was being ushered to a helicopter to be airlifted out. We made it out of the building just in time to see which one he boarded. Another jolt in the tower’s structure caused me to be thrown forward onto the tarmac as Yelena aimed her grapple rope onto the helicopters roof to launch herself atop it. She climbed up onto the wing as it began to ascend, pulling out her own electrified baton and holding it above her head victoriously.

I yelled her name, moving to my feet once more and running forward. She looked down at me, a small smile on her face. “This was fun.” She called down before jamming the baton into the engine causing the entire helicopter to erupt into flames, throwing her backward.

Without another thought I ran forward, grabbing the parachute that had been discarded and leaping from the platform. Wind whipped around me as I fell, gripping the bag tightly. In the distance I heard my name, a glance back, hard as it was to see through the chaos of the collapsing tower, revealed Natasha hot on my tail. I pulled my limbs in tightly allowing me to soar downward toward Yelena who continued to freefall.

The dread in the pit of my stomach did not settle until I reached her, strapping the backpack to her and holding on tightly to the straps as I launched the parachute, slowing our descent. She stared at me wordlessly the whole time, eyebrows slightly knitted together.

I was breathing hard, my heart still racing, hands a little shaky. “The Red Room was death.” I spoke up, unprompted by her. “I let you die alone once… I’m not doing it again.” I spoke. She didn’t respond, only continuing to stare at me. I grabbed a hold of Natasha’s hand as she neared us, Yelena taking the other, our descent beginning to pick up again. The trio was short-lived however, as we spotted Antonia approaching rapidly. Without uttering a word to either of us, Natasha moved to shove us away propelling herself out of our proximity and toward the very insistent assassin. “Natasha!” I shouted, reaching out for her again but she was already too far out of reach. She managed to avoid Antonia’s knife as she grappled onto her and launched the girls parachute, slowing their descent just enough to save them as they crashed into the ground. It was then I realized how close we were to the ground and how quickly we were still going. I grabbed Yelena’s hands tightly in mine. “I’m sorry, Yelena.” And with that I let go, allowing the parachute to slow her landing without the weight of an extra person.

The impact of the ground was the last thing I fell into darkness.

Whether it was a moment or an hour that passed I couldn’t be sure but when I opened my eyes Yelena and Natasha leaned over me. “Always so dramatic.” Yelena tsked teasingly. The two women took each of my hands and pulled me back to my feet. She gestured between herself and Natasha. “We had a whole moment, and you missed it.”

“So sorry.” I breathed as I rubbed my temples to soothe the pain that thudded in my head. Natasha wandered over to Antonia who laid on her back staring up at the sky and was, most notably, not trying to kill any of us. I narrowed my eyes at the pair. “Exactly how much did I miss?”

“A lot.” Yelena nodded. Looking away for a long moment. She sighed and rubbed a hand over her face, it was evident that there was something she wanted to say but was struggling to find the words. “You know, I have been so mad at you for so long. Mad that you and Natasha always had your little duo that I wasn’t a part of, with all of your secrets that I didn’t get to know. I was mad that I was constantly on the outside, mad that she told you she was leaving but not me. Then I was mad because I realized that she didn’t tell you at all and you were just protecting me all along and I didn’t even know.” Her voice cracked then, just as it had at the dining table in Melina’s cottage. “I was so furious that you had taken their relentless interrogation and torture all while shielding me. You weren’t supposed to do that; you were the baby; I was supposed to protect you…”

I had not realized that she knew about all of that. It was all so vivid in my mind, like it was only yesterday. It is like she said before, after Natasha escaped, they wanted to make sure no one else could. They knew we were close, all three of us. She must have left clues for at least one of us. They wanted to torture Yelena and I both to get the answers. So, I had to change their minds. I made sure they thought Yelena was nothing but a bothersome little sister. Natasha never told me she was defecting, all she left was the post card after she was gone, but I knew nothing before that. After I realized that they would have brought Yelena into it I told them that I did know, that Natasha had hinted it to me but I’d assumed she meant nothing by it. Then I said:

“I made sure that she never poisoned Yelena’s mind with her weakness.”

