#go the fourth pillar. there's a rocket there.

[lucywrites02]

Leo forgetting a poem?? Jail for Leo!! Jail for a thousand years!!!!!! This poem makes me think it would be a great example to make a literature class assignment. Like, the structure. Also I like it😌😌😌👍

Good Night

By Carl Sandburg - 1878-1967

Many ways to spell good night.

Fireworks at a pier on the Fourth of July

        spell it with red wheels and yellow spokes.

They fizz in the air, touch the water and quit.

Rockets make a trajectory of gold-and-blue

        and then go out.

Railroad trains at night spell with a smokestack

        mushrooming a white pillar.

Steamboats turn a curve in the Mississippi crying

        in a baritone that crosses lowland cottonfields

        to a razorback hill.

It is easy to spell good night.

                                     Many ways to spell good night.

A goodnight poem!!!!! I really like it 😌 I can see myself, walking through the city when it's getting dark and the air is cold enough for you to leave a little cloud when you breathe. Very nice 😌💖

[fieryhonesty]

The life of You

[AO3]

“This is funny I never planned this become multi chapter. Was meant only as chaptered oneshot (time to make a masterlist, huh) what can I promise you: this series will always have the banner where only name of specific chapters changes”

Words: 2479

Warning(s): rated this as mature on AO3 just cause it might turn whatever direction in future (I say might, not will 😳), already has swearing in and might get more (depends on situation I put characters in, we don’t swear without reason, right?), maybe suggestive innuendos

Perhaps you could have expected journeying with your ever so flirty friend would turn into one wild ride. Especially if the destination was Stormterror’s lair. As Dvalin was freed and the area is now accessible. The place piqued the curiosity of many. When Frostblade approached you if you were fancy to tag along. You were quite surprised as he didn’t seem like somebody who deliberately enjoys adventuring.

However after sharing his reason you quickly understood. Fatui started being active, the ones within city walls were seen in small groups. Debating about the honorary knight, no how people of Mondstadt were able to drive Stormterror away. They were scheming something, that’s for sure.

Maybe it hurt their imaginary pride or perhaps they had their own plans. Whatever it is, Kaeya wanted to be one step ahead. Seeing what was behind the wind barrier for so long was a good start. And who knows. Maybe he will be able to screw over Fatui plans. 

Well that’s it if the area was not overly complicated. The ruins you had to explore first in order to get further into the lair were quite complicated. But the problem was you accidentally activated a trap and now each of you were standing at different sides of the bars which nearly skewered you.

Staring with wide eyes at the bars which were just a few inches away from your face. One step more and you would be goner. Gulping loudly. “Too close to my comfort.”

“Oh? And if it were me?” Letting out a sigh and shaking your head in disapproval. “Then I’d reconsider if giving you frostbite would be punishment enough. Anyway I’ll backtrack and try to find another way.”

---

More than you finding another way, the another way has found you. During your exploration you came across a ruin guard. Its eye light up in dangerous demeanor. If one thing could go wrong then it was probably meeting up with this walking hunk of steel. Corridors were too narrow for fighting. 

You decided to run away from it, hoping it will either lose sight of you or get stuck somewhere. You had no idea where the hell you were running. But managed to end up in a dead end. However you noticed the wall was in a bad shape, feeling wind blowing between the bricks. 

Charging elemental energy in your sword and hurling it forward, creating a hole. Big enough for you to get out. Finally getting out and breathing fresh air, your hair were ruffled by the blowing wind. Such a nice change after all that time spent in ruins where it smelled like- well mold and dust. 

The noise of falling debris behind brought you back to reality. The ruin guard was making its way out. Following the intruder no matter what. Such a persistent thing. But at least now you can fight. Air got extremely cold as you summoned several cryo blades and dashed towards the machine. It tried to hit you but it’s too huge and slow to land a hit on you. Rolling to the side or jumping a bit back to avoid any kind of danger. No matter how much it tried, you were faster. Slashing here and there. Your attacks might not do much but there's way too many of them. Even the sturdy material those things are made off will slowly fall apart. Leaving the more vulnerable parts exposed. Nothing can work in such cold temperature as you were attacking it with.

Cutting one of its arms off. As it fell down, dust rose up. How heavy are those things? You better never find out. Sliding between its legs, leaving a thin slippery surface behind you, hoping it will slip and fall down. However the ice crushed under its weight. Well it was a good try?

Noticing how it turned around and kneeled. You had seen this once. Dashing behind a pillar and praying it will withstand the rockets. When you were sure no more explosives were coming your way. Jumping out of the hiding spot and seeing the Captain of Cavalry was having its attention. When did he get there?

You had exploited this situation and aimed one of the cryo blades at its weak spot on back which caused it to flinch. Kaeya didn’t waste any moment and used his own elemental power to hit its front eye, causing it to shut down. The damage caused by the both of you was enough for it to never initiate the auto recovery function. Leaving it in a half destroyed state forever. 

Keaya has looked towards you and clapped.

“I knew I can rely on you, partner.”

“Technically it was you who was the game changer. How did you find me anyway? The exit is near by?” Chuckle coming out of the male’s chest. He walked closer to you, lips curled up into his usual smug.

“Princess, I’m not deaf you know. I heard distant noise and thought it might be my cute friend needing help. But I guess you were having fun, sorry for breaking your toy.”

The sarcasm in his voice was more than obvious. Rising your hand up towards him, saying ‘high five’ which made him chuckle once more. He was quite worried when each of you stood at different sides of bars. He felt responsible for your well being although he knew you can take care of yourself. You had to do it for half a decade anyway. Yet, something inside of him was making him anxious.

As the two of you reunited it was time to slowly explore the unknown area. It was quite peaceful there but also empty. There probably used to grow trees and more stuff but now it was just a few twigs here and there. The lair felt like one big crater with several ruins shattered around with one bigger at the entrance. To probably keep invaders off. That’s it if they could get through the wind barrier. But it was gone now, so of course you would meet something here.

Hilichurls had several camps around the whole area. Making you wonder if they were living here ever since or just recently moved in. Also wild animals, which was even weirder as you knew animals are sensitive to elemental energy. And just until recently there was a huge concentration of anemo. 

To your surprise or maybe not, you had encountered a few more ruin guards. However as you are two it was no huge issue to deal with them. The only issue was it started raining during one of the encounters. Deciding it was kind of pointless to hide as your clothes were already wet so why not explore a bit more.

The fourth encounter with a ruin guard was quite more challenging for you than the rest. It seemed different than the others, it was bigger and more sturdier and hit like a truck. You were rubbing your wrist. It seemed alright however your sword didn't look so well. It was more than visible how the steel was slightly curved as you had to use it to block one of its attacks.

Looking up at Kaeya who was examining the destroyed colossus. Having a hand on his chin, thinking of something.

"Hmm, I just realized this is our second time being just the two of us and it's again raining." Rising his head and giving you a playful wink.

You just chuckled at his remark. He was not wrong. Ever since you got back you two didn't see each other that often. Kaeya was sort of avoiding you or so it seemed like. Until you accidently ran into him one day. You were hungry and decided to dine at Good Hunter. Before he could disappear you spoke up. Teasing him to yet again chickening out which obviously made him look back at you. Sometimes he is so easy to challenge.

In the end you sorted out everything over a double honey sticky roast. Talking about stuff like nothing, like you weren’t separated or anything. Since then you kept seeing each other here and now. Be at the tavern or when you were passing by the knights. Dropping by, knocking at doors and just exchanging a few words before you ran off to do your tasks.

"Still. It's so strange. Why is there so many of those oversized toys? And what's more strange. How the hell did Aether pass by without coming across any of them?!"

You pouted, arms crossed on your chest. When you come back to Monds you will have to ask the blonde.  

"I wouldn't be surprised if this was Abyss Order's makings." The bluenette answered and pointed towards something that looked like a small cave. "Let's head there and rest."

The cave was big enough to fit both of you in. However the issue was you were soaked and there was no way to make fire. Unless Kaeya will magically pull out of nowhere a few dry sticks. Luckily you had packed a blanket which surprised the iceman. Scoffing at him.

"What? I am an adventurer now, might not be a fully fledged one. But still I'm always ready!"

"Always ready, huh." 

His remark made you blush, you did not expect it. Well, maybe you did but still you reacted this way. ‘Why must he be like this?!’ Coughing a little.

"What I mean is. I always carry with me this little fuzzy blanket. It was my first thing I bought when I got here. And not once it proved to be useful. Also! I got some canned food!" You chirped happily. 

Ok, this surprised him even more. When he asked you to accompany him on a small venture. He did not expect you to bring an entire survival kit. The bag was not even that huge. How do women stuff so many things into such small bags?

"Let me guess. You got there packed your entire bedroom." He joked as he took one of the cans from you. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, instead giving him a spoon.

Kaeya checked what's on the menu. Some veggies and ground meat. Not the fanciest thing he ever ate but better than nothing. All that fighting made him quite hungry after all. He won’t admit it but he quite enjoyed this little adventure with you. It’s been so long since he could fight side by side with his friend. The way you swung your blade and used the cryo vision to obliterate enemies. Color him impressed, not once he wanted to just whistle. 

When you had finished the very modest lunch it was still raining which meant you will be stuck there for a while. You stood up to pull the blanket over your friend and realized it’s not that big as you thought. Sitting next to him, your shoulders were brushing against each other. For some reason you could feel heat in your cheeks. Rather looking outside, hoping he didn’t see it. Otherwise you can ready up for another wave of teasing.

"It's sad none of us have pyro, we could dry our clothes." You whined while trying not to shake.

Suddenly feeling Kaeya's breath at you ear. "Dear, that would require you to be naked for a certain period of time." He whispered in a teasy manner. You didn’t look at him but you are one hundred percent sure his smile is dangerously wide.

The way you groaned, ears turned red despite all of your efforts. Kaeya was more than satisfied. It took him awhile to find out how to make you feel embarrassed. Now he just found deliberate joy in teasing you all the time. 

"You can be such an asshole sometimes, you know that?" You murmured with an annoyed voice. Eyes still locked at cave entrance. How long will it take until it stops raining?

The sound of rain drops landing on the ground was quite relaxing. It didn't take long until you felt really sleepy. Trying to keep eyes open was close to impossible. 

"Kaeya?"

The bluenette hummed in response.

"Talk to me or I will fall asleep..."

He did not want to admit it but he was already half asleep. The only thing which kept him awake was your occasional shaking. Silently chuckling as he turned head to you.

"I've got a better idea. Do you remember that one night when you were sleeping over and couldn't sleep. When I found you looking out of the window in the middle of night?" 

Shaking your head, not remembering anything at all. Wondering how he can remember something like that.

"Well, we ended up watching out of the window together. Sitting on a chair while you were leaning on me. We fell asleep and the maids woke us up in the morning. Questioning why we weren't in beds."

Really? Did they? Why can't you recall anything like that? Giving Kaeya a confused look.

"How could we fit one chair-" As you finished it, the answer flashed through your mind. Finally you get what he meant with lean on him.

Not even giving it a second thought you shifted in front of him, hesitantly pressing your back on his chest. If you did this as kids then it clearly felt different than now. You were not sure if the warm feeling was caused by your flushed cheeks. Feeling like your entire body is burning right now. Or if it was because of how Kaeya put the blanket over the two of you and wrapped one hand around your waist. 

"Don't mind that hand. I just want to have you secure.~"

"Secure for what?"

"In case you slide to side while sleeping, silly."

"I'm not going to sleep. It's embarrassing and worst is you are having fun!" You protested, pouting once again. 

He could not deny the fact he found this whole situation amusing. Not even feeling guilty for his little lie. You are such a cutie when you are pouting like that

"The real embarrassing thing would be you shifting around and waking up my-"

"What the- Kaeya!" You groaned and wanted to get up but couldn't as his hand kept you in place.

"Shh, I'm just joking, Dearie. Relax. Let's just keep each other warm." Pulling you closer, feeling how your muscles relaxed a bit.

There was silence between you for a while. You were wishing he can't hear your heart beating so loud for no reason. The butterfly feeling in your stomach was lingering there for the whole time.

"You better not run your mouth about this to anyone, or..." You whispered silently, not even bothering to finish the sentence.

"Or? What's wrong about two friends being close, hmm?"

"I dunno." Admitting while completely relaxing against him and closing eyes. You are too tired to bother about anything.

Previous ✨ Next

[squeakowl]

Many ways to spell good night. Fireworks at a pier on the Fourth of July        spell it with red wheels and yellow spokes. They fizz in the air, touch the water and quit. Rockets make a trajectory of gold-and-blue        and then go out. Railroad trains at night spell with a smokestack        mushrooming a white pillar. Steamboats turn a curve in the Mississippi crying        in a baritone that crosses lowland cottonfields        to a razorback hill. It is easy to spell good night.                                     Many ways to spell good night.

Good Night, by Carl Sandburg

[quicksilverlightning]

Number One In Our Hearts

It starts innocuously enough, with All Might being invited to run the yearly Quirkless course on Quirk Warrior.

“It’s been a rough course this year folks – only six runners have made it all the way through, but we’ve got one last contestant to go.”

“That’s right, Ken, and it’s the one you’ve all been waiting for. This year’s Quirkless Run has pulled out all the stops – the jump hang is longer, the wall is higher, and it’s all for this one last runner. Ladies and gentlemen, the one, the only, the legend, All Might!”

___________________________________________

 cinnadust

My favorite thing about All Might running the QLC is that he doesn’t run at all. He strolls through like he’s fucking bored.

 Staples083

his wingspan is enormous

 pipe-fingers

Petition for All Might to run the Quirk course #NumberOneInOurHearts

 GangOrg4n

look at him wave at the audience he’s not even tring lol Absolute Legend

 Red-Phone-Wire

please someone make these announcers losing their shit into a meme

___________________________________________

All Might’s appearance rockets the ratings to unseen heights; the full video goes viral and has over a million views before the weekend is over. It isn’t long before the agency is fielding phone calls from the usual suspects – reporters, journalists, talk shows – but also from some more unusual places.

Toshinori lights up when PR brings him the first batch of requests and immediately agrees to do them all. The second flurry of requests comes before the cooking show segment is finished airing and the floodgates open. Every reality show and competition is clamoring for All Might to guest star.

___________________________________________

Quirky Kitchen makes it an hour-long special. The first half is dedicated to some old American favorites; he chats with the host and audience while slicing tomatoes with charming ease. The audience delights in his culinary prowess, gained over long years of bachelordom, and laughs at his silly anecdotes. Which makes the second half all the more surprising.

With the burden of secrecy lifted, Yagi Toshinori can finally see his way forward. All Might can no longer be a pillar, but, perhaps, Yagi Toshinori can be a support beam. While the live audience munches on potato chips hot from the fryer, Toshinori pulls a simple hardback chair from the set, seats himself, and opens up.

___________________________________________

“Cooking… it’s a lot like my Quirk – my strength is gone, but the reflexes, the training, all of that is still there. I can’t eat what I’m making anymore, but I still know how to make it. And I can still share it with all of you.”

___________________________________________

 explendative

holy shit

 out-of-batt

damn, look at him flipping burgers @9:32 this man is perfect??

 h0m3b0dyJJ

Okay, guys, my dad had a gastrectomy a few years before he died and it’s seriously no joke. My dad lost 63 pounds just a few months after his; it’s hard to keep anything down and you have to eat little meals all the time and there’s just so. much. food. that you can’t have anymore. He was taking like a billion supplements and vitamins just to manage everyday challenges. I can’t even imagine going through that on top of being an active Pro.

 its-ibuki

we must protect All Might at all costs

___________________________________________

He laughs when his students gather round, babbling about the dance show. He ruffles Ashido’s hair fondly.

“You don’t get to Number One without some fancy footwork! Take that to heart, my young students,” he nods sagely, managing to extract himself before he’s late to the staff meeting. He heads down the hall, but not before tossing one last piece of advice over his shoulder.

“And learn at least one social dance!”

___________________________________________

Honestly? I don’t like the hero rankings. I’d prefer they didn’t exist at all. How do you rank acts of heroism? Why is saving one life worth less than saving a hundred? You can’t quantify someone’s worth down to a data point. What’s a hundred lives to a parent that’s lost their only child?

- All Might discusses the ranking system on Hero Discourse

 12,086 notes

 LoreleiFae

another day, another reason to love All Might

 FlipFlapItsATrap

you know, I never really got the hype around All Might. Like, I understood he was number one and super strong and all that, but I never got all the fervor around him. I started to get it after Kamino, but it’s really little moments like these that make me understand why he was number one. why he’s still number one, no matter what the ranking says. #NumberOneInOurHearts

 07ohseven

@FlipFlapItsATrap: I’ve met All Might twice, both before and after Kamino (humblebrag, lol), and he really is just the nicest guy. He never treated anyone like they weren’t worth his time, from teenagers hunting autographs to little kids that wanted a hug. I ran into him again a few months ago at the Mustafu Library – he’d tucked himself away into a corner with a few books and we talked a little about what he was reading (a biography and a fantasy novel, if you were wondering). He asked me to call him Toshi and gave me some movie recommendations.

 07ohseven

@FlipFlapItsATrap: I got off topic there, but what I wanted to say was that you’re right – All Might wasn’t number one because he was a good hero. He was number one because he’s a good person. All Might made me feel safe, but Toshi made me feel comfortable, like talking to an old friend. I hope I get to meet him again one day. #NumberOneInOurHearts

  ___________________________________________

Kizumi Takada @0Window0Knight0

@AllMightOfficial how many people have you kissed?

All Might @AllMightOfficial

@0Window0Knight0 None.

All Might @AllMightOfficial

@0Window0Knight0 But, many, many people have kissed me.

  ___________________________________________

 Peony-crowned

Next time on Hero Theory – is All Might asexual?

 Superxxchar04

@peony-crowned: OTP – All Might X Justice

 Hkoin

@superxxchar04: All Might X A healthy mind body and soul in a long life filled with joy and laughter FTFY

___________________________________________

He’s carrying a stack of grading in one hand and nearly throws the entire pile in the air when Present Mic grabs him in the hallway, begging him to be on his show. After a few moments spent calming him down, Toshinori manages to gather that his guest for the night has had a last minute cancellation. He offers an easy smile and agrees to fill in.

He wasn’t expecting Hizashi to open the phone lines up for questions, but what kind of hero would he be if he couldn’t roll with the punches?

___________________________________________

 Am I on the air?

 That’s right, listener! You are live and you’ve got a question for us?

 Yeah! Well, for All Might. Big fan by the way, you’re the greatest.

 Thank you kindly, young man!

 Right, so I was wondering – do you make more from your hero work, or from merchandising rights? I’ll hang up and listen, if that’s okay?

 Perfectly fine, listener!

 I don’t – didn’t – make any money at all from my hero work. Any bounties have gone to victims or to charity, and I’ve never sent anyone a bill for helping at a natural disaster. Merchandising rights more than cover the agency overhead – I’m not even the highest paid individual at my own company.

___________________________________________

 TexasSmashMe

I’m sorry to inform the hero fandom that Stain was 100% correct – there is only one real hero, and his name is Yagi Toshinori.

___________________________________________

 drrdrrdrrdrr reblogged from nessalee

 [gif set]

 [First image description]

 A young All Might flies through the air, cape billowing like a banner

 [Second image description]

 Silver Age All Might holds up a collapsing bridge pillar with one arm while the other gives a thumbs up.

 [Third image description]

 Golden Age All Might overlooks the city from a skyscraper, bangs ruffling in the wind

 [Fourth image description]

 All Might stands tall, battered and bloody, a single fist raised into the air

 [Fifth image description]

 Yagi Toshinori bounces at the front of the course, posture relaxed, waiting for the starting bell

 [Sixth image description]

 A toddler yanks on Yagi Toshinori's bangs as he smiles indulgently

 [Seventh image description]

 Yagi Toshinori sitting in the bleachers at Yuuei, beaming proudly at the field where his students compete

 [Eighth image description]

 Yagi Toshinori stands, battered and bloody, face turned away, pointing into the distance

 A Hero for Eternity

All Might / Yagi Toshinori

36,875 notes

 CoraBakes

get u a man that can do both

 la-la-lo-li

The one with the kid is so cute <3 Yagi-san would be a great dad

 kainnn9056

pft look at him casually holding up a bridge with one arm hes so extra i love it.

___________________________________________

He's just leaving the school when PR messages him with the request from Hero Monthly magazine. It's usually the kind of thing he would sign off on without a second thought, but his eye lingers on a single word - photoshoot. This wouldn't be like answering questions about his gastrectomy online, or explaining his injury on a talk show - this would be actively showing off the wound that nearly killed him.

Toshinori never expected to retire; hell, he'd never expected to survive. He assumed he would die as he lived - being a hero - and take all his secrets with him. But now...

Now he thinks of young Midoriya with his scarred hand; of his friend Todoroki, who couldn't hide his burn if he wanted to. He thinks of Iida's older brother, learning to walk again. He remembers Best Jeanist may lose his own stomach in the near future and the scar under Aizawa's eye. He remembers hospital wards full of children with amputated body parts and prosthetic limbs and dreams of heroism. He remembers being twelve and Quirkless and thinks again of young Midoriya, to whom Quirkless may as well have been a synonym for disabled.

___________________________________________

 [Image set]

 [Cover image description]

 Yagi Toshinori sits in a crisp white button-up on an angled couch, legs stretched over the cushions, looking at the camera over his shoulder.

 [First image description]

 Yagi Toshinori adjusts a cuff-link, grinning wildly at something off camera, suit jacket flared in the wind.

 [Second image description]

 Yagi Toshinori sits on the edge of a bed, hands together between his open knees. His white shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a  skinny chest and hints of spiderwebbing red.

 [Third image description]

 Yagi Toshinori looks away from the camera shyly, one hand rubbing the back of his head. His scar is viciously red, stretching the full length of his torso before disappearing below the hem of the dark slacks clinging to his skinny hips.

108,792 notes

 vedran-oligarch

All Might looks like someone punched a hole through him and I'm still lusting over his fine ass hot DAMN

 i-am-a-blank-page

@vedran-oligarch: it's the eyes - they're always the same and they're always so intense

 vedran-oligarch

@i-am-a-blank-page: point, but those beautiful hipbones aren't hurting my lady-boner

 IrisEvergarden

I really, really love the last picture. His expression is so sweet and unsure and humanizing - the whole set is, but that one really does it for me <3

 paperclipped-wildflowers

his hair looks so soft

 IrisEvergarden

I just want to give this man a hug, he's so good and pure and brave

 ExpectingDelay

okay, but how how no one mentioned the interview part?!

 If I saved one person when I lost my stomach, it was worth it. If I brought one child home to their parents when I crushed my lungs, it was worth it. If my words have helped someone through a rough patch, if I inspired someone to do better, be better, it was all worth it. There are a great many regrets in my life, but helping others has never been one of them. There is nothing I wouldn’t break; no sacrifice that would make me hesitate.

 That's what heroism is - it's taking these hits so that no one else has to.

this man is incredible.

 flowwithit54

@ExpectingDelay: I'm fucking crying rn we don't deserve All Might OR Yagi Toshinori

___________________________________________

It's almost nine when Ishiyama finds him lazing on the teacher's lounge couch, idly scrolling through his own tag online. In the past few minutes alone, he's found post after post from individuals finding strength from last week's magazine shoot. A teenager with an arm mangled in a villain attack; an office worker embarrassed by needing a wheelchair; a boy with an annoying twitch thanks to an accident with his electricity Quirk. Thousands of messages of love and support, admiration and inspiration. It's almost enough to make him wonder why he'd been so worried about the inevitable. Ishiyama hands him a cup of tea.

"You look happy today, Yagi."

He closes the phone and takes the offered tea with a smile.

"Yeah. I guess I am."

[whycraft]

Hygge

AO3 | Wattpad

A/N: This is the dance they do!