I supposed I figured I was Dreykov’s protégé, he would not want me to be killed and if he changed his mind, well, after weeks of torture death did not seem such a terrible fate. It did not matter to me as long as I shielded Yelena from it.

“Yelena-” before I could continue, she was cutting me off, tears brimming her green eyes making them gleam.

“Why did you do that?! They tortured you for days, he sent you to die on that mission in St. Petersburg. It was not a coincidence that they reassigned you at the last second, Nadia, it was a suicide mission. He did it because he knew he could not control you anymore, he knew that even their fucking chemicals weren’t strong enough.”

It all made perfect sense to me then. That Hydra agent had been waiting for me, he was sent to kill me. Everything made sense now. I had begun remembering; reverting, in the Red Room, that’s why Barnes was sent away. Hydra didn’t want to risk one of their assets getting out of containment, they were all in on it. It was all there, readily available to me in my memories, jumbled, but there when I looked for it. It all felt so overwhelming.

“God, he’s an asshole.” I murmured.

When I looked back at Yelena her eyes were gleaming with the tears that now made a steady stream down her cheeks. A frown etched into her expression as she shoved me half-heartedly. “Why? Why couldn’t you just let me take some of the pain?”

“Because I love you!” The tears came before I could stop them, like torrential rain out of nowhere. “I know that I was never a part of you and Natasha’s little family in Ohio, but you were my family; both of you. I couldn’t let them do to you what they were doing to me.”  It was like a weight off my chest, as if those three words had set me free. My head was spinning from the high of it. It occurred to me that I’d never told someone I loved them before, never admitted to feeling so deeply for anyone, but then my newly acquired memories told me otherwise. I had said those words before, just not since before the Red Room. I had, however, felt them since.

Before I could process what was going on, Yelena pulled me into a tight embrace, barely allowing me space to breathe. I hesitated, arms twitching at my sides, inching forward before lowering again. After a moment of indecision, I stopped myself, taking a breath and wrapping my arms around her. When Natasha approached once more, smile on her face I yanked her forward by the hand and in a gesture that was not like me at all I embraced both of them at the same time.

“You are a part of our family.” Yelena murmured so quietly I would never have heard it if I weren’t this close.

“Сестры.” Natasha added.

Sisters.

“This is a very sweet moment.” I heard Alexei call, causing me to lift my head from Yelena’s shoulder to see him and a limping Melina.

My head was thumping, my entire body almost numb from the combined pains of the day, so much so that I didn’t catch a lot of the conversation between the four of them as I eased myself to sit on a rock and give my body a break. I did, however, hear tires on gravel as a line of God knows how many shiny SUVs approached.

“Here comes the cavalry.” Natasha said.

I huffed, pushing my hair out of my face. “Oh great.”

“So, what’s our plan?” Melina asked, looking between Nat and me.

Natasha turned toward the cars. “You guys go. I’ll stay.”

I shook my head, but it was Alexei who spoke first. “That’s insanity. We fight. We fight with you.”

“I’ll hold them off. You guys go.”

Her insistence caused the four of them to quickly descend into bickering. “Oh, for God’s sake, stop with the arguing I will throw up if I hear any more, honestly. You three go,” I gestured toward, Alexei, Yelena, and Melina – “I’ll stay with her. I mean if the four of you work it out, there may be some hope for the Avengers after all.” I teased, a soft smile crossing my lips.

“Okay, well, if you’re both leaving, then I guess you should take this. I know how much you liked it.” She unzipped her special vest, handing it over to Natasha. “You can take turns wearing it.”

I snorted as Nat fiddled with it. “Shucks. It does have a lot of pockets.” She reached into the pocket and pulled out the one remaining vial, handing it over to Yelena along with a copy of Dreykov’s files. “He had widows implanted all over the world. Melina will need to copy the formula, but you should be the one to tell them it’s over.”

In the distance I saw a jet land and the doors opened to reveal the widows who’d been in the tower. Melina, Yelena and Alexei all approached, bringing Antonia with them as they boarded. Melina turned back as she stepped aboard glancing at me briefly. I nodded at her once, a simple gesture but I knew she understood the meaning behind it.

It did not need to be spoken; it was a shared truth. After all, we were two sides of the same coin. I did not need to tell her that I understood why she’d done everything she had, because she knew. With that she turned and closed the door.

I looked over at Natasha who’d come to sit beside me. “You’re not going to try to talk me out of staying?”

“Oh, I thought I should probably just save my breath, you wouldn’t have listened anyway and I’m pretty sure we’re going to have enough talking to do when Ross arrives.”

I nodded in agreement. Looking out at the SUVs that were now pulling up before us. An absurd number of agents piling out, heavily armed, all weapons trained on us. As they began moving toward us, we both put our hands up, and I glanced at the redhead beside me from the corner of my eye. “I remember, Natasha, I remember everything.”

[girlactionfigure]

Today is Thanksgiving Day here in the United States!

When Abraham Lincoln declared the first annually recurring national Thanksgiving Day holiday in 1863, he declared that "the last Thursday of November next" would be the date of observance, and that tradition more or less held for the next several decades.

Flash forward to 1939.....

It was an eventful year: with war breaking out in Europe and conflict continuing in the Far East, the United States declared a state of National Emergency and was activating National Guard units and drafting young men once more.

With the U.S. quietly preparing for a war most of the American people thought was none of their business, few saw the crisis that was emerging within their own borders.....

..... that year, November had five Thursdays.

So what's the big deal?

Well, the big deal was that the holiday shopping season began at Thanksgiving, meaning that, with Thanksgiving falling on the last Thursday in November, 1939 would have one fewer shopping week before Christmas.

With potential profits on the line, American businessmen asked President Franklin Roosevelt to intervene. And he did.

In August of 1939, FDR announced that Thanksgiving Day would fall on the fourth Thursday of November, starting that same year.

This meant that Thanksgiving NOW would fall on Thursday, November 23rd, rather than a week later on November 30th.

This made the businessmen happy, but the calendar printers, football fans, out-of-state college students, and families with travel plans were furious.

Many state governors (mostly from the opposing party, and football fans to boot) ignored the change, and instead held Thanksgiving on its usual day.

Twenty-three states switched, twenty-two did not, and three observed the holiday on both days.

This, of course, caused a LOT of confusion nation-wide, and the political backlash was, well, predictable. And thus was born "Franksgiving" (from "Franklin" and "Thanksgiving").

In 1940, it happened again....

.....then again in 1941.

Some called the two different holidays "Republican Thanksgiving" and "Democrat Thanksgiving", and the confusion even was mocked by Hollywood.

This series of stills in this post is from a clip from the 1942 movie "Holiday Inn" (full clip posted in comments) in which the cartoon turkey runs himself frantic dashing between the two dates on the (1941) calendar.

By the end of 1941, Congress decided to act.

On November 26th - the day before the traditional Thanksgiving and six days after the new Thanksgiving, Congress placed on Roosevelt's desk a resolution legally fixing Thanksgiving Day as the fourth Thursday in November, thus solving the problem for the businessmen and the football fans alike.

Thanksgiving in 1941 would be the last dual-date Thanksgiving in the United States.

It also would be the last Thanksgiving the American people would have before the war from which they wished to hide came and found them, which meant, for many families, it would be their last Thanksgiving Day together in this life.