The next portal he stepped out of was blissfully normal, if a bit high up. Fortunately, there was a type of ladder to use to get to the ground.

A beautiful mansion rested regally on top of a hill just off the edge of town. The land around it looked like it was in the middle of being terraformed, with a few holes in the hillside revealing a hollow, dark cavern underneath. 

Off to one side of the house, a player in iron armour paced back and forth, examining the hill. He pulled some dirt out of his inventory and filled in one of the holes.

Keralis waved. “Hello!”

The player looked his way and his eyes widened in surprise. “Keralis?”

“Welsknight! Is this your house?”

“Uh, yes. Yes it is.”

“It is absolutely beautiful, I love it.”

“Thank you. But, uh…” Wels scratched his helmeted head. “How are you here?”

“I came through a very broken Nether portal and then Doc and Scar put me in prison.”

Wels’s expression was a cross between amused and bewildered. “Doc and Scar put you in prison? Wait, were you in Area 77?”

“Yes! How did you know?  Do they do that kind of thing a lot?”

“They seem to, lately.” Wels shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and the sunlight glinted off the greyish purple things attached to his back.

Keralis pointed. “What is that?”

“What?” Wels glanced over his shoulder. “My elytra?”

“Is that what they are called?”

“You wanna take a look?”

Keralis nodded. Wles unstrapped them from their harness and handed them over. Keralis ran his fingers along the glossy shell of it. “What do they do?”

Wels grinned. “Let me show you.”

He unfastened the elytra and pillared up a few blocks. “They work from the ground, but it’s harder that way.” He jumped off the pillar and pressed a button on the harness. A shower of sparks exploded out of the back of the elytra, shooting Wels into the air. The elytra spread open, catching the air underneath them and letting Wels soar through the sky.

Keralis let out an incredulous laugh and shielded his eyes from the sun as he watched Wels, silhouetted against the clouds. Wels coasted gently back to the ground.

“Dude! That is amazing.”

Wels grinned. “I’d let you try, but I’ve only got one elytra on me, and it's hard to teach someone how to fly when you’re stuck yelling at them from the ground.”

Keralis laughed. “That makes sense.” Then an idea popped into his head. “If we fused, you could show me like that.”

Wels raised his eyebrows. “You know about fusion?”

“I saw Doc and Scar fuse, and then Doc fused with me. It was fun times.”

“Well, I guess we could, but the only dances I know are medieval dances.”

“I can learn.”

“Okay.” Wels removed his helmet and set it down by a pile of shulker boxes.

“The thing about medieval dances is that they were really only meant to be danced in large groups, so they look a little silly when it’s just two people dancing. They still work fine, though.

“First, we join hands. Then we go left for three beats, kick on the fourth, and then go right three beats and kick on the fourth. One, two, three, kick! One, two, three, kick!”

On the second kick, Wels accidentally kicked Keralis’s foot out of the air.

“Whoops, other foot. Sorry. Now we do it again.”

They stepped and kicked, managing to avoid battering each other with their feet this time.

“Now we take three steps forward, clap three times, then take three steps back and kick three times - make sure to alternate your kicks. Then we repeat that, and after we kick we join hands again.”

They stepped, clapped, stepped, kicked, stepped, clapped, stepped, kicked, and when they joined hands again, a flash of light, which was becoming increasingly familiar to Keralis, enveloped their vision.

—————-

He was surprisingly short, for a fusion. Only two and a half blocks tall. It must have been Wels’s experience letting them know that, because Keralis didn’t know enough about fusions yet to make that distinction.

He took a moment to take stock of himself and figure out who he was. He flicked through memories and emotions like all newly-formed fusions did. His name didn’t come immediately to mind as it had done last time. This worried him, but Wels’s memories reminded him that not all fusions learned their names so quickly. Poise had taken a good few hours to learn, and Geode had fused three times before they learned their name. For now, they would put it out of their mind.

Wels’s elytra, but not quite Wels’s elytra - it had full durability - was strapped securely to his harness. He pillared up like Wels had done and stood at the top, fingering the firework button.

“I can do this,” he said, and launched himself off the pillar.

The elytra opened, but they began losing altitude almost immediately. They turned their face skyward and pressed the button. Fireworks propelled them higher into the atmosphere, and they whooped loudly from the sheer joy of it.

They climbed higher and higher into the sky, the wind tangling their hair to hell and back. They pressed the firework button over and over again, until eventually they pressed it and nothing came out.

“Oh, no.”

They checked their inventory, but aside from their wings, armor, and some food, it was completely empty.

The ground was approaching quickly.

“What do I do?” he shouted. No one answered, obviously.

Wels’s memories said to coast. 

He spread out his arms to lift his wings higher. All that did was interrupt the air flow.

“Oh my god, I’m going to die!”

[Hygge hit the ground too hard.]

Keralis groaned and sat up. Wels was sprawled on the grass a few blocks away, giggling.

“What’s so funny? We died!”

“I can’t believe I only had eleven rockets on me. Good job, self.” He sat up. “Enjoy your first death on the server?”

“More than I was expecting. I need to get some of those elytra.” He noticed the death message. “Check it out, I figured out my - our - uh, the fusion’s name.”

“Hygge, huh?” Wels mused. “I’ve never heard that word before.”

“Maybe it’s not a word,” said Keralis. “Maybe we just made it up.”

“Maybe.” Wels stood up and crossed over to the pile of shulker boxes. He pulled out a bunch of red and white cylinders. “Wanna do it again? I’ve got more fireworks now.”

“Dude, yes!”

hygge [n], hyg·ge a quality of coziness and comfortable conviviality that engenders a feeling of contentment or well-being

[hufflepuffhollander]

fireworks: a tom holland imagine (part 1)

hello hello! I had this idea while making plans for the 4th of July and figured I’d get it out before I get white girl wasted tomorrow lol (someone help)

thinking about doing a second part since the end doesn’t lead to much of anywhere quite yet?

let me know how you like it and thank you for the support!!!

(tom x reader (college student)) contains some language, alcohol use, and sexual innuendos but nothing too spicy

the fourth of july

You gave your mirror your best pout as you smoothed on a final coat of red lipstick, finishing off your look for the day’s america celebrating festivities. You had all the right proportions of red, white and blue – denim cutoffs, a plain white crop top (that you could see your blue bra through, but you weren’t exactly mad), a blue bandana holding back your hair, and your signature red lip to top it all off. You gave yourself one last once-over in the mirror, being surprised at how much credit you were giving yourself.

Damn, she thick.

You aren’t much of a partier – your friend really had to pull out all the stops just to get you to even consider coming out. It’s been one hell of a week with midterms coming up, and you decided you deserved at least a few hours today to let loose and maybe throw back a few rocket pop colored shots with your girlfriends. And, in all honestly, you weren’t totally mad about the fact that your best friend was dragging you frat hopping with her; it’s been a while since you got on with anyone cute and getting a little eye candy never hurt anybody.

She honked outside of your apartment, and with one last hip pop in the mirror, you headed out the door to get to the first destination on your frat crawl.

“You look hot, Y/N,” she yelped the second she saw you. “Who you trying to impress??”

You laughed at her, “Shut up.” But you did love how she was always acting as your hypeman because she knew you would never be one for yourself.

You two pulled up and parked in front of a massive house, complete with white pillars and huge greek lettering, teeming over with girls in bikinis (is there even a pool?) and guys in snapbacks, red solo cups littering the front lawn. You and your friend walked up the stairs and were met with two boys acting as the unofficial bouncers of the party. They gave you each a heavy once-over and, once they deemed you acceptable, allowed you inside – and somehow, this method was perfectly acceptable.

Gotta love college.

Your friend immediately saw someone she knew and squeezed your shoulder lightly, telling you with her touch that she’d find you later. You had no direction to follow in, and in a sea of sweat, beer, and chatter, you were the only one without a drink in your hand. And if this is how the day was going to be, well…

Where’s the fucking alcohol?

----------------------------------------------

EDIT: Hi! Somehow the rest of this story got deleted after tumblr glitched tf out on me, I’m working to get the rest back up for those who haven’t read it yet, but in short Tom makes the reader a drink and through a lot of talking and banter she realizes who he is. He pulls her into a room and asks her not to blow his cover, then she suggests they go somewhere else because the party is dead. SO sorry!!!

[lovemesomerafael]

Others Like Me                          Chapter 9:  The Bunker

Chapters 1-5    Chapter 6    Chapter 7    Chapter 8  

Read it on AO3

There are fences around the cluster of buildings that surround the bunker, with guard towers at intervals.  The vehicles approach from all directions and stop far enough away from the towers that they can't be seen before white-clad members of The Avengers' team, on foot, take the guards out with silenced weapons and Clint's arrows. 

They know that each tower has four guards, and they need to take them out almost simultaneously so none has time to raise an alarm.  They're in teams of two or three.  Bucky starts out the day pissed, because Clint shoots one of his targets. 

"Hey!  You don't get three!" Bucky whines.

"I left you one," Clint shrugs.  "Be faster next time."

The fence is electrified and has monitoring devices in it, but it might as well not be there for all the deterrence it provides to entry.  The problem is that the area around the fence is mined.  Or that would be a problem if the Troops hadn't long ago found maps of the mines' locations. Marya brought copies with her when she and Bucky escaped, and the vehicles just drive between the mines.

Now that they're on the grounds of the facility, the teams in each vehicle begin to blow up their assigned buildings.  Scott’s recon showed that they're mostly used for storage: supplies, vehicles, munitions, equipment and spare parts.  But there’s no point giving anyone from the bunker someplace to run to.  Besides, the point is total destruction of the remnants of Hydra.  Total.

Since it's a pretty fun job, there was a lottery to determine who got to wield the rocket launchers, but Bucky and Marya each get one because of their personal experiences with Hydra.  Bucky's in a Humvee coming in from a different direction, but Steve thinks he's probably wearing an expression a lot like the one he sees on Marya's face: a vicious, primal satisfaction as she watches her building erupt in flame before collapsing.

"Guess now they know we're here," Steve notes, catching the rocket launcher as Marya tosses it to him. He watches her spring lightly from their modified APC and take off for the small square enclosure that houses the door into the bunker she'd last exited with Bucky the night they'd escaped.  She'll be met by a group of her Troops in the equipment room at the bottom of the ladder.

There are three sentries outside the enclosure.  Marya shoots two of them, but the third takes cover on the other side, in front of the door.  He’s freaking out.  He keeps his back to the door, and every few seconds, whips his weapon to one side or the other to shoot.  It’s not a bad plan, even though he’s losing his shit while he does it.  The problem is, Marya’s not coming around the side.  

“Privyet,” she says. He looks up to see her smiling down at him from the roof of the enclosure. She jumps down before he can swing his weapon up to aim at her, grabbing the barrel as she twists to land on her feet. She wrenches the weapon from his hands and smashes the butt into his face.  She takes the weapon and a sidearm she finds on him, then punches the code into a panel beside the door and opens it.  

 The sentries outside the main entrance to the bunker are running around, shouting, firing occasionally at nothing, and generally being useless in their panic as the buildings of the complex keep exploding.  They do what they’re trained to do in one way, however, and this is the other reason The Avengers are blowing up the buildings.  It’s a serious threat, so the sentries contact their commander, who activates the Troops.  

Steve and the team in the APC simply wait behind a burning building as Natasha, nearly invisible as she lies prone in the snow in her tight, white jumpsuit, watches the entrance with binoculars. As expected, it’s not ten minutes before eight heavily armed soldiers emerge from the entrance.  They aren’t wearing uniforms like the sentries.  They’re wearing all black, with armored vests, sidearms, and pistols strapped to their thighs.  Natasha can tell from the way they move and their wise choices of positions that these soldiers are an entirely different breed from the uniformed sentries. Besides that, they emerged in a tight formation that fanned out to cover the entrance in a maneuver so uniform it looked like a drill team she’d watched once in a military parade.  

These have to be the Troops. Her supposition is confirmed when the sentries not-very-subtly take positions behind the black-clad soldiers.  She’s not too sure about this next part.  It feels weird.  But, putting two fingers to the sides of her mouth, she gives the loudest whistle she’s capable of.  She lifts the binoculars just in time to see the Troops, as one, turn and fire on the sentries. Huh.  Guess that’s not such a bad signal.  

Steve reaches a hand down and pulls Natasha into the APC as it passes her, now that it can drive right up to the massive entrance.

 Bucky, Clint, and the team in their Humvee basically repeat the same process at the smaller entrance half a mile away.  Sam and his team take the third entrance.  

There are several outposts within the complex where armed Hydra operatives are stationed, and they get frantic calls for help. They pile into vehicles and come to the aid of the bunker.  There are only three roads in, however.  Sam’s team blew craters in one of them as they drove to the bunker, so the would-be reinforcements have to use the other two.  Those who take one road meet Ironman and his team.  Those who take the other meet The Hulk and his.  None of them makes it to the bunker to assist their comrades.

Entering the bunker has been the easy part, though. The bunker’s huge.  It’s labyrinthine and has eight levels.  It’s filled with Hydra officers, guards, scientists, technicians, and flunkies.  All of them believe in Hydra, and all of them want to live.  

 The main entrance to the bunker opens into a large open area where vehicles enter a tunnel going down into the lower levels. Steve and his team take the APC down the tunnel to the second level.  To one side of the tunnel is an archway over the top of a wide staircase opening out into an enormous Hall with a massive metal skull and tentacles symbol looming over all from the opposite wall.  Six of the Troops, with Natasha, take the Hall.  It’s not a bad setup, defensively.  The stairway, while looking grand and sweeping, is a shooting gallery with nowhere to hide for anyone trying to enter that way.  Armed guards in the hall can hide behind the wide pillars supporting the roof and the heavy furniture arrayed in groupings throughout the immense space.  

First, Natasha and the Troops don breathing masks.  Natasha’s is streamlined and capable of filtering smoke from the air as she breathes it in.  It’s also cool, because she needled and harassed Tony until she was satisfied with how it looked.  Natasha has priorities.  

The Troops’ masks are bulkier and attached to small canisters of air affixed to their backs.  Once they’re secured, four of the Troops toss grenades in perfect unison from the open area at the entrance through the archway and down into the hall.  The resulting explosions create chaos and, more importantly, a great deal of smoke. Following that, other Troops – again without a sound or signal but in unison - toss small fragmentation grenades through the archway.  There’s a lot of screaming down there and, for a few moments, the Troops just wait. Natasha has no idea how they know when to separate and begin to move in lockstep down the walls at either side of the stairway.  

 As soon as the APC reaches the fourth level, Steve’s team jumps from it and fans out in three teams of three.  Theirs is the difficult job of clearing this level and the one above, which are made up of dozens of rooms.  The fourth level is offices, meeting rooms, and communications rooms. Each room will need to be cleared. The three teams move out in their prearranged routes, while Steve and the two remaining Troops from the main entrance head for the communications room.  It’s the biggest room on this level, and they need to secure it quickly. But not too quickly.  

Steve kind of has to laugh at the way the Troops look at him for the first few seconds, before their discipline takes over. He guesses Captain America is kind of a lot, at first glance.  He wonders what they’ll think when they meet Ironman and The Hulk.  The Troops flank him and, when they reach the Communications room, they flatten themselves to the wall just outside. Steve can’t whistle like Natasha can, so he nods to the Troop who has assured him that she can, wincing as she gives the short, shrill signal.

Immediately, Steve and his Troops enter the room and begin taking out the Hydra technicians and other workers manning the comms equipment. A second team, made up of four Troops, enters from the opposite side and begins doing the same.  The melee is fierce and chaotic, with shooting and screams and plenty of punches and kicks.  Even the technicians are trained, so it takes a long time to secure the room. While the fighting goes on, Steve notes that the Troops appear to work in twos, taking on the Hydra combatants in a coordinated, practiced way that looks more like a dance than a fight.  

When all the Hydra operatives are incapacitated, Steve sets half of the Troops to destroying the communications equipment. With the other three, he moves up to the third level.  On the way, he realizes what it was that seemed odd to him about what just happened. There was plenty of shouting and screeching from the Hydra people, and Steve did some yelling himself.  But, aside from grunts of effort and short, percussive noises that Steve now realizes were communication, the Troops made no noise, and said nothing.  He’s glad they’re on the same side.  Something about their wordless, cooperative, and deadly efficiency is definitely scary.

 Bucky can whistle with the best of them.  When he does, he watches through his binoculars as the team of four Troops sent to reinforce the uniformed sentries turns and efficiently dispatches them.  Bucky’s team enters on foot – only the main entrance is built for vehicles – and heads for the fifth level.  He grins a little as he notices that his team members, even Clint, give the Troops a lot of personal space.  He thinks Marya would be proud to see that.  Almost as soon as he has that thought, he shoves it into the vault.  No time for thoughts of her.

There’s a team of three more Troops waiting for them on the stairway just outside the entrance to the fifth level.  The fighting starts almost immediately, and it’s fierce. The people on this level are not only trained in combat, they’re the trainers.  This is where they’ll find the greatest concentration of guards outside the seventh level, where the incarceration cells and that fucking lab are.  The door from the stairs opens into a very large gym or training facility, and they’re going to have to shoot their way in. There’s no cover once they get inside.

The team knew this was going to be a bloody level. They lose two members of Bucky’s team and one of the Troops getting across the gym, and Clint gets a pretty good graze on one leg.  And that’s the easy part.  From here, there are smaller rooms they need to clear.  Bucky’s soon shooting and swinging, laser-focused on getting every Hydra asshole either incapacitated or herded to the level below, where they’ll be cornered.

 Sam’s not crazy about this part of the op.  He’s all about the freedom of the sky, not slinking around underground, and he doesn’t know how he ended up with the lowest levels. He’s looking forward to what he gets to do later.  Still, he and his Humvee full of soldiers does what they have to do, driving as close as they can and then taking cover behind their vehicle as they engage the sentries at this entrance.  It’s not a vehicle entrance, so there are only six sentries, and two of those lose their nerve as their comrades are gunned down.  Those two retreat into the entrance, which Sam knows won’t help them, because that’s where Marya and the last two Troops are.  

Sam doesn’t even have time to finish checking to see if any of his team is injured before he hears a whistle that signals the team to enter the bunker.  When they do, the Troops and Sam’s team acknowledge each other with nods and begin their quick, silent trek to the lowest levels.  As expected, they don’t meet with much resistance on the stairs; they see only two frightened office workers scurrying to escape out the entrance.  The Troop in the point position frees a knife. Marya makes a “ssst-ssst” noise, and Sam’s surprised to see the Troop immediately sheathe the knife again.  The team just passes the office workers by as if they’re not there.  They’re no threat so, per Steve’s orders, they’re just allowed to escape.  

At the seventh level, the team splits up. Sam, most of his team, and one of the Troops go forward to clear the seventh level.  One of Sam’s team is wearing a backpack, and he, Marya, and the other Troop start to head down to the eighth.  

That’s when the first complication arises.  There won’t be many people on the lowest level, because it’s a maintenance level that houses the main generator and things like water pumps.  Those that are there, while nominally combat-trained, are technicians and mechanics, not soldiers. Marya and her team expect that surprise will do most of their work for them, but it’s them who receive the surprise.  They burst through the door and have little trouble clearing the first half of the level.

The problem comes when they reach the main generator.  It’s supposed to be guarded, and it is.  Weapons aren’t a great idea in the dim space, crowded with metal machines and pipes, so the team doesn’t waste much time on gunfire.  Instead, they try to figure out how many guards there are, and where they are. When they do, they use hand signals to communicate that information to each other, and the soldier with the backpack puts up a distracting volley of fire while Marya and the other Troop silently and secretly make their way to their locations and take them out one by one.

That, too, works as expected, except for one thing. The last guard is the one with the hideously scarred face who had been present when Bucky had been a prisoner, the one who saw Marya speak to him when pretending to check the straps holding him in the chair.  This guy is trouble.  He is the lead trainer for the guards and the Troops for a reason.  

It takes Marya and the other Troop much longer than planned to flank him.  When they do, he’s waiting.  The other Troop happens to be on the side the guard’s chosen, and takes a full burst of automatic gunfire.  The guard leaps his still-falling body to escape toward the stairway.

This is bad, but it’s not catastrophic.  Marya and the soldier with the backpack let the guard go.  He’s Sam’s problem now.  There’s no one left alive down here, so they begin their work.  

Scott’s busy.  Since he can pretty much roam the bunker unseen, and knows it very well, his job is to go where he’s needed.  He’s needed on the fifth level right now, because Bucky’s team has lost another soldier and they’re not making any headway getting past the door from the training gym into the rest of the level.  Scott comes in from the other side of the bunker, behind the Hydra goons defending the door, and their surprise at being thrown around by seemingly thin air is all Bucky and Clint need to finally gain the rest of the level.  

Natasha’s team and Steve’s team are the first to meet up.  Ironman and The Hulk and their teams now have the outside perimeter secured, and the first four levels are now clear.  Natasha’s team is down by one Troop and four soldiers, and Steve’s lost two Troops and a soldier.  They meet on the fourth level and then move to the stairway on the side of the bunker toward which Bucky’s team is working.  They’re still on the fifth level, although they’re close to clearing it. Once Steve and Natasha enter the fifth level from the other side, they quickly take care of the remaining Hydra operatives between them.  

Everybody’s bleeding from somewhere.  Bucky’s taken several punches to the face and a knife through the flesh of his arm, and Clint’s limping and bleeding from a scalp wound.  Natasha’s pretty much covered in blood, although she insists none of it’s hers. Steve has the least blood on him, but even he’s got some cuts to his cheek and a split lip.  After a quick check to reassess their remaining strength in weapons and personnel, the teams split into two and descend to the sixth level from opposite sides.  

Sam’s team’s been hard pressed to clear the seventh level, where the incarceration cells and lab are.  It’s a warren of walls and corridors, and those on this level fight more fiercely because they know they’re trapped.  They’re also mostly guards, and even the scientists and technicians, being smart if not tough, are fighting to the death.  Scott’s down here now, which helps, but Sam’s team’s been split up and they’re fighting in pockets now rather than one clean line pushing the Hydra personnel relentlessly in one direction.  

Sam doesn’t care if they escape upwards; they’ll just meet Steve, Bucky, and Natasha.  But he can’t afford to let them escape downwards, because only Marya’s team is down there, and they’ve got a critical job to do.  Sam also needs to clear this level as quickly as he can, because he needs to get topside for the last phase of his assignment.  He can tell Steve and the others must be getting close, because refugees from the floor above are arriving fast.  He sees a scarred-faced guard take one of the Troops down, and he starts to become just a little concerned.

 Between Steve’s team and Bucky’s team, they clear the sixth level, but it’s a costly battle.  Now Natasha admits she’s hurt, although she’s not out of the fight.  Steve quickly bandages the gash in her leg.  Clint’s out of arrows, and not very happy that they have to scour the level reclaiming used ones.  It’s grisly and, if you ask Clint, undignified.  But needs must.  Steve’s winded, but not seriously hurt, and Bucky’s maybe a little more beat up, but OK. There’s not much time to regroup, because they’re getting somewhat frantic calls from the level below.  Sam and Scott’s team is getting the worst of things and what’s left of the Hydra personnel is threatening to break out.  The teams split up again, and descend to the seventh level.  Since no more reinforcements have appeared outside, Steve asks Tony to leave everyone else out there, and come down to assist.

 Bucky thinks it’s somehow poetic that the final stage of the battle should take place in this damned lab with that fucking machine that “empties” you or “wipes” you or whatever the hell you want to call it.  It feels wonderful to hold this scientist down in the chair and crush his neck in his left hand.  See how you like it, bub.  

As he does, though, a movement catches his eye and he gets a wallop with a metal bar of some kind on his right shoulder.  The scientist, who’s all but done for anyway, is forgotten as Bucky turns to face the burliest guard he’s seen yet.  Ugliest, too, with that scar where his eye and cheek should be, but that’s not what’s uppermost on Bucky’s mind.  He thinks of the firearm he keeps between his shoulder blades and decides it’s time to use it, but the guard doesn’t give him time.  Pretty soon, they’re hard at it hand-to-hand, and it lasts a while.

Steve’s a pretty popular choice of opponent, so he’s got his hands full punching and crushing faces with his shield, between deflecting bullets.  He feels one go through his upper arm, and uses the irritation of the pain to spur him on.  When Natasha acrobatically dispatches the three guys he’s fighting, Steve grins his thanks but almost immediately sees that Bucky could use a hand with the scarred goon he’s grappling with.  

The Troops have arranged themselves into a pinwheel-like formation and are slowly pushing the Hydra people toward the center of the room.  It’s a massive room, so there’s still a lot going on, but it helps, having it a bit more contained.  It’s too close quarters to shoot, really, so it’s devolved into a lot of slugging, wrestling, and knifework.  The Troops, Steve notes, are particularly fond of the latter.  In their creepy, wordless way, they’re tag-teaming enemies one after another, each fight inevitably ending in a slit Hydra throat.    

Steve and Sam approach Bucky and the scarred guard from opposite sides, but he sees their approach.  He ducks a lethal blow from Bucky and somehow manages to get out of the triangle they form.  They don’t have a chance to re-engage him, because each of them gets a new opponent almost before they realize he’s dodged them.  

Bucky’s tired.  He’s tossed his weapon and is using his fists and a hideous, jagged knife now, and he finds himself faced with a guard who seems to be pretty good with the one he’s using, too.  After his long skirmish with the scarred dude, he’s not as fast as he wants to be.  He hopes he’s as fast as he needs to be, because it’s every man for himself.  The fight’s broken containment again and everyone’s slugging it out in pockets around the huge lab.  Bucky misses a block and gets the guy’s knife in his flank, down low over his hip.  It hurts like a motherfucker and he’s stumbling now, eyes widening as he realizes he’s going to lose this one.  

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky sees a flash of someone running across the room.  What catches his attention is the slight hitch in the woman’s stride as she slows for just a fraction of a second, and then continues across to jump a guy who’s pummeling Natasha.  The guy Bucky’s fighting stops moving and his eyes go blank.  He takes a step toward Bucky, who reflexively pushes him away and he falls to the floor, a knife handle protruding from the base of his skull.

Bucky’s momentarily stunned by his close escape.  When he sees there’s no one immediately threatening him, he takes a split second to realize the kind of accuracy and strength it took to throw a knife on the run like that, hard enough to penetrate the guy’s neck.  But that’s all the time he gets, because he sees that Natasha’s down and it’s the guard with the scarred face who’s just evaded a flying kick from Marya.  He escapes to the stairway just as Bucky reaches them.  

“Take care of Natasha,” Marya shouts in Russian, and tears off after the guard.  “He’s heading for the generator!”

Bucky sweeps the room.  He sees that Tony’s hot on Marya’s heels, and that the fighting’s winding down.  He kneels down to lift Natasha in his arms.  

“We got the rest of this. Get her outta here,” Steve calls to him, and Bucky heads toward the stairwell to carry Natasha to safety and help.

 Marya has to fight her way past two Hydra assholes on the stairway, which costs her valuable time getting to the generator.  She’s exhausted and desperate, and it’s fortunate Ironman’s there to blast the second one, because he’s thrown her down to the first landing and would have shot her where she lay.  Tony helps Marya up, and she signals for him to go ahead of her and stop the scarred guard. He has no choice, so he runs on and she limps, gasping, after him.

Once they’d placed and activated the bomb, Marya had left the soldier who had worn it in his backpack to protect it while she helped on the level above.  Now the soldier’s lying dead, shot multiple times.  The guard, scowling with his one eye, has already torn the casing from the bomb and clipped the first wire.  How the fuck he knows which one it is, Tony doesn’t have time to ask himself, but he sees Tony and has time to rip the second wire from its connection and jam the plyers he’s using into the mechanism before Tony’s on him.  

It’s a short fight.  The scar-faced guard is drained and injured, and Tony is, well… Ironman.  

But the bomb is disabled.

Tony had allowed Marya to watch and kibbitz while he’d built it.  OK, mostly watch.  But she knows how it works as well as he does, which means they both realize simultaneously what’s happened.  And what it means.  

“So we re-wire it.  We just take the time, and we re-wire it,” he says, decisively.

“Mr. Stark, Sam is already in the air.  The helicopters are here.  There’s no time.  Get the teams out of here.”

“All right.  No time to re-wire.  So you leave now, I set it off, and I fly like hell out of here.”

“You’re going to out-fly an explosion?  You’re amazing, Sir, but I don’t think that’s going to work.  And when it doesn’t, who’s going to help Sam with the helicopters?”

“Well, dammit, Marya, I’m not hearing any good ideas out of you!  Quit shooting mine down and figure out how we fix this.”

“We don’t.  And you know that.  Go.  Sam needs your help with the helicopters.  Get everyone out of here and I’ll take care of this.”

“You don’t know how.”

Marya gives Tony a look that, even in this moment, makes him grin.  “They should’ve taken the dumb ones.  But they didn’t.  I got this.”

“No!  I don’t accept that.”

“Sir…”

“No!  I’m not going to be the one who…”

There’s a squawk of static in Tony’s headset and he hears Sam’s voice.  “You know, Stark, three against one’s pretty good odds most of the time, but these bitches are gunships.  You coming, or what?”

“Yeah, Sam.  Yeah.”

Tony hates the smile on Marya’s face.  It’s the saddest smile he’s ever seen, but it’s also accompanied by a manic gleam of hatred that tells him he already knows how this ends.  

“Good bye, Sir.  Good hunting.”

“No.”

“Hydra cannot survive. That is the one thing that matters here. Now get my family and your friends out of here, take care of those helicopters, and let me do my part.”

“I know there’s something profound I’m supposed to say here, but fuck if I know what it is.”

“Say good bye, and that you’ll protect my Sergeant and his Captain.  Say that. And then go.”

“I will.  I swear.”

“Good bye, Sir.”

“Good bye, Marya.”

It’s not hard to take out three helicopters when you’re Ironman and you’re working with the Falcon.  But it’s a bitch to try to see clearly out of the mask with tears in your eyes.

 It’s very satisfying for Bucky to hear the muted “Whumpff” as the generator explodes, and see the ground over the bunker lift momentarily, then sink.  He likes the added touch of the flaming chopper near the center, like the cherry on top of the death of Hydra.  He’s tired, and he’s sore, but he feels pretty damn good right this minute. Until he looks over to where he knows Steve is helping tend to the wounded, and sees him and Tony walking over to him, along with a tall, dark-haired Troop with a big scar on his forehead.  He knows two things instantly.  First, that’s Marya’s brother.  And second, that Marya’s dead.  He knows by the looks on their faces.

All he says is, “No. Please, no.”

Tony explains in as few words as possible, which is so unlike Tony that Bucky almost feels sorry for him.  Tony’s obviously expecting Bucky to come at him for leaving Marya, but Bucky doesn’t need to be told it’s not Tony’s fault.  He doesn’t need her brother to explain that. He knows Marya, too.  Bucky wouldn’t have been able to change her mind, either.  And in her place, he’d have done the same thing.

When Bucky just turns around to face away from them, Tony looks at Steve and walks away with Marya’s brother, leaving Steve and Bucky alone.  Right this moment, Steve needs to hold Bucky together as best he can, and get him into the plane.  It's over.  They've done what they came to do, and it’s not a good idea for them to wait around to try to explain it to the Russian authorities.  Besides, if there's one thing Steve knows, it's that grief like this is gonna take a long time for Bucky to get over.  He would know.  He lost Bucky once. 

“Let’s go, Buck.  Let’s get to the plane.”

It’s as if Bucky doesn’t hear him. "I feel like time's stopped.  I feel like I'm stuck in this moment and I don't know how to get out."

"I know, Bucky.  I know.  Just breathe.  Every breath, you're that much further away from this moment."

"I can't do this.  I don't think I can do this."

"I know.  And I bet you don't wanna, either.  I didn't.  When I lost you."

"Was it this bad?"  When he turns to face Steve, Bucky's watery blue eyes carry a lost, frightened expression Steve had hoped never to see in them again.  But Steve answers honestly.

"Yeah, Buck.  It was."

"Then I'm sorry, Stevie.  I'm sorry I fell from the train and made you feel like this."

"Wasn't your fault.  You know that."

"Yeah, but she...  She did this…  She set off that fucking bomb...  "

"She made a choice, Bucky.  Those Troops, they’re her family.  She was willing to do anything to save them, and to kill Hydra.  Even die.  And the thing you gotta know is, she made that choice before you ever met her."

[junionigiri]

BNHA Rarepair Month - Day 6 - Quirk Swap

for @bnha-rarepair-month

Summary: Todoroki Shouto, the half-ice, half-darkness user, faces the fire-bird Tokoyami Fumikage in a duel.

Relationship(s): Todoroki Shouto/Tokoyami Fumikage (platonic) (TodoToko); Todoroki Shouto and Dark Shadow (familial)

Rating: T

Warnings/Notes: mentions of past child abuse (canon compliant though). A little angst for y’all.

Links: AO3 | FFNet

Shouto stands at the arena, staring down at his opponent standing just as tensely at the other end. There’s a nervous hush over their classmates as they sit on the sidelines to watch their duel.

Tokoyami Fumikage’s hands are twitching at his sides. Under the harsh sunlight of the noon, his blood-red feathers shine with clarity, his icy-blue eyes a sharp contrast to the image of fire. Shouto narrows his eyes--this classmate of his may be one of the more diminutive ones in terms of size, but there’s nothing diminutive about the flames that he can produce.

He feels his left side twitch--the one with the scar, the raven-coloured half of his head, the dreaded side where Dark Shadow resides.

I can feel your fear, Shouto, the demon whispers to him mockingly. Do not be afraid to use me this time.

His scowl deepens as the voice cackles low in his ear. His left side is powerful, true. Frighteningly so, in dark spaces where Shouto’s alone with all his fears and self-hatred. Endeavor, the original Shadow user, made sure he has enough of those, with beatings and harsh words and abuse.

It’s precisely why he refuses the demon; instead of replying, he holds the rein he has on him tighter, effectively sealing him within the confines of his cape. Dark Shadow stills, but only momentarily. He feels its annoyance and actively ignores it.

Aizawa-sensei stands on the side of the arena. He uses his usual bored drawl, but there’s a small, tense twitch over the scar on his face as he regards the two of them. “All right. We have the same rules for this one-on-one duel as the Sports Festival. Basically, if you’re incapacitated or out of bounds, you lose. Keep it clean.”

The two wordlessly nod, and go into position. Tokoyami positions himself. Shouto readies his right arm.

“Begin.”

It isn’t even a second after the dark-haired teacher says it when a pillar of ice and a wave of fire clash in the middle of the arena. He hears muffled shrieks from the sidelines at the great noise that emerges from the opposing sides.

Balls of flame come at him one after another; with each flash of light, he feels Dark Shadow within him flinch. Some of them manage to graze his left side, and he’s barely able to keep the demon from lashing out of that side to eat the flames. As Tokoyami forms more flames, he waves his right hand in front of him and forms one glacier after another, in the most graceful attempt to create a cage for the fire-bird.

His first few attempts fail; Tokoyami’s been working as hard as he is in terms of physicality. After ten minutes of clashing of the elements, Shouto finally gets the upper hand.

With some grim satisfaction, he sees Tokoyami cornered between the last icy fractals he’s created and the out-of-bounds area. He covers him further in the ice-lattice, making sure that the ambient temperature within becomes too low to produce a flame.

Not bad, Shouto, Dark Shadow cackles in his ear, as he tries to keep his teeth from chattering. Aizawa begins to count to five. He’s a little relieved--if he fights with his ice any longer, he isn’t sure he’ll be able to keep the frost from damaging his right side.

On the fourth count, however, a rumbling noise begins to emanate from within the ice cage. Before Aizawa-sensei finishes counting, they see the top of the cage explode, and a streak of vermilion flame rise to the heavens.

Shouto, and the rest of the class, watch in awe as Tokoyami hangs in mid-air, flames sprouting off of both hands like wings. “Fallen Angel: Star of the Morning!” he says with a flourish, as his figure descends from the heavens in a ball of flame, like his hero namesake: the Phoenix.

The half-white, half-dark-haired boy finds himself engulfed in flames. They melt the frost that’s beginning to build up on his right side and come dangerously close to burning his dark cowl and bare skin. The scar on his left side begins to ache. He hisses and blocks himself on four sides with towers of ice and tries to recover.

He catches his breath, feels the damage of rapid temperature changes take its toll on his body. Dark Shadow is cackling gleefully in his ear. See? You cannot win this with just your ice alone, Todoroki Shouto. Listen to me. Use the darkness within you.

“No,” he growls back at the demon. “I’ll be damned before I use anything that I inherited from Endeavor.”

You’re already damned from the start, since you were born with me. He feels Dark Shadow smiling within him. Outside the walls of ice, he hears Tokoyami throw one blazing fire after another, in an effort to melt his shield. Turn away from the light, bring your thoughts to the night. Like that old man taught you.

Remember, Shouto?

He feels his features darkening, his anger rising from within him like a vast, unforgiving pillar of fire. If he loses his cool, if he uses Dark Shadow in his angry state, he doesn’t know what damage he can cause to Tokoyami. To the rest of the class. To the rest of the arena. He’s afraid to use it, afraid to give in to the darkness, afraid to see the condescension in that old man’s face…

“Todoroki!” Tokoyami’s passionate bellow from outside his ice walls break through his reverie. “Be not afraid of the darkness! Use it against me!”

His red eye and onyx eye widen in shock. Dark Shadow makes a dreadful sound. See? The red crow understands me.

“You too, understand the majesty of the abyss that is yours, and yours alone!” The roars of fire do not stop. He sees the red silhouette of Tokoyami’s plumage through the thinning ice. “Embrace it! Give me a fair fight!”

Mine, and mine alone? Shouto is frozen as the ice continues to melt around him. He’s never thought of the Shadow he inherited from that deplorable man as his own. He’s always treated it as a curse. He’s always thought of it as Endeavor’s.

Listen to the bird, Shouto. It’s odd, but there’s a sudden gentleness in Dark Shadow’s grisly voice. Shouto doesn’t realize that he’s loosened his grip on the demon, and it flows out of him. The shape of the raven’s head forms in thin air and stares at him right in the eyes. It opens its mouth and speaks out loud. “I am yours, and yours alone. Use me as you wish, and I will heed your command.”

Shouto suddenly remembers, with piercing clarity, those lonely nights after his face is burned by his mother and his body is bruised by his father. His siblings are hidden away from him somewhere far away from him, far enough that he questions if they ever existed at all. There’s nothing and no-one in his room to hear him cry, to tend to his wounds, to help him ignore the screaming pain of his scar--

No-one, that is, except Dark Shadow. He remembers the darkness engulfing him, coolly and softly, in the form of dark wings. He remembers the voice in his head, telling him that it’s going to be all right, that Endeavor is far away and his mother is getting better and that the darkness will always be there for him. He remembers the shadow telling the tortured child that it’s all right to cry, it’s all right to hide in the darkness for as long as he needed to. It’s all right to go back to sleep.

The memory flashes before his eyes in just a second. It only takes him the next second to figure out what to do. “Dark Shadow. To me.”

The shadow smiles at him, dreary and ready. “As you command… Todoroki Shouto.”

The ice will melt in the next few seconds. Shouto holds out his hands in front of him and braces himself.

The first glint of hot, orange flame is his trigger for his first, and last dark attack. “Dark Ice Spear!”

It happens all at once. Dark Shadow moves forward, shards of ice swirling and spiraling around him like rockets. The demon shoots forward in a massively powerful melding of dark energy and cold, effectively dissipating Tokoyami’s fire, like the flame of a candle being snuffed by the wind.

True to the name of his attack, Shouto targets the spear made of ice and Dark Shadow’s body at Tokoyami’s shoulder, snagging him by the cloth. In the next millisecond, the red-feathered crow hits the opposing wall way out of bounds, groaning in pain.

Shouto raises his left hand, and Dark Shadow instantly retreats. The class looks at him in a breathless haze. Even Aizawa takes a moment to stare at him with a vestige of pride before announcing blankly that Todoroki is the winner of the duel.

“Thank you,” he mutters to the demon quietly.

The demon smirks at him. Somehow, he’s sure that Dark Shadow knows that he’s thanking him for more than just winning the duel. “I did not kill your friend. See to him now.”

The shadow then disappears within the confines of his coat. Shouto takes his advice and jogs to where Tokoyami has landed on the other side of the stage.

Midoriya, slightly panicked and ready to assist, is already next to his opponent. Tokoyami’s a little out of breath, but he’s still able to stand with some assistance. He sees Shouto walking up to him and tries to nod to him without flinching.

“Todoroki-kun, that was amazing!” Midoriya’s gushing over him, as per usual. “I can’t believe how strong Dark Shadow is in battle! How did you decide to use him like that?”

“... I just felt like I needed to do it at the time,” he answers a little uncertainly. He turns his gaze to Tokoyami, who’s already standing up to his full height. “I feel like… I need to thank you, Tokoyami. And to apologize, as well, for not giving you a fair fight from the beginning.”

Tokoyami nods. The feathers on his head bristle a little as he holds out his hand in front of him.. “I’m joyous that you heeded my calls. Once you’ve completely embraced the darkness within, the two of us should have a rematch.”

Shouto gives a little smile and takes Tokoyami’s hand, still warm from producing the flames that woke him up. He has a long way to go to ‘embrace the darkness within’, as the bird said, but at least he’s on his way to do it. “I look forward to it.”

Behind them, Aizawa announces the next fight.

[undertale-rho]

Underearth: Book 1 - Chapter 27

Moments after Frisk entered the curtained area, just as he predicted, Alphys called again.

"Okay, I'm back!" Alphys said through the phone.

"You never said you were leaving." Frisk responded.

"Oh, uh... sorry." There was a momentary pause. "A-another dark room, huh?" she finally said. "Don't worry! M-my hacking skills have got things covered!"

Your hacking skills seem to be rather situational. Frisk thought to himself, thinking back to the numerous puzzles that he's had to solve on this mountain.

After a few seconds, lights flickered to life, along with a massive flat-screen TV hanging on a large pillar to Frisk's left. To his right, Frisk could see a large cardboard surface, the TV screen showed him what was on the other side. Mettaton, along with a large news set with Frisk himself right in the middle. Mettaton himself was in the bottom-right corner of the screen behind a desk that read "MTT".

"Are you serious?" Frisk and Alphys said simultaneously.

"OHHHHHH YESSS!!!" Mettaton began. "GOOD EVENING, BEAUTIES AND GENTLEBEAUTIES! THIS IS METTATON, REPORTING LIVE FROM MTT NEWS! AN INTERESTING SITUATION HAS ARISEN IN MID-HOTLAND! FORTUNATELY, OUR CORRESPONDENT IS OUT THERE, REPORTING LIVE!" He gestured towards Frisk. "BRAVE CORRESPONDENT! PLEASE FIND SOMETHING NEWSWORTHY TO REPORT! OUR TEN WONDERFUL VIEWERS ARE WAITING FOR YOU!!"

Frisk looked around the area. He saw six items of noteworthiness (of course, being the only items there, anything was noteworthy): A basketball; a glass of water; a book; a white, motionless dog; a decorated box; and a small black case.

Frisk decided to approach the closest, being the basketball. As he got close, Mettaton began speaking.

"BASKETBALL'S A BLAST, ISN'T IT, DARLING? TOO BAD YOU CAN'T PLAY WITH THESE BALLS. THEY'RE MTT-BRAND FASHION BASKETBALLS. FOR WEARING, NOT PLAYING. YOU CAN'T GET RICH AND FAMOUS LIKE MOI WITHOUT BEAUTIFYING A FEW ORBS. REPORT THIS?"

Frisk looked around the room again. "Nah, I'm sure there's more interesting things around here." He said as he walked towards the glass of water.

"OH MY!!!! IT'S A COMPLETELY NONDESCRIPT GLASS OF WATER. BUT ANYTHING CAN MAKE A GREAT STORY WITH ENOUGH SPIN!"

"You're kidding, right? How could you make a glass of water seem interesting? Perhaps to someone who's never seen one before, you could."

"WHY NOT REPORT IT AND FIND OUT!" Mettaton responded. Frisk almost did simply out of curiosity but managed to stop himself and head towards the book. As it came into view, Mettaton began freaking out a bit.

"OH NO!!! THAT MOVIE SCRIPT!!! HOW'D??? THAT GET THERE??? IT'S A SUPER-JUICY SNEAK PREVIEW OF MY LATEST GUARANTEED-NOT-TO-BOMB FILM: METTATON THE MOVIE XXVIII... STARING METTATON! I'VE HEARD THAT LIKE THE OTHER FILMS... IT CONSISTS MOSTLY OF A SINGLE FOUR-HOUR SHOT OF ROSE PETALS SHOWERING ON MY RECLINING BODY. OOH!!! BUT THAT'S!!! NOT CONFIRMED!! YOU WOULDN'T *COUGH* SPOIL MY MOVIE FOR EVERYONE WITH A PROMOTIONAL STORY, WOULD YOU?"

Frisk could tell this was planted by Mettaton just to get this sort of cover, but he wouldn't fall for it. "Not a chance." he said, stepping away from the book.

"PHEW!!! THAT WAS CLOSE!! YOU ALMOST GAVE ME A BUNCH OF FREE ADVERTISEMENT!!"

Frisk headed up towards the small white dog. Mettaton immediately began his charade when Frisk got close to it.

"OH, WHAT A SENSATIONAL OPPORTUNITY FOR A STORY! I CAN SEE THE HEADLINE NOW: 'A DOG EXISTS SOMEWHERE.' FRANKLY, I'M BLOWN AWAY."

Frisk was beginning to get the feeling that Mettaton was just screwing with him by now, and just walked toward the decorated box without saying anything.

"OH MY! IT'S A PRESENT! AND IT'S ADDRESSED TO YOU, DARLING! AREN'T YOU JUST BURSTING WITH EXCITEMENT? WHAT COULD BE INSIDE? WELL, NO TIME LIKE THE 'PRESENT' TO FIND OUT!"

Frisk had never received a present before, at least not recently, but he couldn't help but feel really skeptical about everything in the area. In the end, he just decided to check out the black case.

"OOH LA LA! THIS VIDEO GAME YOU FOUND... IS DYNAMITE!!! THOUGH I DON'T MAKE AN APPEARANCE IN IT UNTIL THREE-FOURTHS IN. BUT I LIKE THAT. APPEARING FROM THE HEAVENS LIKE MANNA, SLAKING THE AUDIENCE'S HUNGER FOR GORGEOUS ROBOTS...  OOH! THAT'S METTATON! REPORT THIS ONE?"

Frisk took one last look around the room, then let out a sigh. "Yeah, let's report the game." he said. As he finished, all the lights went out except a few, which now cast a spotlight right onto him, as well as all the ones on Mettaton.

"ATTENTION, VIEWERS! OUR CORRESPONDENT HAS FOUND... A VIDEO GAME! THIS ACTION-PACKED GAME IS GUARANTEED TO BLOW YOU AWAY! STRANGE ENEMIES! STRANGE ALLIES! ATTRACTIVE ROBOTS! FEATURING UP TO SIX ARBITRARY DIALOGUE CHOICES AT ONCE! CORRESPONDENT! LET'S LOOK INSIDE THE CASE!"