Historia Obscurum

[tllgrrl]

“…suddenly there came a tapping…” by @tllgrrl aka nefertiri jones

Sarah Wilson/Bucky Barnes, Valentina de la Fontaine | <500 Words | SFW

Summary: After dinner, an unexpected visitor shows up on Sarah’s porch.

* * * * *

Post-dinner clean-up is done, Cass and AJ have commandeered the dining room table with homework, and Bucky is also there on his laptop, offering assistance when needed while he’s doing some preliminary research for Sam’s upcoming mission with Team Cap.

Sarah is in the mudroom taking a load of towels out of the dryer when a tapping is heard at the front screen door.

“I’ll get it,” she says softly, gently squeezing Bucky’s shoulder as she walks past him.

He catches her hand, and kisses it.

“Alright now,” she giggles.

He looks over his shoulder, watching her walk away before turning back to his laptop. He continues studying the maps and notes, but he also listens.

Stepping up to the door, Sarah’s smile fades a little as she sees a short, very well tailored White woman standing there, typing something into an impressive cellphone.

It’s the latest model with a lot of camera lenses on it.

“Hello,” Sarah says, trying not to stare at the large streak of purple in the woman’s otherwise black, highly coiffed hair. “May I help you?“

Quickly glancing over the tiny woman’s shoulder, she sees a black SUV parked at the end of the walkway, and an also very-well-tailored (and serious-looking) black-suited White man standing next to it.

There’s another one in the driver’s seat.

The woman on the other side of the screen door looks up from her phone, smiles an overly bright smile that stops at her eyes, and introduces herself as “Director Valentina de la Fontaine” as if it was supposed to mean something.

“Is Sergeant Barnes in? Sergeant James Barnes.”

The Director looks past Sarah, and on a wall she sees a photo hanging in the middle of a bunch of what looks like family pictures that span several decades.

That center photo, though in an old frame, is very new and immediately catches her eye.

It’s Barnes in a suit and tie, smiling broadly, standing just behind a radiant Black woman who is wearing a pretty yellow dress. She’s holding a bouquet of yellow and blue flowers. His arms are wrapped around her.

Standing in front of them are two young Black boys also in suits but wearing low top Chucks sneakers. Like the happy couple, they’re also grinning ear to ear.

The woman in that photo is the tall, frankly stunning Black woman that’s now standing in front of her. The photo pictured on the fancy cell phone screen identifies her as Sarah Wilson, recently having become Sarah Wilson-Barnes, which now makes this Retrieval even more complicated.

Director de la Fontaine has no patience for complications.

12 hours later…

On a private jet to Langley, Bucky Barnes is not a happy man.

* * * * *

After seeing the Thunderbolts* teaser trailer that Marvel dropped, I’m still thinking that Bucky is going to be tasked with babysitting, and finally joining up to work beside, the Messy Avengers. But how did all that happen? I got some Thoughts that start with this little ficlet that’s been on my mind for a minute, ever since the lineup was announced.

Thanks for indulging me and giving it a read. Feel free to let me know how you think it all went down.

(ADDENDUM: A little flash-forward is HERE in a moodboard drabble.)

[frystsnow]

“jack, jack!” youthful and joyful is the way håkan calls his friend’s name, tiny body running through the thick-snow valley before he trips over his own legs. he falls on the floor then and there, yet his hands keep themselves clasped, seemingly protecting something so important that it was worth risking his own face. he raises himself from the snow with a bump on his forehead, flakes on his face and hair, a running nose and a victorious half-toothed smile that goes from red ear to red ear. “it’s your birthday tomorrow!” he says, as if it were his, too. “i made you this, look—” and he opens his hands: a wooden-carved star (or was it a snowflake?), “i made it in the workshop, with gobber’s help, but it was all me!” he stuffs his chest, so proud of his first whittling creation. “it’s to keep you safe. happy birthday, jack!”