Frisk opened the case, though what was inside was not what he expected at all. "THOSE RED CYLINDERS WITH BURNING FUSES..." Mettaton started again, "OH NO! THIS GAME LITERALLY IS DYNAMITE! I GUESS THEY WERE RIGHT ALL ALONG!!! VIDEO-GAMES DO CAUSE VIOLENCE! OR AT LEAST THIS ONE'S ABOUT TO. BUT DON'T GET TOO EXCITED! YOU HAVEN'T EVEN SEEN THE REST OF THE ROOM YET!"

When he finished that sentence, there was a loud booming sound and the curtain surrounding the area fell down, drifting off into the magma below. The cardboard sheet and desk Mettaton was near also suddenly began falling down as well. The rafters holding the lights too came down, falling into the magma below. Everything fell except for the rocky area, Frisk, Mettaton, the six items, and the massive TV. The area was now lit with its natural glow once again.

"OH MY!" Mettaton said. "IT SEEMS EVERYTHING IN THIS AREA IS ACTUALLY A BOMB!" Frisk looked around at the items. It was true. The box was open, and inside was a spherical black bomb, the dog's tail was lit, the movie script had a bomb resting on it's now opened surface, the basketball was slightly faded now, revealing part of a black bomb, and the glass of water was now rocketing around the area.

"BRAVE CORRESPONDENT... IF YOU DON'T DEFUSE ALL OF THE BOMBS..."

Mettaton flew up to the TV and pressed a button, causing the screen to change to a countdown timer, set to two minutes.

"THIS BIG BOMB WILL BLOW YOU TO SMITHEREENS IN TWO MINUTES! THEN YOU WON'T BE REPORTING 'LIVE' ANY LONGER! HOW TERRIBLE! HOW DISTURBING! OUR NINE VIEWERS ARE GOING TO LOVE WATCHING THIS! GOOD LUCK, DARLING!!"

"D-don't worry!" Alphys said through the phone after being silent for all of Mettaton's dialogue. "I installed a bomb-defusing program on your phone! You can use it to defuse all the bombs."

"What made you think to install a bomb-defusing program onto my phone!? Is Mettaton so predictable that you knew he'd do this?" Frisk questioned.

"Uhh... y-yeah. N-now, go get 'em!" Alphys responded before the call dropped.

Frisk pulled up the home screen and found a program labelled "BOMB DEFUSAL" and pressed it. Once done, an antenna extended from the top-right side of the phone. The screen had a green line going across from left to right every few seconds, and a green button at the bottom that said "DEFUSE". Looking up, he found that the bombs had been scattered around the area, and the only one still where it should be was the white dog.

Frisk pointed his phone at the dog, and an outline in green showed up on the phone. A green box surrounded the outline, shaking around for a bit before stabilizing along with the showing up of the text "locked on". Immediately after this text showed up, Frisk pressed the DEFUSE button. Once pressed, the dog sank down and fell over. Frisk then looked around for the next explosive.

Overhead, Frisk noticed the extremely agile glass of water soaring through the 'sky'. Pointing his phone at it, Frisk attempted to defuse it next. After a few seconds and a bit of hassle getting it to lock on, it finally took, and was defused. Once defused, the jet of fire out the back ceased, and the glass fell from the 'sky', landing not too far from where Frisk was, and exploded.

Cutting left, Frisk ran down a set of pipes. Off to the right was a set of lasers and the video-game-bomb. Bypassing the lasers, Frisk reached the game-bomb and defused it. He then did this to every other bomb in the area, the script on a conveyor, the present on an island, and the basketball near the pillar the TV was hanging on. After defusing each and every bomb, Mettaton once again spoke up.

"WELL DONE, DARLING!" he said. "YOU'VE DEACTIVATED ALL OF THE BOMBS! IF YOU DIDN'T DEACTIVATE THEM, THE BIG BOMB WOULD HAVE EXPLODED IN TWO MINUTES. NOW IT WON'T EXPLODE IN TWO MINUTES! INSTEAD IT'LL EXPLODE IN TWO SECONDS!" Mettaton pressed a switch and the countdown timer re-appeared on the screen, displaying two seconds. "GOODBYE, DARLING!" the timer ticked slowly down to zero, Frisk watching in silent horror, backing away from the screen. However, once the timer hit zero, nothing happened, and nothing continued to happen for many seconds after. Eventually, Mettaton spoke again.

"AH. IT SEEMS THE BOMB ISN'T GOING OFF." he said. After he said that, he began ringing again for a second before it stopped and Alphys's voice came from the metal box that was his body.

"That's b-because!!!" Alphys began, "While you were monologuing... I...!!! I f... fix... Um... I ch-change..."

"OH NO. YOU DEACTIVATED THE BOMB WITH YOUR HACKING SKILLS." Mettaton finished for her.

"Yeah! That's what I did!"

"CURSES! IT SEEMS I'VE BEEN FOILED AGAIN! CURSE YOU, HUMAN! CURSE YOU, DR. ALPHYS, FOR HELPING SO MUCH!" Mettaton then turned toward the camera. "BUT I DON'T CURSE MY EIGHT WONDERFUL VIEWERS FOR TUNING IN!!! UNTIL NEXT TIME, DARLING!" Mettaton then flew off, far out of view.

"W-wow..." Alphys said through Frisk's phone this time. "W-we really showed him, huh?" She then went silent for a minute. "H-hey, I know I was kind of weird at first... But I really think I'm getting more... Uh, more... M-more confident about guiding you!"

"I don't need to be guided, Alphys." Frisk interrupted. "I thank you for helping me with the bombs, but I'm doing just fine guiding myself."

"O-oh..." she went silent for a while longer. "S-sorry..." she eventually said before the call then dropped.

Frisk stashed the phone back into his pocket and found his way forward, back on track. After marching up a rather steep and narrow hill, Frisk found himself staring straight at the CORE once again. Pressing forward, he found the elevator, which turned out to be the upper section of the pillar the TV hung on. This elevator had the glowing letter and number "L2" hanging above its door. Entering the elevator, Frisk noticed that four of the six buttons were glowing this time, both bottom ones, the right-middle one, and the top-left one. Pressing the top-left one, the elevator proceeded to ascend. Half a minute later, the elevator came to a stop, and the doors opened to a once again new area.

A Whole New World : Explosive Entertainment

Previous First Next

[ruknowhere]

Many ways to spell good night.

Fireworks at a pier on the Fourth of July

spell it with red wheels and yellow spokes.

They fizz in the air, touch the water and quit.

Rockets make a trajectory of gold-and-blue

and then go out.

Railroad trains at night spell with a smokestack

mushrooming a white pillar.

Steamboats turn a curve in the Mississippi crying

in a baritone that crosses lowland cottonfields

to a razorback hill.

It is easy to spell good night.

Many ways to spell good night.

[charlieharry1]

Four pillars of conversion optimisation in local search

Get greater out of your neighborhood seo & percent efforts. Four pillars of nearby seek conversion optimisationfocusing just a little time & attempt towards powerful conversion optimisation  Digital Marketing Company in Southampton can attain big rewards in local seek advertising. I’ve run hundreds of nearby search engine advertising campaigns in a selection of various industries & geographical markets. One aspect i’ve noticed is that the general public of groups doing neighborhood seo or google adwords are missing as a minimum one of the critical steps important to maximise roi. The first-rate news is that these items is extraordinarily simple to put in force for the majority of organizations targeting localised markets online. Conversion optimisation in nearby search doesn’t need to be rocket technological know-how. The maximum diffused adjustments for your key-word targeting & landing web page first-class can bring about a full-size discount to your price per lead and basic go back on funding. Here’s what i recollect to be the four most essential elements in conversion optimisation in nearby seek advertising. Easy, but effective stuff. 1. Effective conversion monitoring – degree everything. Measuring local search marketingknowing how many traffic your internet site draws every month is vain until you've got perception into how the ones site visitors translate into new clients & earnings. The first step to conversion optimisation in neighborhood search is to ensure that you’re tracking whatever that you take into account to be a treasured conversion. E-mail enquiries (and the sales they result in), 

smartphone call enquiries (and the income they result in), brochure downloads, new email list subscribers, new fb enthusiasts – something. Discern out a manner to song the whole thing. You could’t optimise for conversions without knowing what conversions are coming via and in which they came from. One undertaking right here for corporations trying to track their returns from natural visitors is that smartphone calls are nevertheless the primary point of contact for local clients and natural monitoring numbers. This could reason a few problems for your nap (call, cope with & cellphone range) consistency & hence neighborhood scores in case you’re now not cautious. There are multiple approaches around this mission. The primary is to perform a little paid seek marketing with smartphone tracking numbers over the course of three-6 months and music which keywords are riding telephone calls. You’ll additionally want to have voice recording activated and set aside some time to examine this conversion facts thoroughly. One of the only ways to song cellphone calls out of your p. C campaign is to use reverse proxy tracking generation. Even hire any person to listen to the phone calls and make notes on what income had been done. The entire reason of this exercising might be to accumulate valuable records samples which you could use to tweak your keyword concentrated on & internet site content material (see steps 2 & 3) for better conversions inside the destiny. This is, as soon as you understand which key phrases are converting out of your paid search marketing campaign, you may then attention your seo approach round the ones extra valuable terms. Another technique for monitoring phone call conversions from organic search is to use dynamic quantity insertion (javascript code that allows you to expose dynamic tracking numbers based totally on your website’s referral site visitors assets and different metrics). I think we’ll see this shape of smartphone call monitoring end up increasingly more popular in australia, because it facilitates agencies understand which on line mediums are using cellphone calls organically – with out adversely affecting local rankings because google spiders are nevertheless proven the proper nap (apparently). This answer still gained’t as it should be tune all calls from google+ local even though because a few searchers will name your everyday variety instantly from the search engines like google and yahoo without clicking through to your internet site where the monitoring quantity is proven. 2. Applicable & valuable key-word targeting – make your traffic squeaky smooth

Preferably, you’ll be using a bid optimisation platform in your paid seek that certainly works out which keywords are surely producing the most precious conversions. (each on-line conversions like e-mail enquiries and offline conversions like telephone calls). With out accurate online & offline conversion data, you can by no means truely know which keywords are most treasured for your business. Bear in mind, simply due to the fact a positive key-word drives the maximum traffic for your site, doesn’t imply that it equates to the exceptional go back on funding scenario. As an instance, allow’s fake that you’re a pest manage business placed on sydney’s north shore. You’re running a local adwords marketing campaign with the geo focused on set to consist of your local north shore radius area however you furthermore mght need to try and entice work from throughout the bridge in sydney’s cbd. You’re just not certain if the advert spend can be well worth concentrated on that sydney cbd vicinity but so that you need to test it. It’s probably that a wide, notably aggressive key-word like “pest control sydney” will pressure the maximum site visitors and additionally spend the most important chew of your finances. Keywords like “pest manipulate north shore” & “termite inspections neutral bay” are likely to deliver a whole lot higher value to your enterprise in terms of costs per lead. Specifically in case your website makes it clean that you’re positioned in this vicinity due to the fact consumers want to keep nearby whilst feasible. In pronouncing this, i’ve seen masses of campaigns that get a better fee-consistent with-lead result from the higher quantity, greater pricey key phrases like “pest control sydney”. The answer? You want to check which key phrases are using the excellent fee in keeping with lead. That’s the simplest manner to find out which keywords are surely going to be the maximum valuable to you. You furthermore mght want to remember which positions (across all key phrases) on google are driving the most value-green end result across all goal key phrases. There’s no point trying to determine this out manually. There’s bid optimisation software program available that is designed to do that for you. Tip: from my enjoy, function one within the sponsored hyperlinks section nearly always gives you a higher value per lead. Better volume of site visitors & leads, but at a more high priced price. So it simply relies upon on what your marketing campaign dreams are right here. 3. Website landing pages that sell – “clicks” don’t pay your payments, clients do. You can have the best budget, the exceptional service & a remarkable-applicable key-word set, but in case your internet site &/or touchdown pages don’t give your ability customers what they want then you could as nicely flush your advertising and marketing bucks down the bathroom. Your website need to in reality be addressed before you pump any resources into seo or p. C advertising and marketing. I’ve determined that simple stuff like having your telephone variety effortlessly found, having all your products & services indexed, promoting your provider region without a doubt & having a cellular optimised website are all smooth wins for conversion optimisation in neighborhood search. More on effective landing pages right here and a first-rate article on neighborhood touchdown pages right here. Right here’s a simple instance of how making a few tweaks to your touchdown pages & keywords can enhance your value per lead from nearby google advertising. The report shows spend, impressions, visits, calls & internet events (form submissions) in chronological order from most current down to least recent. Fyi this is for a newcastle primarily based business in the domestic development enterprise, who has a mean sale price of around $500. Four cycles percent conversion evaluation

First campaign cycle – earlier than any marketing campaign learnings had came about. Conversion fee from click on to steer (name or electronic mail shape submission) : 18. 2%. Fee in step with lead = $17. Fifty four

2nd campaign cycle – we wiped clean up some search traffic coming from inappropriate keywords and key phrases that were spending finances for no conversions. Conversion rate: 21. 5%. Fee consistent with lead = $14. Forty nine

1/3 marketing campaign cycle – we determined to make some easy website updates on the start of this cycle, which includes including a few fee primarily based offers and more facts about the commercial enterprise’ merchandise & services. Conversion rate: 23. 3%. Cost according to lead = $12. 50

Fourth marketing campaign cycle – as well as a few ongoing keyword tweaking & marketing campaign bid optimisation, we also launched a cellular optimised website online for the patron to assist searchers discover the facts they needed to convert less difficult on smartphones. Conversion price : 35. 5%. Value in keeping with lead : $eight. Forty seven

Read Also:-  Use an agile approach to boost your marketing

4. Educate your sales crew! – turn on-line leads into offline conversions. Don’t hassle doing neighborhood on line advertising except you have got an powerful offline sales manner in location first. You can hire the satisfactory search organisation, have the fine internet site with the maximum relevant key-word site visitors in the world, but in case your salespeople can’t convert your heat leads into paying customers then the whole thing falls to portions. I have stumble upon this trouble with some of my clients. We begin a marketing campaign for them, deliver a heap of great leads, then we notice (with the aid of listening to voice recordings of the tracked smartphone enquiries) that their receptionists or salespeople are flushing the brand new leads down the bathroom. I propose to lots of my clients that they spend money on a few professional income education if they really need to get the maximum out in their advertising funding with us. A pal of mine, bernard hynes of hynesight has achieved some super paintings for a number of my customers so i've visible first hand how a bit guide in this place can truly maximise your advertising and marketing returns. (and also increase your customer support rankings). This fourth step is the only that i see maximum neighborhood companies wanting help with. It’s additionally probable the easiest step to fix in neighborhood conversion optimisation. Now not simplest that, however income schooling for better offline conversions will drive better returns from all advertising mediums. I hope  Digital Marketing Agencies in Southampton this article has were given you considering a few smooth ways to start driving higher returns out of your neighborhood seek campaigns.

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[paulhudd]

Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt Two: Dream A Little Dream Of Me

Gilray Residence, Mount Merrion, Dublin

Saturday, 8th April 1989:

Paddy was appearing as an expert witness at a coroner’s court in Dundalk and wouldn't be back until late on Tuesday night, so over the next 36 hours Niamh planned to stay in bed and go on honeymoon with the Nevins. She took a slug of Night Nurse, drank a mug of Horlicks, laid on top of the duvet, turned out the lamp, closed her eyes and waited for sleep to come. 10 minutes later, she was still wide awake. 

No good. Too excited. Time for the last resort.

She rummaged in the back of her skimpies drawer and took out an old box of Tampons containing a little nugget of Moroccan hash and a pack of cigarette papers that Emil had left behind the previous year. She rolled a small joint with some of Paddy’s shag and smoked it on the back porch. She wasn't used to it, the high hit her hard, but it wasn't long before that sleepy feeling came over her and she succumbed to sweet slumber...

... she walked across the bridge of clouds that led down to the sundrenched beach and the closed Magritte door. “Oona!” she called, until the door slowly opened and a blinding light shone on her face. A warm, inviting voice shouted back: “Come in! We’re in the bedroom!” 

She walked in, passing through the blinding light into a narrow, darkened corridor. She felt cool tiles against the soles of her feet as she walked; she traced the velvety nap of flocked wallpaper with her fingertips as she made her way toward the brightly lit outline of a door up ahead. She gingerly turned the handle and entered, a little afraid of what she’d see.

Oona was in the midst of making love to her new husband in a nondescript, self-catering apartment in some unexceptional Spanish holiday resort. It was the middle of the day, but the curtains were pulled over an open window and Ni could hear children splashing about in the pool outside while Oona screamed and moaned in untrammelled, shameless delight, unmindful that half the complex could probably hear her. It was quite a sight to behold, but for Ni at least, not in the least bit arousing. Especially when Oona broke the fourth wall during a reverse cowgirl and addressed her phantom friend in her ‘outside-voice’: “Shall we go shoppin’ after, moy luvly?!”

Oblivious, Craigy groaned, “Anything, just don’t stop...!”

Oona giggled as she rocked, <don’t just sit there, join in...>

Ni baulked, No, I’m not in the mood for a metaphysical three-way just yet.

She was a little jealous at first, then it sunk in that this wasn't going to be a physical relationship. There would be no love affairs in the Real World. This was as real as it was going to get.

Oona read her mind and answered in her ‘inside voice’; that cool, intelligent, sexy voice that made Ni’s heart beat a little faster: <Don’t fret, my darling. Don’t forget, I can make you feel everything I feel and Craigy will be none the wiser. I can take us out of this room and up into the skies, just you and me in each other’s arms, both of us feeling what I feel now.>

The next thing she knew, she was soaring high amongst the clouds with her dream lover, naked and free, their limbs entwined, their lips locked in a passionate kiss, the thrill of ecstasy flowing through their bodies...

Two days later: The housemates sat in the conservatory to take their after-dinner coffee. As Paddy settled into his seat and took the newspaper from his briefcase, he espied a note he’d written in the margin above his crossword (a handy way to remember things), “Oh, the strangest thing - you’ll never guess who phoned me today.”

“James Rossington,” Ni replied, matter-of-factly, reading a Love and Rockets comic and munching on a Penguin.

Paddy raised his eyebrows and jooked over the rims of his nezzies, “By Jiminy! Spot on! What number am I thinking of?”

“Don’t call the Magic Circle just yet -- one of the clerks in the Dean’s office rang to tip-me-off. He’s offered me an internship, hasn’t he?” She looked up from her comic, “What do you think of that?” 

He shrugged, “I dunno... What should ‘I think of that’?”

“Well, look at it this way: a week ago I went to Kildare looking for wetlands and find this secluded village; then, when I get to the bog, I’m waylaid by two of Oliver Laphen’s men, and the next thing I know, Rossington -- Laphen’s doctor -- is offering me an internship?!” She raised her eyebrows and awaited his reply.

Paddy was surprised by her reaction, “He was perfectly charming when he spoke to me, no hint of anything untoward. He asked me to ask you if you were free for an interview in the morning...” Then he thought about it for a bit, then asked with furrowed brow, “You haven’t been making trouble again, have you? I’m not so worried for myself, but when it comes to Phil Somerville’s career...?”

“Honestly, Uncle Paddy -- I haven’t said anything to anyone or done anything to put either of you in the soup since you told me off,” she replied, emphatically, “I’m just saying it’s a bit suspicious, especially in light of what Scanlon ‘n Gorringe said about him.” She took another bite of her biscuit and ruminated as she chewed, “It makes you wonder why he’s suddenly become so interested in me...?”

“Paranoia is an interesting subject for a student of Criminal Psychology, wouldn't you agree?” he winked.

“I’m not being paranoid. C’mon! Rossington? What possible interest could he have in a 19 year old pipsqueak like me... unless he has an ulterior motive?”

“Then, why don’t you go along to the interview and find out?”

“Oh, I intend to. I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

 The next day: Where the suburbs meet open country, in the eastern outskirts of Dublin City, stood St Cedric’s Institution for the Criminally Insane (SCICI). It resembled an old redbrick Victorian hospital, but with thick iron bars bolted to every window and a huge disused front door, tastefully bricked-up so that it was in keeping with the foreboding façade. There was a new wing built onto the rear (donated by Ollie Laphen, naturally), but from the front it looked as bleakly Dickensian as it did back in the 1850s, especially when set against the murkiness of mizzly April skies. The perfect place for inveterate rapists, murderous perverts and prolific serial killers, thought Ni, as she pulled up to the tall, iron gates. Once the security guards had confirmed her appointment and searched her little Fiesta, she was waved through and drove along the long, tree-lined driveway, around to the visitors’ entrance in the new wing. 

With her hair slicked back and ponytailed, dressed in her grey ‘power-suit’ -- bolero jacket, tight-fitting trousers with patent leather ankle boots -- she looked sharp and professional as she passed through another security gate manned by two guards, one male, one female, who checked her bag, patted her down and ran a metal detector around her from head to toe; then the male guard escorted her through another heavy door into the the new reception area. 

It was a stylised, modern affair with tastefully minimalist decor furnished with white leather settees; the stark white walls were adorned with large, unframed abstract paintings lit by ceiling spotlights; and pride of place, behind the curved reception desk, was a huge blow-up of a photograph featuring a solemn-faced, sober-suited Dr James Rossington shaking hands with a smirking Richard Nixon, captioned by the legend: ‘THERE ARE NO MONSTERS, JUST MISGUIDED MEN WHO DO MONSTROUS THINGS.’ The message – you can sleep easy in the knowledge that Dr James Rossington has the ear of the Great and the Good and the Downright Nasty! – was writ large on that chiselled, mahogany gob of his. Twat, she thought, as she signed the register.

The young, good-looking, male receptionist told her to take a seat and made a phone call; a few minutes later a portly male-nurse in his mid-twenties, his hair bleached and streaked, his ruddy-cheeked, chubby face soured by a permanent sneer, arrived to escort her to Rossington’s office. He punched a number into a keypad that opened yet another heavy security door and led the way through an old fashioned, white-tiled hospital corridor - more like a cylindrical, low ceilinged subway tunnel - and entered the older part of the building. They walked under an ornate brass archway depicting a scene from The Sermon On The Mount, and arrived at the original reception area, now an empty, dimly-lit, marble-pillared lift lobby that smelled of floor polish and bleach, where they approached one of two shiny metal doors set into the rear wall. Throughout the little journey, the nurse kept looking over his shoulder and stealing glances at her, then turning his nose up and looking away, as if she was emitting an offensive odour. She returned each dirty look with bells on, resisting the temptation to call him out on it: What’s your problem fatso? He scowled as he pressed the button and the outer doors slid open; he glowered as he hauled the concertinaed inner gate aside, and grunted, “Get in.” Charming.

The elevator was one of those old iron cages in an open shaft that gave spectators a pretty good view of the passengers as they travelled upwards through a huge atrium. It was ringed by two Plexiglas-protected balconies, the lower of which was lined with around a dozen inmates/patients, dressed in pyjamas or tracksuits, who yelled obscenities, whistled, whooped and slapped their hands on the thick glass when they saw her. She fought the urge to raise her middle finger and let fly with a volley of curses and kept her cool. The chubby nurse was amused by her apparent discomfort. “You wouldn't believe it, but those eejits are outpatients – they can go home anytime they like.” He looked up, “The real bastards are on the upper floors. They’re the ones you have to watch out for. They know how to behave themselves.”

17 minutes later...

Niamh was serenity and poise personified: cross-legged, hands folded in her lap, head tilted to the left, looking haughtily efficient. Naturally, Rossington was immaculate in a pin-stripe suit, the salt & pepper hair tastefully coiffed, the dark, deep-set-eyes looking simultaneously cruel and kind: Gordon Gecko crossed with Warren Beatty dressed by Saville Row; quite dishy, if you like that sort of thing. He sat with his elbows on the desk, his fingers laced together, bejewelled wristwatch twinkling in the muted lamplight, nodding sagely, seemingly hanging on her every word. Of course, she wasn't fooled for a moment. The entire scene, from her interviewer’s transatlantic accent, to the Rembrandt lighting, was pure Hollywood. It was nine in the morning and the red velvet curtains were drawn against the daylight, otherwise, the office was entirely to her taste: A large bookcase filled with aged textbooks; a few Pre-Raphaelite paintings adding a dash of colour to the dark, wood panelled walls; a shuttered, blonde-wood Regency writing bureau set against the wall adjacent to the mahogany, leather-topped desk. It was all beautifully atmospheric. The sole incongruity was an iron bust of St Cedric -- the Lindisfarne monk, who, if her memory served her correctly, established several monasteries and churches in the dark ages -- embedded in the rear wall, giving the darker half of the room a distinctly shrine-like feel.

She told him the story of her journey to Bogmire and the encounter with Gorringe & Scanlon, but omitted any reference Oona, the wedding or the strange dreams, “... and I said to my uncle: ‘What possible interest could he have in a 19 year old pipsqueak like me?’” She looked him in the eye, “So, why am I here, Dr Rossington?”

This is brill! I feel like Lauren Bacall!

His brow furrowed, “I have to say I find your story fascinating, Miss Fitzgerald, but I’m afraid the offer of an internship comes as a favour to Mr Laphen, nothing more.” Despite his seeming confusion, Ni got the impression he wasn't being entirely honest. She watched him closely as he got up and went to the tray of bottles sitting atop the writing desk and poured himself a large brandy from a crystal decanter, “Can I get you something?”

Ni grimaced, looked at her watch and said, “It’s 9:25AM, doctor!”

He shrugged off the reproach, “I haven’t been keeping regular hours. I’ve been preparing a new book for publication and I’ve been working flat-out since last Tuesday. Deadlines, you see. By my body-clock it’s 11PM yesterday and the sun has long since set...” He snorted like a coke-fiend before necking the lot and pouring another. 

He looked at her in the mirror above the writing bureau and said, abruptly, “Your story doesn’t impress me, Miss Fitzgerald. You know why?”

Caught unawares at the strange change in his tone, Ni nevertheless stayed in character, “Do tell.”

“I know exactly what you’ve been up to.” He sauntered back to the desk, brandy glass in one hand, the other casually languishing in his trouser pocket, “At first I was concerned that you went to Bogmire because you knew something,” he said, with a sly chuckle, “but having met you, I can see you’re just a nosy little girl who wandered off the beaten path.” He was fishing; patronising her to get her to blurt out the truth.

She was undaunted, “What else would I be doing there?”

“I have people in the village who tell me you met with a woman who lives there and attended her wedding in Bogmire last Saturday... and you spent some time alone with the bride.” He sipped his brandy, raised a waxen eyebrow and awaited her reply.

“You have spies in Bogmire?” she asked, slightly offended.

“Let’s just say I have an ally on site who doesn’t like what’s been happening. They tell me you’ve been getting very close to Mrs Oona Nevin, née Umbert.”

Ni wanted to jiggle her legs and say -- Oh please go on, this is riveting! –- but had to feign indifference with a patient sigh as her host took up the Noir baton with gusto and monologued like a slightly camp matinee villain, “You see Mrs Nevin is a former patient of mine and I feel it my duty to keep tabs on her ever since I was... removed from her care. She suffered a psychological episode when she was young and it required many years of therapy to get her to where she is today -- therapy I provided. But I wasn't allowed to finish my treatment. She is very fragile and an emotional crisis could prove extremely dangerous.”

“We only talked...” she began to say, then quickly took umbrage, “Wha- waitaminnit-waitaminnit -- what has any of this got to with me?!”

Rossington stooped, put his drink on the desk, leaned in and said in an accusing, angry voice: “Don’t come in here telling me you just happened to drive into Bogmire on a wing and a prayer -- you’re working for them, aren't you?!”

The glower was as bloodcurdling as the accusation, and despite his sober suit, the man was obviously quite drunk. She thought it safest to eschew the cool blonde act and confess, “OK, look, I admit it! I wandered into Bogmire by accident -- I met a beautiful woman who invited me to her wedding -- then, when I check out the wetlands, I ran afoul of these two old geezers who were less than complimentary about you – and the next thing I know I get a job offer from you! I just wanna know what’s going on?!” 

He’d noticed her rub her palm furiously as she talked -- and all-but leapt over the desk! “Lemme see that!” he cried, taking her hand, opening it and examining the little heart-shaped rash, “Tell me this -- were you violently ill shortly after this encounter -- vomiting, diarrhoea, sweating, shivering?”

She nodded nervously, “Why, yes...?”

He immediately brightened, stood tall, put on a false-happy-face and shook her hand enthusiastically. He pulled her up onto her feet, hustled her towards the door and, despite her protests, bade her farewell, “Well congratulations, Ms Fitzgerald, you will be a much welcome, and may I say, very attractive addition to our team!” He opened the door and pushed her out, “Report to the front office tomorrow morning at 8AM sharp and I’ll have matron give you the official tour -- goodbye!”

The door closed behind her with a heavy clunk. She stood on the deep-pile scarlet carpet outside his office wondering what had just happened. Then she heard a loud groan from the room behind her. She stooped and peeked through the keyhole and saw Rossington furiously throttling the bust of St Cedric like a madman...

On the last Wednesday of each month, Detective Superintendent Philip Somerville came to dinner - or as he called it ‘Gourmet Night Chez Gilray’. Paddy and Phil had been firm friends since they met in NW Donegal overseeing a mass grave in ’85 [See book One Part Two], when the younger man was still a lowly local detective and Gilray had been drafted in to oversee the forensics. The Forgotten Dead of Donegal or the Mass Grave of the Disappeared, depending what paper you read, was international news at the time and the pair were often to be seen on the TV news together hosting press conferences on the progress of the investigation. Somerville had been promoted for his work on the case, but the new position required him to move to Dublin, so he, his wife Pat and their 2 year old daughter, Caitlin, stayed at Paddy’s for a couple of months while they house hunted. They became a little surrogate family for the old boy, he loved every minute of their stay, and secretly wiped away a sentimental tear when they finally moved out.

Big Phil was a strawberry-blonde 6ft 2 hulk with a flat nose (broken in childhood and never properly fixed) and bright blue eyes with eyelashes that fluttered like moth wings when he smiled. He had a kind face and could be disarmingly polite, but had a reputation for ruthless toughness when it came to dealing with the criminal fraternity. Along with Emil, 'Uncle’ Phil was Ni’s ideal man, and told him so on one occasion when she’d had too much vino and was making a point about men who weren’t totally useless, but she soon took it back when Somerville got down on one knee and pretended he would leave his wife and children for her, “Just say the word, Twinkle! We’ll elope in my squad car! With the sirens on!” Paddy laughed himself into a wheeze. She rolled her eyes and called them bastards. Nobody took her seriously.

On this particular Gourmet Night, Ni cooked her world-famous grilled Dover sole with pappardelle noodles in lemon butter sauce, which Paddy pronounced a ‘quiet triumph’, “considering the 5 hours of non-stop cursing, kicking of furniture and broken crockery that went into its creation.” After a long discussion on world affairs (i.e. local football matches, politics, and of course, bloody cars...), the conversation turned to the woman responsible for the bulge above their belt-lines. Big Phil was frank, “Ni, that was lovely, but I didn’t float up the Liffey on a lily pad. What’re you after, Twink? I can’t give you an advance on your babysittin’ money, cos that’s Pat’s department...?”

Paddy cut to the chase, “She’s thinking of taking an internship with your arch-nemesis, Dr James Rossington, and she wants you to tell me that it’s a ‘good idea’.”

“I am not -- I just wanna know more about him,” she said, plainly. She hadn't mentioned his odd behaviour or his allusions to a possible conspiracy at Pagham House. As far as she was concerned, this was her ‘case’.

Somerville took the napkin from his lap, patted the corners of his mouth and said in his ‘official’ voice, “SCICI is staffed with highly skilled professionals -- most of whom do all the work, I might add -- who have access to the latest technology in criminology. The Taoiseach himself has congratulated Dr Rossington for its ‘excellent work in the field of Psychopathological research’.”

Ni curled her lip, “That was very pat.”

“It’s my stock answer when anybody asks me about ‘im,” said Somerville, shrugging, “I’ve learned to keep me mouth shut as far as Dr Rossington’s concerned.”

Ni tapped her nose and urged him, “Just between us?”

Somerville sighed and admitted, “He’s not my kinda guy, you know that. I mean, how many times have I sat at this table and bitched about ‘im? But I can’t argue with the statistics, it’s just his Lust for Glory that I resent him for...”

“But he’s reasonably clean?” said Ni.

Paddy put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and said, “Before you go on, Philip, may I remind you her mother will kill me if she flunks this course. First she backs out of a law degree to enrol – now this!”

Ni’s temper darkened and the usual jumble of old gripes that only got an airing when she’d had too much to drink spilled forth, “No – she blames you for not enforcing Her Will!! She’s still trying to run my life!!”

“Easy, petal...”

Ni slapped the table with her hands and yelled, “No! Every time I wanna do something for myself she has to be consulted! Well, I’m nearly 20 now, so she can shove it! I’ll do what a want!!”

Paddy took the bottle of Burgundy off the table, “No more for you little Miss Firecracker! I warned you -- you won’t get any booze if you can’t handle it!”

“It’s got nothin’ to do with the wine, it’s her...” said Ni, fuming.

Somerville tapped the stem of his glass with his fork, “Hey-hey-hey, listen to yerselves - I’ve been comin’ here for nigh-on 4 years and this is the first time I’ve ever seen youse-two fight!”

The pair backed down and apologised to Somerville and then to each other. Ni slurped a strand of pasta and got the conversation back on track, “Look, I only have to go to SCICI for a couple of weeks til I get the measure of what’s going on -- then I’ll make an excuse and go back to uni. And if I do have to stay for the entire year – well, you heard Uncle Phil – the institute is doing sterling work, I’ll be rubbing shoulders with experts in my chosen field. Everyone’s happy.” She turned to ‘Uncle’ Phil, “So, is there any reason in your mind why I shouldn't take this internship?”

Somerville equivocated, “It sounds as if you’re asking for my permission...”

“She’s asking you because she thinks you’ll back her up,” said Paddy.

“No I’m not -- I just wanna know about Rossington. I wanted to know if he has any skeletons in his closet before I accept the job, that’s all,” she said.

Somerville gave in, leant in and lowered his voice, “Well, it’s funny you should mention the word closet, cos he’s secretly gay –- still a crime in this country, whatever your opinion of the law  -- and he has a fondness for young, tubby teenage boys,” he paused to clear his throat, “and just between us, he has a bit of a coke habit. But besides that, aye, he’s reasonably clean. That said, he’s got three of my most prolific murderers up there living in the lap of luxury, all in the name of research...” he took on the vexed expression of a beleaguered priest, head lowered, hands laced together, as if at prayer, “... like Barry McKee, for instance.”

“I’ve often wondered what he wants with McKee, the man’s little more than a vegetable,” said Paddy, slightly disgusted, “it’s rather ghoulish, if you ask me. The man should’ve been allowed to die long ago.” 

Phil agreed and commented in a bitter tone, “McKee’s his prize exhibit, his sideshow freak: Roll-up, roll-up, see Ireland’s Most Famous Serial Killer! all that sorta muck. As a matter of fact, he’s holding a press conference tomorrow to announce a new book he’s written about ‘im.”

Ni was grudgingly impressed, as much by Rossington’s cunning as his bravado, “From what I’ve heard, he’s under pressure to quit, but instead of disappearing under a rock, he’s drawing attention to himself.” She nodded and looked into space as she pictured the scene, “I reckon he’ll make a few insinuations during his speech to send a coded message to his enemies; veiled threats, that sort of thing.”

Big Phil looked at his friend, “Is this the same wee girl that used to read at the end of the table and the only sound you’d hear would be pages turning and the occasional ‘hah!’ when she heard something witty?”

“Oh, she’s unrecognisable!” Paddy bitched like an old queen, “on top of ruining her life, dressing like a floozy and clandestine dalliances with married women, she’s been watching a lot of Film Noir. She’s turning into the female Philip Marlowe.”

“Well, from one Philip to another - care to make a wager, sister?” offered Somerville.

Ni spat on her hand (Paddy grimaced, “if your grandmother saw that!”) “Ye’re on, brother! I’ll betcha he makes, shall we say, a few ‘peculiar allusions?’”

They shook hands. Somerville watched her collect the plates and take them to the sink, “Oy, Niamh Naive, you’re not at yourself, you know that?”

What did he say?!

She saw a flash of red and got the unholy urge to scream blue murder about hating that nickname and what did he mean by it! She even got as far as spinning on her heel and glaring at him!

“We haven’t agreed on an amount,” he said, passively, but he had seen the fire in her eyes, she could tell. You can’t bullshit the human lie-detector, but here goes - she laughed it off, “Sorry – ‘tampon time’ as Paddy calls it! I’m a wee bit spiky this week, heh-heh... would a tenner be OK?” 

He agreed and she went off to find her purse. Once she was out of earshot, Somerville turned to his friend, “Mood swings, change of image, eyes like two burnt holes in a blanket; y'know how my mind works, Paddy.”

Paddy nodded, “Don’t worry I’m keeping a close eye on her, and I haven’t seen any signs of substance abuse, just a lot of sleeping. Might be the after-effects of that fever she suffered a week ago.” He paused for reflection then said, “No, I think this little metamorphosis and spurt of activity may be more about ‘discovering herself’ than uncovering some grand conspiracy. She’s so head over heels for this Nevin woman, she’s not thinking straight. However, I’ve decided to let it run its course or I’ll never hear the end of it...”

After showing Somerville to the door, Paddy cornered her in the kitchen and gave her a piece of his mind – “This isn't on – you can’t get Phil involved in this little adventure of yours! For one thing, he only knows the half-of-it!”

“C’mon Paddy – what if I find some dirt on Rossington,” she protested. “Uncle Phil can open an investigation -- he’ll have Rossington exactly where he wants him!”

Paddy took off his nezzies to let her see he was serious, “You’re conniving and I don’t like it! It’s reckless and dangerous. And that little show of temper tonight -- it isn't like you at all. I’m this close to calling your mother, I mean it...”

She cuddled him, pinning his arms to his sides, “Paddy, it’s best not to fight it, go with it, you’ll be much happier in the long run!”

He gently pushed her off, held her arms and decried her lack of insight, “This is important, serious, grown up stuff that you should be discussing with her, not me...” The phone rang on the wall behind him, “-- and with any luck that’ll be her now!” He answered. His face fell. He thanked the caller for letting him know and hung-up. Before he could tell her what was going on, they heard Somerville’s car reverse back up the drive and the toot of a horn: they’d obviously both received the same call.

“Someone die?” she asked, half-joking.

Paddy’s demeanour changed, he had that disappointed-but-what-can-you-do look on his face he always got when duty called. “Aye, someone has indeed died,” he sighed, “a decapitated, mutilated body has washed-up on the beach at Sandymount, and no one else is available to put him back together again. I probably won’t be home til tomorrow, so lock all the doors and put on the burglar alarm before you go to bed. 

He gave her a last reproachful look, “And think long and hard about what I said. Whatever your feelings for her, your new ‘friend’ is a married woman, Niamh. The relationship is doomed from the start. You're asking for a broken heart...”

2 hours later: Half stoned, half asleep, lying on the sofa in the lounge, Ni was walking hand-in-hand with her dream lover on a deserted beach, silhouetted against the golden glow of a tropical sunset, when their metaphysical bliss was rudely interrupted by an intrusive tapping sound.

<Do you hear that?> said Oona.

“Someone’s at the door – my door!” said Ni.

Oona immediately broke the connection and Ni woke up in the Real World. She sat up on the couch and listened. Tap, tap, tap. Like the clicking of a key on glass. It seemed to be coming from the French windows at the back of the house. Shit. She’d forgotten to turn on the burglar alarm! She turned out all the lights, went to the kitchen, pulled a steak knife from the block, tiptoed to the sitting room, approached the curtains covering the windows and asked who it was. 

“It’s Rossington. Let me in!” a frantic voice hissed close to the glass. Her curiosity got the better of her and she looked out. Sure enough, it was the good doctor, clad in a jet-black licra jogging suit and matching hooded top, his lustrous hair hidden under a black beanie hat...

In the sitting room: Rossington paced the mat in front of the fireplace and chain-smoked as he tried to explain his predicament without losing his thread or his temper. Ni sat cross-legged on the couch munching popcorn, boggle-eyed, watching him walk to-and-fro, hanging on his every word. She’d planned to watch a tape of the 1946 version of The Big Sleep later that night, but the garbled, paranoiac rambling of a half-drunk neurotic faux-Freudian and (alleged) coke-fiend was just as compelling as Bogey/Marlowe and the LA underworld: “... they rang the office and told me to retract the offer of an internship -- they said they suspected you of spying and it wouldn't be in my best interest to take you on!”

“Who? Laphen? It was him who asked you for the favour in the first place?!”

“Not Laphen: Scanlon. Ollie’s off filming a movie in Europe for three months, then he’s off to Japan to tape a series of Guinness commercials. Gorringe went with him -- Scanlon’s been left to his own devices and I think he’s up to something.”

Ni couldn't help herself and spluttered, “This sounds like the plot of a bad pulp novel?!”

He stopped pacing and snarled, “It’s not a fucking joke, Niamh! Oona’s worth tens of billions! If they nurture her properly, it could be the biggest thing since splitting the atom – or it could blow up in their faces! That’s how big this is -- and how dangerous these people are!”

The accent is slipping, he’s really scared!

“In that case, let me call Uncle Phil...” she reached for the phone on the table beside the couch.

He waved his hands and cried out, “NO! Not Somerville! Jesus, no! I’m only telling you cos you’re up-to-your-neck-in-it-already and you need me! I need you! We need each other!!”

She put the receiver back on the cradle, “See that’s the thing with you James, I can’t tell if you’re acting or in the throes of some paranoid delusion due to alcohol and lack of sleep!”

He approached, looked down at her and said, “You don’t have that problem though, do you?” he said, bitterly. “You know it’s true. Oona’s in you. She knows your every thought. She can control you. She can make you feel sublime or make you walk under a bus. And they wouldn't care. You’re only important to them for as long as you’re important to her.”

“’Make me walk under a bus’...?” she repeated, appalled, “but how... Why would she...?”

He put up his hands in a consolatory gesture, “Look, your meeting wasn't kismet -- you were handpicked. Your uncle mentioned you at one of Ollie’s soirées and I jotted down your name. You were on a list of possible mentors: young women we secretly screened to act as a sort of conscience; a telepathic guide to teach her how to tell right from wrong, the ups-and-downs of the Real World. They must've decided you were the prime candidate.”

She was affronted, “What the -- nobody asked me!”

“Did you find an old map in an old book in your favourite bookshop?” he asked, lighting another cigarette.

She stopped chewing and gawped, “You mean they arranged that? It was a trap?! The fucking bastards!!”

“It was my idea and they used it. I knew you couldn't resist an adventure,” he said, somewhat proud that his little scheme had been so effective.

“You’re the biggest bastard of all!” she cried.

“Let me see the rash,” he asked. She hesitantly held out her hand; he took it and examined it closely, “She rubs a special oil into your skin – a minor irritant, completely harmless – like a concentrated nettle sting -- only it works over a longer time period and flares up when your hands sweat. The point is, while it’s there it’s a constant reminder, because she needs you to think of her. She needs to be on your mind.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and asked, “So, what method are you using – the open/closed door technique?”

“Uh huh...” She nodded distractedly, staring blankly, her head getting light, her vision beginning to blur – Oona was listening.

“Oh! Is she making contact?” he said, excitedly, recognising the tell-tale signs. He knelt by the sofa and looked up into Ni’s eyes, “Hi, Oona! It’s me, Doctor Jimmy! Tell them I’ve got your little girlfriend and we’re going to make a deal!” he yelled, his breath reeking of booze and garlic.

Ni kept eye contact and slowly retreated up onto the back of the sofa so that she towered over him. He looked up and tried to explain, “I was only – uhh!”

She’d kicked him square on his square jaw with the outside of her right foot, knocking him cold. He was sprawled across the mat like a huge, dead, 4-legged spider.

Oh God! She’d done some kickboxing in her time, but never against anyone without headgear. This could be murder!! She flew into a panic – she jumped down and tugged at his jerkin, “Oh dear God, are you alright?! – oh Jesus – please don’t be dead!!” She put an ear to his chest and listened. His heart was still beating, he was still breathing, she sighed with relief; but when she checked to make sure his neck wasn't broken, she felt something hard against her knee. There was something in the pocket of his hooded top. The remorse and anxiety evaporated immediately. She let his head drop with a dull thud and went to fetch the washing line from the laundry room...

When he awoke, he was tethered hand-‘n-foot to a kitchen chair. Niamh was sitting on a stool opposite, legs crossed, the Beretta 9mm dangling on her little finger, “Was this entirely necessary?” she asked, dispassionately.

“Personal protection – I have a permit. And you’ve no need to worry, it isn't you I need protecting from,” he groaned, rotating his jaw. He struggled in his washing line bonds, “This is insane! Let me out and we’ll talk like adults.”

This is great! If my heart wasn't pounding in my throat I’d be enjoying this!

“Look – come with me!” he cried, clutching at straws, “We’ll go to Bogmire and take her to SCICI! She’ll be safe there!”

She was so taken aback she almost fell off her seat, “Malpractice, kidnapping, false imprisonment  -- this isn't Chicago in the mid-20s -- you can’t get away with that sort of thing nowadays!” she laughed.

He wasn't scaring her, so he went for the kill, “Do you know why she needs a mentor? Because she’s a child. When she reached puberty and received her Gift, the psychological trauma wiped her memories -- she’s got the IQ and temperament of an 8 year old. And like any 8 year old, she’s capricious and prone to tantrums if she doesn’t get her way!”

Ni shook her head in disbelief, “She can’t be... We talk about serious things, most of it deep, meaningful stuff...?”

“Hah! You’re talking to yourself!” he sniggered. “She gets in your head and tells you what you want to hear in a voice you can relate to -- she makes you see what you want to see -- makes you feel what you want you to feel! She has total access to all your memories and dreams and can process the data in a millisecond, that’s if you ever stop yakking long enough to listen to what you’re/she’s saying!!”

Ni was absolutely stunned. And the more she thought about it, the more she realised it was true.

He ploughed on without a thought for her feelings, “You were violently ill – that means they gave you the potion! The potion opens the part of your mind that lets her in – that means she has access anytime, night or day, awake or asleep. She’s playing it cool so far -- probably because she’s preoccupied with her new husband -- but soon, you just wait and see, she’ll be like a second head.”

“Potion?! What potion?!” she cried, shaking with fear, raising the little gun.

He wrenched his head to the side, “Put that bloody thing down before somebody gets hurt!”

“Not until you tell me what’s up doc?” it wasn't meant as a joke, it was her customary hallo when Paddy came home from work, but she couldn't think of anything else to say.

He sighed and began at the beginning, “While I was at Pagham House in ‘83 to treat Laphen for yet another dose of the DTs and clean-him-up for a film role, I got talking to an elderly gardener about herbal remedies. He showed me this root and mentioned that it was an ingredient in a ‘Love Potion’. I laughed, as you would, but he told me that in ages past a homely woman who couldn't attract a mate would select an eligible bachelor and slip it into his drink. Her intended mate gets very sick, she nurses him back to health. Then, once he’s back on his feet, he finds that he’s fallen head-over-heels for her, and they live happily ever after! When I mentioned it to the housekeeper, that old bag Sparkes, she said: ‘it only works if the woman is a witch.’