ㅤhe’d been waiting since dawn for a particular mast to appear on the horizon, hands clasped together in quiet prayer and willing each passing cumulus cloud to disperse each time they threatened to obscure the horizon. not yet, not yet. the king had visited the prince’s room as the sun hovered above the fjord and questioned little jack if he’d like to rest more.ㅤsomeone will wake you once we receive word of håkan’s arrival.ㅤto which jack indignantly shook his head and readjusted his position on the window, eyes wide open even through dark circles. neither hrím’s hyperborean climate nor a silly curfew would deter the prince from having the first word of berk’s chief and his son’s—his friend’s!—arrival.

ㅤjack will never admit he had almost dozed off by the time a peek of white sails bearing dragon insignias had come to view. only after nearly outbalancing himself on his window perch did jack finally perk awake. all it took was a flash of crimson in the distance for the to boy hop to his feet and glide.ㅤ“maní, håkan is here!”

ㅤa blur of silver and blues makes a beeline out of the stronghold, bare feet seeming to step atop snowdrifts and never sinking into pristine powder. jackin has memorized his way through the shortcut by now no matter the countless reprimands he’s received from knight bunny. a skid through a protruding root, a high jump ( well, float ) to reach a particular branch that allows him to swing himself further forward, and several more little obstacles through the snowy forest. he’s almost there—

ㅤthen a voice that calls his name. jack would know it anywhere, would recognize it even if decades, centuries were to pass until they would meet again. blue eyes turn to a clearing where the sun seems to part just for the brunet boy to make his appearance. a toothy grin as jack practically leaps for his best friend.

ㅤthough there was one between the pair with an obvious advantage over the terrain who should be the one rushing to meet the other, the heir of berk moves first before jack can. an eager sprint down the slope is all it takes, and in a blink, håkan trips. body curling rather dramatically in the flair of a 12-year old around the item in his hand. jack gasps his name in disbelief—“hiccup!”—and makes a run for the fallen viking’s form.

ㅤand, after a quick examination of håkan’s mostly unscathed form thanks to the pillowy snow, jack spreads his arms and falls beside his friend. now they were both covered in snow, fair and square!

ㅤ“ya should’ve waited for me, dummy!”ㅤjack laughs and shifts his body to face håkan, the sound growing at the sight of hiccup’s forehead. before he can make a quip about the big head hiccup will gain after a fall like that, håkan speaks first in-between pants. his companion pays little care to any injuries he may have acquired with his attention on a more important matter. the prince has to resist a giddy grin at his next words.ㅤhe remembered his birthday!ㅤit'll be the first one they'll spend together with jack's continuous ( and perhaps purposely grating ) pleas for hiccup to stay for the prince's celebrations.

ㅤthere are endless riches and offerings awaiting the winter-blessed prince once they make their trip to his kingdom, accompanied by nights of merriment and song to appease him. but no treasure nor wish will jack cherish as much as the wooden toy in his hands. blue eyes stare in awe, turning over the trinket with wonder in his eyes and stars in his lungs.

ㅤ“it's... a star? or a snowflake?”ㅤa gasp in realization.ㅤ“a starflake! i never thought it'd be possible... håkan, you're not serious! this is far too important to part from you—”ㅤto which hiccup answered with a huff, once more closing his hand around jack's own as a firm admission that this gift is his to keep. a shaky breath to realize the blessing bestown to him. if such an artifact will keep him safe, as håkan promised, then what is he to fear for the rest of his days?

ㅤprince jack grins and throws himself around his good friend. he has no mystical runes that offer the same caliber of protection akin to this handmade sentiment, so jack hopes that a kiss on håkan's cheek will suffice. he sends a quiet prayer to the moon, asking for a blessing that would bring håkan his happiness, protection, and companionship forevermore.ㅤ“i will tell stories of a shooting star that has made its way to me and how you caught it before it'd untimely burn me.”ㅤanother story to add to his growing imaginary tales. he hopes, someday soon, that there will be real adventures to share with his best friend.ㅤ“thank you, hiccup!”