“So I asked her, jokingly – ‘where do I find a witch who can do this?’ and her sour, toothless old face closed like a fist and she went off in one of her huffs, muttering under her breath about me being a ‘nobody’ and how I should ‘mind my own business’ – a total overreaction, which in my book means: no smoke without fire. So I asked around and learned from a gossipy neighbour [Dolly Crombie] that Mrs Sparkes believed her young niece to be a witch and kept her locked-up in an attic room at her house in the village!”

Ni frowned, “And... is Oona a witch?”

"Not in the traditional sense of the word. You see, in the late 18th century, Thaddeus Ravenhill, the 8th Duke of Roxborough -- a renowned biblical scholar, but with a taste for all things arcane -- traced a little Celtic tribe living in caves on the coast of Cornwall who were rumoured to periodically produce dark-haired little girls who matured into silver haired young women gifted with psychic powers. The men though, were a backward, uncivilised, dim-witted lot who made up for their lack of brain with brawn and a propensity for loyalty and industry, which the Duke quickly put to good use. They were housed in a specially built village on the outskirts of the estate, well away from the house. Roxborough watched and waited for a child to be born with the requisite attributes. When none came, he tried breeding one of his own.

“He was a very bad man. And bad men like to keep mementos and records of the bad things they do, but not always in the first place that comes to mind. I guessed that some of his more contentious artefacts might still be hidden somewhere around the house. The Roxboroughs removed everything pertaining to the 8th Duke when they used Pagham House as a sanctuary for various European aristocrats during WW1, but the library is practically intact – presumably they deemed it too costly and time consuming to hire a curator – there are thousands of unregistered books in there.

“So, with this in mind, I searched the shelves, and after a considerable amount of hunkering on kneelers and rolling around on ladders, I found what I was looking for: at the very top of the central bookcase, behind the cumbersome tomes that no one ever reads, was a hidden compartment containing a portfolio containing some handwritten texts and a diary; amongst them was a detailed account of his experiments, including his work on the Love Potion. The Duke’s notes contend that the potion can be used to open a normal human being’s mind to psychic interaction. The diary ends around the late 1790s –- just before he was executed -- so we’ll probably never know if his experiments were successful. What we do know is that Oona Umbert is the first telepath -- the first silver-haired girl -- in three generations. But I needed to find out how to initiate a telepathic connection. I had to know if what he believed about potion was true, so I had my people analyse it.

“The results came back – they’d never seen anything like it. it was mildly hallucinogenic but, despite some impurities, non-toxic. That’s all I needed to hear. I had one of the Redmen prepare the mixture and took it the day before. I was violently ill, but eventually the fever passed. Then I took Oona to the old infirmary in the East Wing, away from any interference, and asked her to read my mind. She did. It worked. Not only that, but it was more effective than I could ever have imagined! She wove me into her wildest dreams and showed me visions so real I felt as if I’d fallen through a wormhole into another dimension! It was mind-blowing in every sense of the word. But Oona was too infantile and inexperienced to control it. She had me on the edge of my seat, sometimes...” he winced and closed his eyes, “she’d lose patience or get angry and I’d get these skull-splitting headaches, terrible feelings of nausea, horrible nightmares -– I begged her to stop. She always pulled back, thank God, but it proved she was too immature to handle it. We did everything we could to reach her, to get her to see the world as it actually is, but she was stubborn. She needed someone her own age, someone she could look up to, to teach her right from wrong. ”  

“In other words, she needed a friend,” said Ni, impassively.

“And a husband. That was her one demand: ‘‘usband!’ And not one of the local louts, either; she wanted a specific type! Now, you’ve seen her, you know she’s 100% in the looks department, but finding a suitor that could also act as a father figure and enforcer, nevermind one that was prepared to live in the village, was gonna be tough. Luckily, Sergeant Marchant, the commanding officer of the local garda needed a new recruit, so we put our heads together and looked for an old-school-man-of-the-house-type, someone she’d look up to: the tall blonde prince charming she was always on about. We found just the man: a plod from Sligo who wanted a transfer to a quiet post after a recent run-in with the local Provos. After he was recruited, we engineered a meeting.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation,” said Ni, “my presence hasn’t interfered with her conjugal duties one iota. She likes to make me watch.”

Rossington snorted as if it was par for the course, “Yes, but once the honeymoon period is over and she gets bored or they have rows, lives may be at risk, and I won’t be there to put it right.” He looked up into her eyes, “In 1986, Herbie’s pals in the CIA brought in a ‘guinea pig’ -- a renegade soldier who’d been court-marshalled and sentenced to death -- in other words, expendable. They gave him the potion and asked her to get into his head. Oona did – but when she got in, his memories and fantasies were so horrific she reacted badly –- the man went insane! He was a twitching cabbage within the hour. They thought she was a freak – they wanted to cart her off there and then – if it wasn't for Ollie’s involvement, she’d be languishing in one of their ‘facilities’! That’s how dangerous she can be!”

By this time, Ni had given up on the femme fatale pose, she felt hollowed out and bitterly disappointed in herself. “We travelled through the stars... we sat on top of Everest... we swam under the sea and made love amongst dolphins...” she mused, looking off into the distance, “it was the most thrilling thing I’ve ever experienced... Now I feel like a prize chump.”

“Just remember this: she’s a child – she’s sly and manipulative, she uses her good looks to get what she wants, but she doesn’t have the education or common sense to compete with you in intellectual terms, so she utilises your sexual fantasies to construct your ideal lover and trust that lust will override reason.”

Ni lowered the gun, “Oh God, she’s in my head... what’s going to happen next...?”

Crisis over, Rossington sighed and slumped with relief, “I don’t know. They cut me out. Ollie ‘n Gorringe think the world of her, but Scanlon wants rid of her. He wants to sell her off to unscrupulous people who’ll use her for their own ends. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She thought for a moment, fighting her natural instinct to play it safe, “But how...?” Suddenly, she sat bolt-upright as the hair on the nape of her neck tingled, her head buzzed: an urgent communication was on the way.

Oona spoke in her natural West Country twang, <Come ‘n get me, Niamh! Oi ‘eard what Dr Jimmy said an’ oi is scared! Please, please come 'n get me!!>

Again, Rossington saw Ni’s expression change and recognised the signs, “Don’t worry, Oona! Everything’s gonna be OK!”

<Oi don’t want ‘em to take oi away! Please, please come quick!!>

“OKOKOKOK! I get it, I get it!” yelled Ni, pulling at her hair and pacing the floor, “... let’s just say I was going to help you...?”

Ni put a note on the door of the fridge: PADDY, GONE CLUBBING - SEE YOU AT DAWN!! Ni, XXX

This is utter madness.

But by now everything was so surreal that to pull out now would be to miss out on the punch-line. She giggled with excitement as she pulled on black leggings and a dark blue polo-neck jersey, “might as well dress the part!” Uppermost in her mind were impure thoughts about finally having physical contact -– Oona in the flesh! And it was an adventure, no matter what Paddy once said: “You’re like an Enid Blyton heroine – only in my experience, snoopy middle-class gels who stick their noses into shady people’s businesses usually end up getting gang-raped in a disused farm house, killed, dismembered, and fed to the pigs.”

Rossington wanted to leave the way he came in. Ni insisted they leave via the front door, “I have to set the burglar alarm.” When she tried to put in the number, the alarm went off – Rossington bolted and hid behind a rose bush. She managed to get it to stop blaring, just as a black Peugeot hatchback pulled up outside the front gate and honked its horn, “Hellooooo – is this the Gilray residence?” a male voice shouted.

Rossington jumped out from behind the bush and made a beeline for the car, “Shut up Peter! I’m supposed to be incognito for fuck’s sake!!” he hissed, loudly.

“Oh! So sorrry! I’ve just been sitting outside in the dark for the last hour-and-a-half, listening to the same friggin’ Erasure tape over and over again!” shouted the voice, in a whiney, sing-song voice.

“Ssshhhh!”

The lights came on in an upstairs window of the house opposite.

Rossington jumped into the backseat and rolled onto the floor. Ni came down the drive, waved at the shadow in the window and shouted “Sorry Mrs G! Jumpy visitor!”

As she bounced into the passenger seat, Rossington grumbled from the back, “Why don’t the two of you just hire a bloody brass band and be done with it!”

The driver was a young, chubby blonde with a cheerful baby face. He shook her hand and introduced himself, “Peter Sinclair,” he said, looking around at the man on the floor in the back, “welcome to my world.”

“Just drive, Peter!” Rossington growled, “Get us the hell outta here before the neighbours call the cops!!”

The car jerked forward and stalled.

“For fuck’s sake!!”

Ni giggled.

Peter flapped his hands, “Stop shouting it only makes it worse -- you’re gettin’ me all flustered!” Once he got the engine restarted, he asked, “Where are we goin’ anyway?!”

“Bogmire,” Rossington whisper-shouted.

Peter looked over his shoulder, frowned and said, “Bogmire? Kildare? At this feckin’ time of night?!”

“We are going to collect Oona and this is the safest time!” Rossington yelled back.

“But she’s just married – they’ll be watching the house!” Peter protested.

“She knows how to get out without being seen. And they don’t know anything or I guarantee an SUV-full of goons would've intercepted us by now!”

Ni confessed to Peter: “You see, he keeps saying things like that and I can’t resist!”

He drove off and moaned, “Believe me, it wears a bit thin after the third or fourth nervous breakdown...”

2 hours later, after a lot of excruciating smalltalk about interior decor, fashion, and the lifestyles of Hollywood A-listers, they finally arrived at the perimeter of Laphen’s estate. They pulled up at a side road where Rossington knew they wouldn't be detected by any CCTV cameras. 10 minutes later, sure-enough, strolling along the road, silver hair flowing in the slight breeze, her pallid face tastefully made-up, dressed in a black lace gown and carrying a silver clutch bag, was none-other than Oona Nevin, née Umbert. “Now that is creepy,” said Peter, transfixed by the vision in widow’s weeds walking in the floodlight of the full-beam, “she looks like she just stepped out of a coffin...”

... And into my dreams... Ni undid her safety belt, ready to run into her lover’s arms -- at last a physical encounter! Then, just as she opened the door -- she felt Rossington put an arm around her throat and pull her back! She felt a sharp sting in her neck.... and slumped forward onto the dashboard, unconscious.

Rossington’s face appeared between the seats, grinning like a Cheshire cat..

“Well, well, it worked,” said Peter, slightly impressed, slightly disappointed.

Rossington patted his lover’s shoulder, “You were great, Peter, you really should think about a job on the stage.”

“I wasn't actin’, James! – my nerves are feckin’ wrecked! I only agreed to this cos you practically begged me!”

Oona climbed into the backseat and kissed Rossington on the cheek, “Oh, Dr Jimmy, ‘ee truly is a magician! You jast ‘ave to say it – and tis done!” She looked at her friend slumped in the front seat and tried to read her, “Aww, she’s down so deep oi can’t reach ‘er. Will she be all roight?”

“Just a sedative, she’ll be fine in the morning,” said Rossington, assuredly. He looked Oona in the eye, “I hope you appreciate all this, madam, it’s all for your benefit. Mr Scanlon does not have your best interests at heart, but once I have a word with him, he’ll soon see things my way.”

“Oi know, Dr Jim, oi is most grateful.”

“Right, well, we have 2 hours to get things done, so c’mon, Peter, chop-chop!” As they did a u-turn and drove back down the road, he reached under the front seat and retrieved a large walkie-talkie: “JR here. We have Oona -- and Miss Fitzgerald. Now, this is where we have to trust each other, so no ambushes in the middle of negotiations, no threats or abuse; I have a man on the outside waiting for my call -- any funny business and he goes straight to the Gardai with a list of Ollie’s crimes against humanity. Over.”

Scanlon’s voice sounded in the earpiece: “I’m a man of my word, doctor. Flash your headlights when you get to the front gate...”

St Cedric’s Institute for the Criminally Insane (SCICI):

The next day: She opened her eyes only to be dazzled by a glaring spotlight shining on her face. When she focussed, she saw that it wasn't a spotlight, it was the blazing bulb of an extendible angle-poise reading-lamp attached to a headboard. She was in bed in a white room.

A hospital room? How the...

Sitting on the edge of the cot, dressed in a dark blue Dior 3-piece-suit, white silk shirt and silver cufflinks, dark-blue knitted tie clipped with a silver pin tipped with a cluster of miniature white diamonds, was Dr James Rossington. He had an inner glow now: the silver flecked hair quaffed and shiny, the tan, healthy and vital. He smiled broadly, his deep-set, smiling eyes twinkling somewhere in the folds of his brow. “I’m back in the loop, my darling, all thanks to you,” he said, in a breathy James Mason half-whisper, “Scanlon made a deal. We’re home ‘n dry! This is A New Day! Chin-up, stand tall and greet it with a smile. Here, have some paracetamol. He handed her a small water-cooler cone half filled with water, and a tiny plastic cup containing two white capsules.

Ni was weak and dehydrated, and sure enough, suffering with a dreadful headache. She drank the water greedily -- but threw the paracetamol back in his face, screaming - “Why the fuck did you knock-me-out you fucking creep?!” She lashed out as best she could; he easily parried the feeble, slapping hands and talked her down, “It was a precautionary measure to ensure your safety!” He caught her wrist and pointed to her head, “If she didn’t like what she was hearing, Christ knows what she might have done! You were at risk! And I couldn't very well take you home, could I? So I brought you here, to SCICI, and had a nurse put you to bed. I called your uncle’s answering service and told them you turned up for work this morning and you were taken ill, but you were recovering in our sick bay. He called back half-an-hour ago. He was working all night; he didn’t even know you went out. He’s just happy that you’re safe ‘n well.”

She pulled the covers up to her chin, “You didn’t do anything else to me while I was under, did you...?”

Insulted, he stood up, arched an eyebrow, tugged at his cuffs and spoke in a no-messing, headmasterly tone, “I needed you as a bargaining chip, that’s all. Once Scanlon and I had settled our business, we took Oona home, came straight back here and put you to bed.”

Trying to keep her temper under control, she snarled, “Bargaining chip?! You’re taking a big, big risk, Rossington -- all I have to do is call DS Somerville and let him sort it out!”

He was quick to reassure her, “OK, so you were injected with a mild sedative and your feelings got hurt. Are you going to jeopardise this entire enterprise just to take me to task over that? I mean, this is ground-breaking, earth-shattering stuff we’re talking about...” he winked, salaciously, “And besides, you’re enjoying yourself, aren't you?”

“God, you’re glib,” she snarled.

“Yes, but I’m right.” His expression softened as his voice took on a more sympathetic tone, “Look, Oona promised us that as long as you’re there to guide her, she’ll restrict her telepathic activity to our experiments.”

“And what if I can’t sleep? What if all this upheaval makes me an an insomniac?!” she cried, exasperated and conflicted; her conscience telling her to find a way out, her instinct for adventure telling her to persevere and weather the storm.

“I can supply you with sleeping pills if you require them. I saw you smoke a joint last night, I can get you some medicinal marijuana...?”

“No. There’s enough crap floating around my system without throwing barbiturates or dope into the mix...” She turned away and asked quietly, “So... when can I see her?” she asked, a little shamefaced.

“Every hour of every day if you like.”

She turned back and sneered, “You know what I mean: face-to-face. In the flesh. I need to look her in the eye and ask her if she’s OK with all this. If I can’t trust the person in my head anymore, I can at least see how she really feels.”

He shook his head, “Niamh, a face-to-face meeting at this juncture would be counter-productive. This is a scientific experiment with implications that will change humankind forever, not a Dating Agency. Unfortunately, she is at that stage in her development where she relates to everything and everyone on a sexual level, that’s why she seduced you. But not to worry, your mutual attraction will eventually fade.”

“What you mean is: you want me to forget the ‘whirlwind romance’ and use my influence to brainwash her into your way of thinking?” she chided.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned a patient sigh, “There are no text books on the subject, Niamh, no operator’s manual on how to handle something as extraordinary as this –- and I admit, most of the time I fly by the seat of my pants -- but if I fail Oona and this doesn’t work, she could seriously hurt someone or hurt herself. Then Scanlon will get his way. She’ll be sold to the highest bidder.”

“I suppose...” She grumbled.

He straightened up, rubbed his hands together and quietly rejoiced, “Good. We’d like you to tutor her and guide her through the vagaries of Modern Life, generally make yourself available. And look,” he reached into his inside pocket, took out his cheque book, licked a finger, flipped it open and scribbled with a gold-plated fountain pen; he ripped it off with a flourish and presented it to her with a dazzling smile, “... this should cover all the inconvenience –- and I’ve included an advance on your first month’s salary!”

It was more money than she’d ever seen in her life, but it wasn't enough to convince her that this was a good idea. She twiddled her thumbs, “It feels all wrong... there’s no way I can do this... Look at me,” she showed him the reflection of her wan, dark-eyed spoon-face in the curved chrome of a kidney-dish, “this is after a week - God knows what I’ll look like if I take any more of that ‘love potion’...” She was fudging. She desperately wanted it. It prolonged the experience and made the visions so vivid, so real, they were almost tangible. Oh yeah, I want it alright. She hated herself for it. She was a slave to her libido, and now she knew the whole truth, she realised it was the only thing they had in common. She felt dirty and guilty. She couldn't help it, the tears were on their way, “...but the Oona I met that Monday, she gave me warm vibes, she was very... she seemed so nice. Now you’re telling me she’s been stringing me along .... and I do what any sexist pig does: I objectify her!” She sobbed into the pillow, “Oh God... the one time in my life I don’t do the right thing and everything goes to shit...!”

He took a deep breath, counted to ten, patted her shoulder and affected his best bedside manner, “Listen to me. once she settles into married life and gets pregnant it will change everything, I can guarantee it. That’s her ultimate dream: to have a family. Now, that might be anathema to your right-on ideals, but in Oona’s case it’s imperative that she settles down and leads as ‘normal’ a life as possible, as soon as possible.”

“No pressure, then?”

“If you go with it, no. Technically, you don’t even have to do anything, just open the door when she needs a consultation.” He reached around to the stainless steel trolley by the bed and picked up a small cardboard dish containing a capped syringe and a phial of grey liquid.

“Oh God...” she whimpered.

“It won’t be so bad this time,” he chuckled, “most of the impurities have been removed, so no more dicky bellies or runny bottoms; I have nurses on standby night-and-day should you take an adverse reaction, but that’s highly unlikely, or you’d’ve been dead within an hour of swallowing that first cup of cocoa. They were taking a bit of a chance administering it orally, but I suppose a jab in the neck would've been a dead giveaway.”

“You are such fucking arsehole, James. You know that, don’t you?” she grumbled, as he rolled up her sleeve.

Later that week:

She phoned Paddy and told him she was now a willing participant in a SCICI drugs study and that she’d be staying at SCICI for the next week or so. He was surprised by her sudden volte face as regards the illustrious Dr Rossington, but took her assurances that nothing ‘nefarious’ was going on at face value. She’d never lied to him before, she shocked herself at how easy it was. Part of her wanted him to insist that she come home immediately, a part that was weakening with every passing hour. Her relationship with Oona went on as usual, the potion made everything as blissful as it had been at the start, only now her doubts were harshing the buzz. Thankfully, Oona was too taken with her new life to notice. So far...

One afternoon, while Ni was lying on the covers in her dressing gown, head propped up on the pillows reading the previous day’s Irish News, waiting for the next psychic communication, when she heard a voice in her head:

Niamh

She looked up. She knew wasn't Oona. It was a different feeling entirely. 

Niamh

It was strange voice, no more than a faint, crackly whisper, hard to tell if it was male or female. It must be a side effect of the potion. A telepathic flashback? Whatever, she shrugged it off and went back to the newspaper.

Niamh.

The lights flickered.

Close your eyes

“Who is this?” she asked, a little scared.

Close your eyes. 

The voice sounded sure and assertive, and despite an all-consuming feeling of anxiety, she did as it asked:

She was medieval peasant in the herbaceous garden of a lonely cottage, drawing water from a well. With one foot on the ground and one foot on the wall, she hauled on a thick, frayed rope with all her might. When the large, sloshing pail eventually emerged, she noticed something dark and slimy in the water. As the surface stilled, she saw that it was a strange looking creature: like a large, black mole dipped in oil, with webbed talons and a large, black chiselling-beak that looked very sharp indeed.

It kicked! The pail jumped out of her hands! The creature leapt out!

She caught it by its bill before it had a chance to snap at her - she trapped its body under her left arm, holding the beak tightly in her clenched fist! The creature was very strong indeed, it took all her strength to hold it - it thrashed and clawed at her as she fell to her knees and held it against the ground, its big, black eyes bulging in their orbits as it desperately tried to escape her clutches.

Just then, the strange, crackly voice whispered in her head:

<She’s lovely, isn't she? I call her a ‘Slimy, Blind, Chisel-Beaked, Web-Footed Corpse-Eater’, but she’ll eat anything, doesn’t have to be cadavers. It could be small animals, moles, worms, slugs... anything. In fact, this specimen has just awakened after 6 months of hibernation, so she’s particularly peckish and by the looks of things, she’s under the impression she just found breakfast!>

Niamh put her knee on its back, still gripping the bill for all she was worth.

<Hmmm... I’ve been told it’s like trying to hold-down a pitbull-terrier dipped in lard.>

Niamh’s wrists were weakening...

<Sorry, I really should get to the point, eh?

<Here’s the thing: Do you let go and hope that she doesn’t bite? I wouldn't recommend it. She’ll go all out to kill you; those little talons are designed for tunnelling and they’ll make short work of your torso. She is blind, but she smells your fear, and once she gets the scent of blood, it’ll send her into a feeding frenzy and she won’t stop until you’re dead. And I can assure you, you will feel a thing – they tend to go for the soft tissue first, so you’ll have to watch while she wends her way through your viscera to access the sweet meats further in... That’s if she hasn’t already pecked your eyes out... Slimy, Blind, Chisel-Beaked, Web-Footed-Corpse-Eaters consider mammals’ eyeballs a delicacy.>

She pressed the thing against the side of the well, took her hand off its beak and quickly grasped it tightly by the throat with both hands; it writhed and made a sound like a panicking magpie...

<You could take her to the village and get someone to help you - but this is 13th century Madrid, women are second class citizens - especially 20-year-old spinsters with a herb-garden and a flair for all-things medicinal. The women love you, you’re a nurse, a midwife and a reliable confidante, but the men are just waiting for an excuse to be rid of you, and this would be the perfect opportunity. They’ll say this little monster is a demon you summoned from hell, and indict you as an agent of Satan – and would you believe it - the Grand Inquisitor just rode into town - a surly, black-hearted man, famed for hunting witches...>

Sure enough, she heard the clip-clop of hooves on the road beyond the high hedgerows.

<It’s a poser, isn't it? I suppose you could wait until she wears herself out... but what if you weaken first? What if she plays possum?  What if you manage to fight her off but she maims you enough to cripple you or give you a deadly infection – there are over 50 thousand types of bacteria in every bite! These are the days of leeches and the 4 humours - there ain't no penicillin, darlin’!

<... Or do you – and this is always the most popular option -- do you simply wring her neck and kill her? No one will ever know. It’ll be just between the two of us.>

She tightened her grip...

<Oh, before you consign her to oblivion, did I mention that she is the last of her kind? You’ll be causing the extinction of a long-forgotten species. But – hey - do you really want to die for the sake of an ugly old thing like this?>

The ugly old thing was still squirming in her hands showing no signs of weakening, making an eerie mewling sound, its little muscles writhing and tensing, its webbed talons scrabbling at the air, trying to catch her forearms...

Snap.

<Now we’re in business.>

Snap.

Snap.

“Hey! You!”

Snapping fingers.

She snapped out of the daydream. 

She was standing at the full-length mirror in her room, her hands pressed against the glass, like a kid at a toy shop window. What the hell...

The snapping fingers belonged to Matthew Cromarty, the surly nurse who escorted her the day of the interview. “What are you doin’? Fallin’ in love with yer own reflection?” He had the ability to make every utterance sound like an insult. The unshaven, drink-ruddied jowls wobbled as he bobbled his head like a contrary teenage girl and waved a hand in front of Ni’s face, “Hello?! You do know where you are, don’t you?!” he said, in a sardonic, sing-song voice, as if he was talking to a senile patient.

She pretended she knew exactly what she was doing and snapped back, “What do you want, Matthew?”

He handed her a clipboard, “James wants you to sign this. It’s a secrecy form to stop you blabbin' to all-‘n’-sundry ‘bout what goes on under this roof.”

It was a standard NDA. She read it and gave the clipboard straight back, “I’m not signing anything until I speak to him. Where is he anyway?”

He held out pen, “Just sign the feckin’ form.”

She waved it away, “Take me to him now, please.”

“Well you can’t see ‘im!” Cromarty jeered, “He’s with Barry McKee. He gave strict orders that he’s not to be disturbed when he goes in there! And accordin’ to this,” he flipped the page, “only me, matron, two orderlies and...” his face fell, “... and N. Fitzgerald (intern)....” he looked at her as if she’d just broken wind, “...you?” He checked it again. “Why would he...?” He stamped his foot and slapped the clipboard against his thighs in a rage, “Who are you exactly?!”

She was beginning to wonder herself...

The next day: feeling very pleased himself at a job well done, Rossington reclined in his antique leather swivel chair, turned up the Rachmaninov CD with the remote control, put the brandy balloon to his lips and supped ---

“James...?”

--- and duly spat it all over himself! He leapt to his feet, “FUCK!! Shit! Don’t do that!!” he yelled, “Jesus H Christ Almighty you scared the absolute living shit out of me, you stupid bitch!” He quickly turned off the stereo and reached for a rectangular silver box on his desk, pulled a wad of paper handkerchiefs from it and began to dry his shirt, “Dammit - $280 worth of Cardin spattered with $900 cognac...FUCK!!”

Hands in the pockets of her white-flannel bathrobe, her usually vital rosy-red cheeks pallid, her long, uncombed hair mussed-up on one side, Ni cut a gloomy, forlorn figure as she trudged in. She sat on the edge of the big red leather couch and grabbed her ankles, assumed the foetal position and rocked to-and-fro, “James, it’s the dig in a month or so, and while I’m there I was wondering if you could set up a meeting with Oona? I promise -– it’s just a face-to-face, out-in-the-open conversation, no bodily contact. It’s important to establish trust.”

Rossington sprang to his feet again –- splashing brandy over his cuff -- this time he was too incensed to care, “What?! What are you talking about?” he said, his eyes boggling.

Here we go again. She was beginning to see why Peter, his ‘Flatmate’, was so jaded for one so young. “What’s the problem, James? I’ll be careful not to upset her or the project...?”

But Rossington wasn't concerned about a tryst, “What dig?!” he asked, dismayed.

“Our dig. The old bog. Laphen gave us permission,” she told him, confused, “Scanlon must've told you about it? It’s what brought me to Bogmire in the first place. I was looking for a site and bogs like the one on the Pagham estate are catnip to people like us -- it’s like an ancient, organic stew; a huge culture that has been left to moulder for thousands of years...”

“YEAH, yeah -- (Careful! – Temper! – Accent!) -- yes, yes, I don’t need a biology lecture! I know what a fucking bog is!” He thought about it then came around the desk and put a hand on her shoulder, “Listen, Niamh, can you get it called off?” he asked, as nicely as he could. 

“No! What? Why?” She pulled the hand from her shoulder, stood up and defiantly put her fists on her hips, “Listen buster, my uncle is suspicious enough as it is -- I’ve told him I’m doing some sort of ‘drugs-trial’ for you –- which is half-true -- but if I call off the dig he’ll suss that something’s up and he’ll call my bloody mother! And if that’s the case, you won’t have a mentor -- cos I’ll be on the next flight to Stockholm!”

He relented. The deep-set-eyes became pensive slits; he massaged his chin as he mulled and mumbled, “Scanlon didn’t mention it at the meeting, I wonder why...?” He paced one way –- frowned -- then paced back, “Bastard! He’s set me up again!” Then he smiled as a more agreeable notion occurred, “Maybe he doesn’t know about it...?” After much deliberation, he walked to the window, pulled back the curtain and stared out at the weeping willow in the little green at centre of the courtyard carpark. “What exactly do you do at these digs?”

Still slightly annoyed, she replied, “We won’t interfere with any naturally-occurring phenomena or wildlife. We use state-of-the-art equipment and we’re very careful to leave things as we found them...” Then the realisation struck her, “You’re worried about the bog, aren't you? The potion. Its bog water, isn't it?!”

“... apart from a few roots ‘n herbs, I suppose it is 90% ‘organic stew’, yes,” he admitted, slightly ashamed.

“And you’re worried we might spoil it?”

“An excavation could ruin the natural balance...” Rossington looked at her for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to let her into a secret. Finally, he locked the door to the office, went to the writing bureau, unlocked it and took out a buff A4 envelope. He removed the contents and spread them out on the desk, “These are photocopies of Roxborough’s diary. It’s written in a crude code and almost illegible, but I had an expert decipher it.” He pointed to a page with some rough drawings of a giant standing over a crowd of frightened peasants. “The locals believe the bog contains the remains of an ancient magus -- an ‘evil shaman’, ‘magician’, ‘sorcerer’ or whatever you want to call it -- whose body was interred there 5000 years ago. Legend has it that the peasants who executed him couldn't cremate the body, fearing that the smoke and ashes might pollute the air and kill them or their livestock; they couldn't bury him in a crypt or a mound because he’d be a highly desirable commodity for body snatchers and the tomb would have to be guarded day-and-night. So they consulted with other mystics who told them to weigh him down with a large rock and sink him in the deepest bog they could find. They supposedly put a spell on it to ‘contain his evil spirit’ and make it safe, but it’s reputation stuck, the legend endured. The local populace stayed clear and kept it a secret until 5000 years later when Roxborough visited Kildare and learned about it. It was his main reason for buying the land in the first place.” He showed her another entry, “He believed that the body’s presence in the bog created this miraculous ‘font of mystical power’, not realising that it contained a hallucinogen. He and his little coven drank it in their demonic rituals, completely unaware that they were totally off their heads. That’s where the coherent narrative ends. He consumed the stuff every day for almost 13 years. He must've been out of his mind by the time they hanged him.”

“So that stuff Scanlon said was true: Roxborough was a Satanist?” she asked, fascinated, looking through the pages.

“He saw the occult and its rituals as a legitimate branch of science. Trouble was, to raise hell he had to raise hell, and got up to all kinds of unsavoury mischief to gratify Old Nick’s thirst for depravity. It was a dreadful scandal. The family kept a lid on it. When the 9th Duke inherited the house he destroyed all trace of his father’s ‘evil work’ and the local dignitaries were only too happy to brush it under the carpet.”

Ni read as much as she could, “Shit -- he talks about having orgies with children?!”

“Hmm, it’s not light reading by-any-means. Suffice to say he was an ardent disciple of De Sade. There’s a signed copy of Justine in the library,”

She looked through the larger pages containing a dozen-or-so rudimentary pen & ink drawings of the wood and the wetlands. The last page featured a crude woodcut depicting a child emerging from the bog and sharing a loving embrace with a horned & hoofed devil. Behind them, standing on the bank, is a white-haired woman with her arms outstretched, as if bringing the two together. A shiver ran down her spine.

“But there’s another reason why I find it odd that Ollie should give you permission,” he said, as if still trying to work it out, “there could be other bodies.”

Ni stopped reading. “Other bodies?” she asked, a little shocked.

“There was once an orphanage on the estate that was destroyed by a fire in the 1920s. The locals believe the proprietors dumped the bodies of dead children in the bog. If it’s true, the discovery could cause a sensation and put the village’s privacy at risk.” He paused and thought about it, “Unless, for some reason, he wants them to be found...?”

Ni was quick to explain, “If we find anything untoward, then the site will be a crime scene and more than likely any forensics would be overseen by Uncle Paddy. He’ll be discreet, but he’ll have a lot of questions, ‘specially when children are involved.” She looked at him askance, “Which reminds me, why have you given me clearance to visit Barry McKee?”

Rossington sat down at his desk, cleared his throat and carefully considered his reply; eventually, he put his elbows on the desk, laced his fingers together and replied in an earnest voice, “I’m aware that your uncle and DS Somerville doubt my intentions as regards our Mr McKee, so to let you see that that I’ve nothing to hide -- that I’m trying to help him, not exploit him -- I’ve granted you 24 hour access to his room, and you will be privy to my manuscript before it’s dispatched for publication.”

“That’s pretty magnanimous of you,” she said, with a suspicious frown.

“I’ve nothing to fear, nothing to hide,” he said, without emotion.

After a sizeable pause, she shook her head, “James, I’ve only known you for a week and by the looks of things you’re an opportunist who exploits everybody you meet, and I can’t shake this horrible feeling that I’m just the latest in a long line of baffled patsies.”

He gave her a world-weary look, took a key from his pocket and set it on the desk, “Here, that opens the door to my private quarters. I’ll be away for the weekend, so you can make yourself at home. Have a bottle of wine, listen to some music, smoke a joint, watch videos, whatever you youngsters get up to nowadays...”

Paddy Gilray and Phil Somerville, both wearing sunglasses, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, shirts opened to the waist enjoying the Spring sunshine, were sitting in deckchairs either side of a beer-barrel table in Paddy’s back garden, sipping real ale and chewing the fat.

“How’s Ni getting on at SCICI?” Somerville asked.

“She’s losing weight. Pale and panda-eyed,” said Paddy, tutting. “She came home yesterday for a short visit to get some clothes and she nearly frightened the life out of me! Moody, too. Makes you wonder what they’re doing up there.” 

Somerville shook his head, “There’s nothing I can do, Paddy. After shootin' my mouth off about McKee last December, I’ve been warned to keep it shut ‘n keep away from the place or face disciplinary action.” He considered it for a moment, “I s’pose I could send Dermot Malone over there; he’s a right obnoxious wee bollox, he’ll rattle a few cages if nothing else?”

Paddy politely refused the offer, “No I don’t want anybody –- I mean it Phil -– nobody is to go near that place while she’s there or she’ll never trust us again.”

“What is it they’re giving her, anyway?”

Paddy lowered his voice and intimated, “Well according to a fellow who used to work for me -- he now heads SCICI’s toxicology department -- it’s just a mild hallucinogen, like magic mushrooms. It’s connected to some top secret research into anti-psychotic drugs, y’know the sort of thing.”

“So, what’re you gonna do, then? Phone Mairead and ask her advice?”

“Nah, she’s incommunicado, writing pot-boiler 435, or whatever. She left a number for emergencies, but I don’t know if this qualifies.” He took a sip and asked for some fatherly advice, “Is it just a teenage thing, Phil? Do you let them find their own way by learning from their mistakes? Guide them from a respectful distance? Intervene when you know for certain they’re headed for a fall...? I mean, how do you tackle it? ”

Ashen faced, staring into the middle-distance, Somerville groaned, “Oh jeez, Paddy, you’re describing the next 30 years of my life... and if my girls take after their mother, God help me...”

That weekend, in Rossington’s private quarters:

It was getting late, and aside from the snap, crackle & sizzle of burning logs and the metronomic tick-tock of the old grandmother clock, Rossington’s inner-sanctum was deathly-quiet. It was window-less and gloomy, but it wasn't in the least portentous. If what they say is true that rooms absorb the emotions and actions of its previous inhabitants to develop a particular ambience, then the scholars who studied here in years past must've been a very easy-going, sedentary lot. And like everything else in the old part of the institute, Rossington had decorated it with Victoriana: Creepy little dolls; a threadbare teddy bear with a missing eye; a framed poster for a late 19th Century hypnotist show, ‘Sandor the Mighty! Mystical Master of Men!’; and a huge mahogany fireplace laden with various antique bric-a-brac, dominated by an ornately framed oval mirror attached to the chimney breast. 

If I could sit in this room for rest of my life reading every book in that library and getting my meals by dumbwaiter, I’d be as happy as a pig in poo. Nothing to worry about. No one to entertain.

Ni had decided she wasn't in love anymore; at least, that what she was telling herself. Rossington’s description of their relationship (“You’re talking to yourself!”) had made everything, apart from their initial meeting, ring hollow. She couldn't trust her own mind anymore, nevermind her emotions. Oona was in total control of the situation: she couldn't read Oona’s thoughts, but her own psyche was an open book. She still 'sees’ her dream-lover on a daily basis, of course, only now she sees through the sexy, well-spoken, intelligent persona, to the silly, oversexed little girl using her subconscious as a playbox/props department. And like any child, she was demanding and self-centred, everything had to be on her terms at a time of her choosing. The worst of it was, there was no escape, that feeling of disassociation caused by the potion was her normality now; she couldn't do anything but sleep and doze, then sleep again, always at the Siren’s beck-and-call. It could come at any time, day or night. And every time Ni closed her eyes and tried to initiate a meeting to discuss their relationship, the Magritte door on the sundrenched beach remained firmly shut. Sometimes there’d be a sign hanging from the handle: Do Not Disturb.

How do I get out of this without hurting her?

She lay supine on the green, antique leather couch in her usual pose: unconsciously crossing her hands across her chest like a corpse, closing her eyes and projecting. She eventually dozed and walked down the bridge of clouds onto the beach: “Oona, we need to talk!” she shouted at the closed Magritte door.

Silence. The door remained shut.

“Oona!”

Silence.

“We need to talk!”

Suddenly, the door spoke: <Oi know what ‘ee’s been thinkin’! ‘Ee don’t want me anymore!> she screamed, in her ‘outdoor voice’ .

Ni instinctively covered her ears and yelled back, “Oona, if you can feel how I feel, then you should understand...”

<SHURRUP! >

Ni rocketed upwards through the summer clouds, through the atmosphere, through the stratosphere and into outer space, where she spun like a human frisbee in star-spangled darkness as Oona bitterly unloaded, <Oi know what ee’s gonna say before ‘ee says it, remember - so oi’ll answer the question ‘ee ‘aven’t asked yet: Arr, oi do luv ‘ee, I luv ‘ee wiv all moy heart! But ‘ee’s changed since that noight ‘ee came to Bogmoire w' Dr Jimmy. You’ve gone off me!>

“Oh, Oona, this has all landed in my lap and I’m finding it ultra-hard to adjust, I’m afraid of letting you down... “

<Liar – ur tryin’ to fink of ways to get rid of me!!>

“I’m not lying...!” she answered, unconvincingly.

<Ur brain says 'ee are!>

“You’re obviously being very selective in your approach, you’re seeing things out of context – everyone has their own inner voice debating life-changing decisions -- you’re only listening to one side of the argument!”

<Aaaaah! ‘Ee twist ‘n turn loike a slippery eel! Oi can’t take this...!> the voice dropped to a more reasonable pitch and growled: <Dr Jimmy is usin’ 'ee y’know. Oi know so much about all of ‘em – they’re up to all sorts! And if oi wanted to, oi could tell Craigy ‘n 'e’d ‘ave ‘em all arrested! Cos Dr Jimmy ‘n Scanlon reckon oi’m stoopid -- and now so do you! WELL – I hope youse’ll all be very ‘appy togevver!!>

“Oona...?”

She plummeted back to earth -- the bridge of clouds crumbled -- the sky darkened to grey -- a huge wave crashed on the beach and swept her out to sea -- she was sinking in a swirling whirlpool, then

silence. Darkness. She woke up.

She held her head in her hands, How the hell did I get into this? 

<... That’s the trouble when you can read minds -- you’re saddled with a lifetime of disappointment,> whispered that other voice in her head. <Think of all the millions of people she’d have to meet to find someone so utterly devoted to her, mind, body and Soul. She doesn’t want much, does she? Just perfect, unconditional love.>

Ni sat up: “Who is that...?”

No reply in any sense, and yet she had the strangest feeling there was someone in the room with her. She suddenly felt very clammy; at the same time the skin of her back tingled with wave upon wave of cold shivers... She sat up and looked around. Something caught her eye: The mirror above the fireplace was aglow, like the ethereal radiance of a TV screen that’s just been switched off in a darkened room. She got up and saw that it was slightly misty, there was condensation gathering on the glass.... and then, when she tried to write her name with her finger, she discovered that the mist was on the inside.

Curiouser and curiouser...

A sudden, peculiar thought struck her. She had an overwhelming urge to visit Barry McKee. So, putting on her dressing gown and slipping into her slippers, she made her way to the nurses’ station. She walked from the antiquated environs of the old block to the brightly lit sterility of the new wing. When she got there, she was met by a a particularly unwelcome sight.

Shit! Cromarty! Does he ever go home?!

The pudgy medico, feet up on the desk, briefly glanced up from his Hello! magazine and sighed, “James isn't back yet. He’s at a party at Mick Jagger’s house. Piss off. In fact, piss off, pack-up and go home. Bye.”

“He said I could see Barry McKee any time I liked, so, if you would,” she said, officiously, crossing her arms.

“At this time of night?!” he barked, grimacing, as if she’d asked him to jump off the roof.

“Yes. If it’s not too much trouble,” she said, calmly.

Maintaining eye-contact, the big galumph slapped the magazine down on the counter, wearily rolled his chair back and took a ledger from under the desk, “You have to sign in, that’s not a problem is it?” he said, sarcastically, in reference to their previous encounter. She signed on the line with a flourish and flashed him a wry smile, “You are such a treasure, Matthew. I’m sure your mother is very proud.”

“My mother died when I was 5. I was reared by my father who beat the livin’ shit outta me every day and gimme this as a memento,” he pointed to a small-but-deep scar on his upper-lip.

Well hush my mouth.

He led her along the corridor to the room, shuffling along in his trainers like an old lady. “I heard you met the wonderful Peter Sinclair?” the name was pronounced in an exaggerated, effeminate chime.

She had a pretty good idea why he was so jealous and wound him up, “Yes, we’ve met. He’s very nice, as a matter of fact. Very grounded person, considering what he has to put up with,” she opined in an upbeat tone, as they reached an outer door with an Authorised Personnel Only sign on it. Cromarty continued to bitch as he typed a code into a key pad on the wall, “His brother, Cillian, is a smack-head, you know. He lives in a pit of his own filth. And the two of them are from a well-to-do family of musicians ‘n actors -- that just goes to show ye how fucked up they are!! Peter’s not gettin' any younger and Cillian is always borrowing money. James’ll get tired of ‘em eventually and the ‘lovely Peter’ will end up back where he started – here, as a nurse,” he smiled, evilly, “and when he does scurry back w’ his tail between his legs, I’m gonna make his life a feckin’ misery.” He opened the door to McKee’s room, “You can tell him that from me.”

“Such heart-warming camaraderie amongst our male Florence Nightingales, so inspirational in this age of cynicism and... Oh!” She was abruptly silenced by the inglorious sight of SCICI’s Star Guest.

Barry McKee was laid out on a bed in the centre of a large, high-ceilinged, dimly lit room, his head slightly raised on a bolster so that his long black hair spread out across the white pillows like silver-streaked raven-wings; his face was gaunt and cadaverous, his head shaved into a tonsure and wired to three blipping monitors, his thin arm plumbed into a saline drip, a feeding tube inserted into his right nostril. Suspended from the ceiling above him was a rack equipped with six two-way-mirrors attached to cameras, all trained on that unshaven, expressionless face; his black, unblinking eyes open, as if gazing at his reflection in the mirror above him. She heard him slowly inhale and exhale, she saw the slow rise and fall of his chest, like a wild animal under heavy sedation. She’d once been on hand to witness a tiger having a tooth removed under anaesthetic, and it was just like this; no matter how sure she was of its unconscious state, she couldn't shake-off the fear that at any given moment it could burst into life and bite her head off.

“Pathetic, isn't he?” said Cromarty, curling a lip in distaste.

She shook her head, “Pathetic is in ill-used word. It means to engender sympathy. I don’t feel any sympathy for him. Not at all. Even so, is all this necessary?” she asked, looking around at the numerous mirrors and monitors.

“James’ orders,” Cromarty replied, “he wants every second of every day recorded. I don’t know why he needs all these mirrors, but he’s the boss. He must have his reasons.”

“Does he ever close his eyes?” she said, moving closer.

“He blinks every now and again but that’s it. Exciting, eh?” Cromarty made a show of checking the various dials, although it was obvious he hadn't a clue what any of them did.

“You can go, Matthew, I just want to sit with him for a while,” she said, getting impatient.

Cromarty cocked his head, curled a lip and defiantly crossed his arms, “Why? Wotcha gonna do, sing ‘im a lullaby?”

On the ‘by’ of the word lullaby, Ni saw Barry blink -- simultaneously, the lights flickered and two of the machines started bleeping and buzzing! Cromarty went into a tizzy, “what the feck have you done?!”

“Nothing -- nothing -- I haven’t moved...” she was about tell him about the blink, but decided not to. “It’s probably just a glitch in the grid, that’s all.” She went to the machines and hit the reset buttons. Cromarty was begrudgingly impressed. Then he looked down at McKee and said, “Well, I don’t know how you can stand to be alone with ‘im. Fucker gives me the creeps. To think what he did to them kids. Makes me sick...” he paused and added, “Y’know, they say he’s possessed by a demon.”

“So I’ve heard,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Matron believes it. She won’t come in here without her crucifix or her rosary beads,” he said, as if there was no higher authority, “she says a prayer every time she has to touch ‘im.”

“Some experts diagnosed him with schizophrenia after the fact, they said he could've heard voices that led him to believe he was possessed, but that doesn’t mean...” She was too distracted by her escort’s utter disregard for human rights to finish the sentence. Cromarty was casually and repeatedly prodding Barry’s crotch with his index finger, “If he is actin’, he’s very good,” he edged-along the bed and flicked Barry’s nose, “see?”

Barry didn’t blink.

“Can I be alone with him please?!” she snarled, slapping the chubby hand away. “OW!” he yelped, scowling like a petulant child. She pointed at the door, “Out!”

“Cow,” he sniped, then flounced off, yelling over his shoulder, “I can’t wait til we start the auld shock treatment! Lookin’ forward to that, eh, Barry?! That’ll get things goin’, huh?!”

She waited until the door closed behind him, then brought a chair and set it beside the bed. It was the mirrors that interested her. Why would Rossington surround him with mirrors? And has it anything to do with the glowing mirror in the study...? She sat down, put her head as near to McKee’s without actually touching him, and looked up to see what he could see. The mirrors reflected his face from every possible angle; it was totally intrusive.

So, why should I care?

<Because you’re a decent human being and this is abuse,> said the androgynous, whispery-voice between her ears.

She flinched. “Oona... is that you...?” she whispered, looking up and around, as if she expected to see her ghost hovering over the bed.

<No. Oona is fast asleep. You see, that’s the thing with opening lines of communication, you never know who might tune into your channel. However, there’s no need to be alarmed, I come in peace.>

She wasn't alarmed, just scared to death! If this encounter was going to anything like the daydream she had the other day, it was sure to be highly unpleasant.

<It’s not me you need to be afraid of, Niamh. It’s her. And I can show you how to keep her out,> the voice reassured her, <I can close the door forever. All this madness will end... But first, I want to show you something, so I’m going to ask you to close your eyes. Will you do that for me? Close your eyes? Don’t worry, you won’t be in any danger...>

“Yes,OK...” she said, dreamily. And as soon as she did what the voice asked...

... she found herself in the woods, in the dead of night, in the dead of winter, under a colossal full moon. She knew where she was: in the woods at Laphen’s estate, still dressed for bed, she should’ve been freezing...

<You won’t feel the cold. You won’t feel anything. It’s a moonlit night, so you’ll be able to see where you’re going. Just keep walking forward until I tell you to stop.>

This was the most realistic dreamscape she’d ever experienced. No unearthly haze around the edge of the frame, no surreal incongruities like those that manifested in Oona’s fantasies, she felt as if she was actually there. 

And so, numb to the frigid, gnarly woodland-floor beneath her feet, she trudged through the trees, until she reached an open space and the shore of the water-logged bog. The frozen water sparkled in the moonlight, like a lake of frosted glass with occasional clumps of rime-stiffened reeds sprouting through the silvery surface.

<Keep walking. It’ll bear your weight.>

She stepped onto the ice and walked until the voice told her to stop.

<Now, have a good look around. Do you think you’ll remember this spot?>

Niamh turned around a few times and took in various landmarks – a branch shaped like jackdaw claws; a fallen tree trunk; a clump of spiky sphagnum-moss on a nearby rock that looked like a partially submerged hippo sporting a green Mohawk, and eventually said, “Yes, I’ve got my bearings.”

<Good.>

-- Suddenly, the ice cracked and she plunged into the icy, murky water –- it felt like unseen hands were hauling on the tails of her dressing gown -- pulling her down through the inky darkness of the water, through the slime underneath, through the layer of mud, until she penetrated the peat at the bottom!

<Don’t panic, it’ll soon be over...>

Everything was dark. Then, after a few moments of turning around, she discerned an unearthly glow up ahead. It illuminated what appeared to be a body: A bog mummy! The legends were half-right, at least... Then, as she got closer, she saw that it was in fact two mummies: a larger, older body holding a smaller body to its bosom; but the smaller body wasn't as decomposed –- the skeleton was creamy-white against the tanned hide of the other; the skull showed signs of acute trauma; whomever the child was, it had been bludgeoned to death...

Just as she was about to ask for an explanation, the voice announced, <You have company. Tell no one about this little dream, but remember it well...>

Within the blink of an eye she was back in the room, staring into those intense, unblinking, black eyes in the mirror.

“Good evening...” said a familiar voice from the back of the room, followed by the squeal of rubber-on-rubber as the door closed. She jumped up, “Oh, James! You gave me a start!” she gasped, still shaking from the weird experience.

“...or should I say good morning, it’s almost 2AM, after all,” said Rossington, throwing his overcoat over the back of a chair. As usual, he was dressed to kill in a black tuxedo and white bow-tie, a white scarf draped over his shoulders, his hair slicked back to give him that reptilian look he reserved for parties: like an old-school vampire. “Getting to know you, getting to know all about you...” he sang in a playful voice, as he danced out of the shadows and stood by the bed. “His eyes are very hypnotic, aren't they?” he said, stooping, looking at McKee’s face. “I spend hours just sitting here, staring into those bleary, expressionless eyes, wondering: what must he be thinking? Because as we all know, he can think. He thinks therefore, He Is.”

She sniffed, grimaced, and waved a hand in front of her face, “Pheeeeew, you’ve obviously been having a good time at His Majesty’s Request!”

“It was most convivial evening, thank you. Mick and I get on like a house on fire. I met him in LA back in the mid-seventies when he was still married to Bianca.” He turned to Ni and asked, “So, what brings you down here at this ungodly hour?”

“I dunno,” she replied, still a bit foggy, “I got a sudden impulse. I can’t describe it.” She was going to tell him about the mirror in the study, but thought better of it. 

He walked around to the other side of the bed, and asked, apropos of nothing, “Do you know what a Sensitive is, Niamh?”

“Do you mean in the [she made apostrophe-fingers] ‘psychic sense’? A person who receives messages from beyond the grave...?” she replied, unsure where this was going.

“Yes. There are folks who believe Barry was Sensitive, that he could speak to the dead, and the bodies of the children he killed were used in the execution of satanic rituals.” The booze had obviously loosened his tongue.

“I thought you’d banished all mention of demons as far as Barry is concerned?”

“Only because some of the staff is superstitious and frightened of him, and superstition and fear have no place when dealing with the mentally ill. No, I’m talking about legitimate scientific investigation into the ‘supernatural’. Barry had a penchant for magic, there’s a mountain of evidence that he indulged in, for the want of a better word, witchcraft.”

“Sounds a bit far-fetched if you ask me,” she scoffed.

“So was telepathy before we discovered Oona,” he said, with a wink and a smirk. “If I were to tell you I have witnessed ‘magic’ being performed, what would you think?” [See Book One Part 17]

“I’d say you were either duped or drunk.”

“Oh, I was pragmatic and sober, it was very unsettling,” he said, confidently, “there was no other explanation for what I saw. The strange thing was, it was shortly before Mr McKee’s capture and I believe he was involved in some capacity. I have evidence. Concrete evidence,” he touched Barry’s cheek, “I just need to know what it all means. That’s the reason I’m so interested in his survival; he’s the key to solving the mystery.”

She thought for a moment. Another notion occurred to her, “You want Oona to look into his mind, don’t you?” she said, confidently.

<Bingo.>

Looking as if he’d been rumbled, Rossington set aside the sangfroid in favour of a more humble approach, although in his current state, he couldn't help but make it sound sleazy, “Well... I thought you of all people would be interested to see into the psyche of a serial killer? I mean, we could give him the potion, Oona could read his mind, you could interpret and we might uncover all his dirty little secrets. It would be a sensation.”

She frowned and shook her head, “You know, if I didn’t know better I’d think you engineered my meeting with Oona just so that we could arrive at this moment.”

He scoffed and pretended to be surprised by the accusation, “The thought didn’t occur to me until I sat with him the other day...” he lied, “but think about it. It’s the perfect opportunity...”

She didn’t hear him, she was lost in a daze of conflicting emotions, “It’s as if I have no control of my life anymore... I just get swept along like driftwood...” she mumbled, in a voice comprised of  doubt, fear and incredulity.

<What does he care? You’re just a pawn.>

“What better way to unveil Oona’s talents to the world?!” Rossington broke into PT Barnum mode, raised his arms and announced, “We could make it a live event! We could televise it! We could ... umm, where are you going...?”

She was on her feet, headed for the door, “Home. The YWCA. A ditch. Anywhere but here....”

<You don’t have to explain just go!>

“Niamh, don’t go -- sleep on it –- then tomorrow we’ll sit down and talk-it-out, whaddya say...?” he pleaded, walking after her with outstretched arms.

<Don’t listen to him!>

She stopped at the door, squeezed her eyes shut, put her hands over her ears and screamed, “I’m not listening -- this is sick! He’s sick! You’re sick! The whole fucking thing is sick, sick, sick! I can’t believe I even considered getting involved!!”

<That’s it! Now walk out! >

“Niamh, listen to me! You’re still under the influence of the potion -- you can’t go back to your uncle like this!!”

<Tell him to go to hell.>

“Go to hell, James. I’m going home!”

Paddy kissed her brow on the doorstep, gave her a big hug and dried her tears. Then they went to the kitchen and he made her a big mug of Horlicks and grilled a few muffins.

“It feels so good to be home,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.

He saw the sorrow in her glazed eyes and told her she didn’t need to tell him anything. She nibbled, sipped and white-lied that the drug test ultimately didn’t agree with her, “After a while it’s s bit like being on a merry-go-round too long; you start feeling queasy and you just wanna get off. Speaking of which, I’ll probably be pretty ill over the next few days, but it’s just my system flushing. Take no notice." She quickly changed the subject, “What about that decapitated body they found on the beach?”

He informed her that (what was now known as) the Case of the Headless Body Builder had been solved, “They found the head in a microwave oven in the kitchen of a flat near the beach. The gard that discovered it passed out on the floor. It had been stuffed in sideways and cooked on full power for almost an hour. You should’ve seen the state of it. Lover’s tiff, in the end. They were both using steroids, which would explain the ferocity of the attack. You wouldn't think gay men would be capable of such barbarity.”

Following a considerable pause, she said, dolefully, “After this year’s dig, I’m going to stay with mum in Sweden.”

Paddy recoiled theatrically, blinked twice and raised his gingery-eyebrows, “Sweden? In the summer? With my sister? Your mother? Things must be bad!”

“Understatement of the century, Patrick.” She held her mug in both hands put her elbows on the table, looked over the rim and intimated in a low voice, “I’m gonna tell you something and I want you to hear me out before you express an opinion, OK? This is serious. I’m serious.”

Intrigued, Paddy put down his mug, “Sounds ominous, Twink, but I can’t promise anything until I hear what it is.”

“I think there are bog mummies in the bog on Laphen’s estate. I know exactly where they are. One of them is a child. It’s skull shows signs of acute trauma. The other is much, much older, but here’s the thing: the older one is holding the smaller, younger mummy in its arms.”

Paddy as dumbfounded, “Did you say you’ve seen these bodies?!”

She couldn't tell him that she was involved in psychic research and she suspected Barry McKee had showed her via mirrors; anyway, he’d never believe her. So she put down her mug, put her hands over her eyes and said, “I’m not gonna bullshit you, Paddy, that’s as much as I can tell you without sounding like a crank.”

Paddy frowned, “Ni, I’ve told you before, if we ever find anything contentious on one of our jaunts, I’m obliged to inform the authorities.”  

“Well, Sergeant Marchant of the local garda station lives in the village and seems sound enough – can’t you contact him and work things out?” she asked, almost begging, “a full-sized investigation would bring Bogmire to the attention of the world, and I’d like to avoid that. Couldn't you supervise the excavation under the auspices of an archaeological dig, remove the bodies for study and leave the village out of it?”

He recoiled, “Jesus, you’re not asking for much are you?! I mean, how did you find out about it? Did someone tell you?”

She looked into her cup, “Like I said, I can’t say. I just know, and I want you to dig deeper than usual to prove it.”

He was still very doubtful, “But if we don’t find anything, we’ll have disturbed the integrity of the site for nothing. It goes against everything we stand for.”

“You know I wouldn't do anything to jeopardise the dig unless it was important. Can’t you say you’ve had a tip-off or something?” She tilted her head and batted her eyelids, “Try, pleeeease...?”

He sat back and folded his arms, “Has this got anything to do with that woman? The Bride?”

There was a moment’s hesitation then she said “In a way, yes.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a while. Then he said, “I had a long term relationship with a young lady when I was in my 20s and we almost made it to the altar but for the reappearance of one of her lovers at the 11th hour. She took off and left me without as much as a second thought because she wanted to chase a dream she once had, and you know, this fellow was a crass, low life up-to-his-neck in all sorts of wickedness with a mouth like a docker. But she loved him and there was nothing I could do. Nothing. I never talk about it, but it hit me at my very core. Did you know?”

“Mum told me,” Ni admitted, “it was one of her friends. ‘Dictionary definition of a flibbertigibbet’, she said.”

He nodded, “As I cancelled the catering and the honeymoon, I vowed – never again! And I’ve been as good as my word. But it’s been easy for me. I’m a very busy man, and fortunately or unfortunately, I’ve no time for anyone now, no matter how lonely I get.” He put a hand on her arm, “I just don’t want you to end up the same way.”

She got up and kissed his cheek, “Oh bless you Paddy, but I’m not lovelorn. If anything I’m in the process of trying to escape.”

He clucked his tongue and gave in, “OK, I promise you I will do all in power etc, etc. But you haven’t taken Emil into consideration, have you?”

She slumped and let her forehead land with a bump on the tabletop, “Gawd, Emil. I forgot about him...!”

“That makes a change! You’re usually counting the days!”

“Please, I can barely remember my name at the minute.”

“Well, he’ll be arriving soon -– you’d better have a good explanation or he’ll go 'apeshit’!”

Earlier that night, at Pagham House: Scanlon heard another scream and took to his heels, “Bloody woman!” he growled to himself. It came from the other end of the house, but there was no mistaking Mrs Sparkes’ trademark screech: manly but shrill. As he ran across the lobby toward the kitchens, Laphen’s current guest, a Saudi prince, hailed him from the balcony, “Scanlon – what is that screaming?! Are we under attack?! I never heard such a terrible noise!”

Scanlon stopped and bowed before answering, “My apologies, Your Highness -– it’s just the housekeeper, she’s probably seen a mouse.”

The Arab put his hands on his hips, “You know, Scanlon, we came here as Mr Laphen’s guests because the last time we stayed in Dublin our hotel room was ransacked and my wife’s jewellery was stolen,” he said, pointing in the general direction of  their rooms, “she was very, very upset, so Mr Laphen offered me his house for any future business I might have! He assured me that it was the safest house in Ireland!”

Scanlon tried to reassure him, “Everything is in hand, Your Highness, please go back to bed...”

But the prince hadn't finished and took the opportunity to complain about some other things that were bothering him, “These servants you employ are very uncouth –- they smell as if they need a good wash -– and they are serving our food?!” They heard another scream. “Now screams in the middle of the night! My wife is praying for her life with tears in her eyes! I am not happy.”

Scanlon tried to smile and sound confident, “I can assure you Your Highness that Mr Laphen is quite correct in his assertion that is the securest place in Ireland, staffed by local people who are diligent and above suspicion...” They heard a particularly bloodcurdling scream. “I’m very sorry Your Highness, but I need to see to this, she must be in some distress.”

The prince waved him away, “Go! But report back to me!”

“Yes Your Highness!” Scanlon walked off, scowling, muttering   fuckin’ towel-headed twat under his breath. He went to the kitchens: she wasn't there. He checked the rooms in the south wing, no sign. Then another screech -- “The study!” -- he ran back upstairs and found her on all-fours under the boss’ desk, cowering like a frightened child.

He approached the desk, stooped and peered in, “What the hell is the matter with you, woman?!” he cried.

“In the mirror - in the mirror!! E’s in the mirror! E’S IN THE MIRROR!”

Scanlon turned around, “Which mirror?!”

“The tall one! The one ‘is nibs got brought up frum the basement!!” she replied, pointing at the back of the room, “that one!”

“The cheval?” He walked over and stood before it, “There’s nothing there but my reflection and your ugly mug peeking out from under the desk!”

The old woman crept out and saw for herself, “’You mean, 'e’s gone...?”

“There was never anybody there!” Scanlon lit up a cigarette and took a deep drag, “You need to pull yourself together woman! The Prince is very upset!”

She got up, stood behind him and peeked at the mirror, “It were a wee laddie, tha’s all oi can tell ‘ee, cos his face wuz all burned black wiv these starin’ red oys -- starin’ rioght into my very Soul, they wuz! Oh sweet Jeezus, it musta been one the orphans ‘oo doied in the foire – oi’m sure of it!”

He pointed to the huge clown’s head (originally acquired from the entrance to a fairground attraction) on the wall behind the desk, “It’s probably been the reflection of that you saw! And look, the mirror’s steamed up -– that’s why it looked distorted!” He took the dust cloth from her apron and rubbed the glass. “That’s funny... The condensation seems to be on the inside...?”

“Tis is an evil sign, this is!!” she cried, getting evermore upset, “Tis the children comin’ back to take revenge!!”

In one swift movement, Scanlon turned and slapped her hard across the face.

She looked away, bowed her head and thanked him for it.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, “Now pull yourself together, you stupid auld bitch! This has got nothing to do with anything other than idiotic superstition! Concentrate on you duties! The Arab is complaining about the state of the maids. He says they stink!”

“Oi’ll attend to it first thing in the mornin’ sur.”

“Aye, see that you do.” Scanlon took a drag and blew the smoke in her face, “And tell that fuckin’ niece of yours I’m watchin' her. Just because that bastard Rossington is back on the scene doesn’t mean that she isn't likely to do something stupid.”

Mrs Sparkes didn’t answer, it wasn't her place.

Scanlon flicked his ash on the floor and pointed to her temple, “If you want to know why you’re seeing burned-up little boys in the mirror, it’s because she puts the notion in your head.”

Again, Mrs Sparkes said nothing and clenched her face tight so that he couldn't tell if she was crying, smiling or scowling.

“Pathetic,” he sneered. “Me da was right about you bastards; you’re up to all sorts of devilment. Sure – even the feckin animals and birds steer clear of this place!”

“Can oi go, sur?”

Scanlon waved her away, “Piss off. And tell those maids if they don’t come in smelling of roses, I will have them hosed-down in front of the house tomorrow morning to prove to that puffed-up camel-jockey that I’m a man of my word...”

That Wednesday’s Gourmet-Night: It was Paddy’s turn to cook, and as always, he made his own speciality: seafood and lager. He was at the sink in a butcher’s apron washing shells whilst Somerville and Ni sat at the table and talked. It was obvious they were relieved to have her home, but despite her assurances to the contrary, they weren’t convinced that Rossington had her best interests at heart. When Somerville pressed for details, she told him she’d signed a comprehensive NDA. She quickly changed the subject and teased Paddy, “You and your bloody oysters – it’s only an excuse to drink beer!”

“It was all that sea-air I inhaled during the Headless Body-Builder case, it got me juices flowing,” Paddy joked, mordantly.

“Well-done-to-us, another case closed!” said Somerville, raising his glass.

“Well, the head was well done. The torso - although well tenderised - was a tad on the rare side,” said Paddy, sardonically.

They both laughed. Niamh didn’t find it at all funny, “Do I have to remind you that you’re talking about somebody’s son, you ghouls!”

“Gallows humour, darling, it’s the only thing that keeps us lawmen sane!” said Paddy, tittering.

She turned to their guest, “Uncle Phil, about this week’s baby-sitting gig... well, listen, I know I promised...”

Perfectly aware of the impending rejection and intent on derailing it, Somerville put a hand on hers and interjected by expressing his heartfelt gratitude, “Oh, ye’re a lifesaver Twink – it’s just for a couple of hours while we put in an appearance at Pat’s friend’s birthday party. Won’t be late. She’s due any day now and this will be last time e ask before the birth...?”

She made a sour face and shook her head, “You’re an utter cad, Somerville.”

He batted his moth-wing eyelashes, “You know how much Cate and Cathy love Princess Twinkle...?”

She rapped the table with the handle of her knife and announced to the room, “That’s another thing: I think it’s about time to stop calling me Princess Twinkle or Twinkle, or Twink or – in Emil’s case – Li’l Twinkie. It’s a bit twee for someone who’s about to be 20, isn't it? I know I demanded that everyone call me by that name when I was 3, skipping about the place with a pair of wings clipped to my back, waving a magic wand, but I think the joke’s played out now.”

The men looked at each other across the table, reached out and linked hands. Paddy mock-sobbed and bit his knuckle, “Our wee girl’s grown up, Phil. She’s a woman now.”

Big Phil rubbed his eyes as if wiping away a tear, “I always knew that one day it would happen, but you’re never ready for it when the day finally arrives.”

Paddy sighed, “If that is your wish, princess, so be it.”

The men chuckled and resumed eating. She made a face, sipped her beer and watched the candle flame flicker for a few seconds, then Somerville said, “Oh – before I forget,” he stood up, pulled his wallet from his back pocket and gave her a tenner, “That’s for winning the Rossington bet: he did indeed make various bizarre references, such as -- ‘those that doubt me’ and ‘unseen forces trying to undermine the value of my research’ -- I got the distinct impression he was hinting at something. Well done, Ni. When you’re a qualified Criminal Psychologist, I for one will be availing myself of your services.”

She was chuffed, but had other things, quite literally, on her mind, “Well, thanks... It’s sort of ironic now since I’ve got to know him...”

Paddy slurped an oyster from its shell and looked up over his nezzies, “And...?”

“... he’s a very complicated man – probably because he has so many plates spinning at the one time he can’t remember which one needs tending to next.” She looked at Somerville, “I will say this -- the work he’s doing is important, Uncle Phil. I wouldn’t’ve been involved otherwise.”

Big Phil drummed his fingers on the table and said, “A little birdie tells me you were on the guest list to see Barry McKee.”

Paddy grinned, “Here we go – ‘Big Phil Somerville and his ubiquitous little birdies’.”

Ni took another sip and looked from one to the other, “He said it’s so I could give the two of you an honest report on his progress.”

“And, what is your report? Is Barry lookin’ well?” said Somerville, mordantly, “Playing tennis? Skiing? I betcha he’s a whiz at back-gammon!”

A little irked by his offhand attitude, she answered tersely, “What is there to say? He just lies there, surrounded by mirrors, machines and monitors.”

Paddy tutted, “Ni, you’re bristling.”

She forced a smile, “Yes, I am. Sorry. That’s Rossington for you; you get this perverse loyalty to him because you sense his vulnerability.”

Somerville changed tack, “I was just going to say that he seems to have taken quite a shine to you.”

<Tell ‘im to fuck off ‘n’ moind ‘is biz-nass!>

Oh God, not you, not now! 

“Yeah... honestly it was very instructive, and despite rumours, he does know what he’s talking about a lot of the time.....”

<Arr, it’s me, oo’d you expect... Emil? I know you’re lookin’ forward to seein’ Ee-meeeel! Oo’s this big lout then? Oh – wait – oi seen ‘im on the TV noos - Craigy talks bout ‘im all the toime – ‘e just solved the case of the ‘eadless queer boy, innee?! Detective Somerville!> the voice between her ears snickered. <He’s anovver of ur fantasies, innee? Princess Twinkle!> 

“So, what about Thursday night -- are you drivin’ or do you want me to pick you up?” asked Somerville.

<Where are we goin’? This is excoiting, innit?>

“Erm...

Fuck off Oona! I warned you what would happen if you did this!! 

No, I’ll drive...”

<Goin’ babysittin’, are we? Great!! I luv kiddies, me!>

Shut up!!

Paddy sensed her unease, “Is everything all right, Ni...?”

She was confounded. She couldn't go to the Somervilles with Oona in her head, the prospects for disaster were too numerous to consider! “... Umm, I dunno, I still feel a bit yucky, Uncle Phil...”

Somerville stubbornly went on as if he hadn't heard her, “I’ll lay-on some popcorn and the girls have got a video of the Wizard of Oz -- that’ll keep ‘em quiet if you wanna study or somethin’...?”

<That sounds very noice. Oi’ll be lookin’ forward to that!>

Ni sighed and reluctantly gave in, “Of course, I’d love to...”

 To Be Continued Next Month in Swamp Witch

[forsoothsayer]

Good Night by Carl Sandburg

Many ways to say good night. Fireworks at a pier on the Fourth of July spell it with red wheels and yellow spokes. They fizz in the air, touch the water and quit. Rockets make a trajectory of gold-and-blue and then go out. Railroad trains at night spell with a smokestack mushrooming a white pillar. Steamboats turn a curve in the Mississippi crying a baritone that crosses lowland cottonfields to razorback hill. It is easy to spell good night. Many ways to spell good night.

[maritzaerwin]

13 Simple SEO Hacks for Small Business Growth

Are you a small business owner and looking for some SEO hacks that would help you stay ahead of your competitors?

Well, you’re not alone. Irrespective of the business type, businesses always look for simple yet affordable ways to stay ahead of their competitors. And SEO (Search Engine Optimization) is unquestionably is one of them.

Search engine optimization shouldn’t be complicated, though, but sometimes it seems so. You’ll find many businesses out there struggling to rank higher than their rivals even after getting the basics correctly.

Hence it becomes inevitable to understand that performing well in the search results and generating considerable leads, you’ll have to do some extra. Knowing great SEO hacks will help you not only survive in this cut-throat competition but to surpass your competitors. The SEO hacks have the potential to make your business successful and profitable.

As per the research conducted by Search Engine People, nearly 93% of all web traffic comes via search engines. When traditional outbound strategies such as Direct Mail, etc. can generate 9% conversion rates, SEO can generate nearly 14.6% conversion rates.

So, being the owner of a small business, you need to focus on proven SEO growth hacks. If done rightly, there’s no question of your website not doing well in search results and your business not growing significantly.

Here, in this article, we’ll discuss the top 13 simple SEO hacks for small business growth.

13 SEO Hacks for Small Business Growth

1) Identify Your Customers’ Pain Points

Who are you serving? Of course, they’re your customers’ keeping those in mind, you should build your business strategies.

So, before you jump start your SEO strategy, you should have a clear understanding of how your small business serves your clients.

Let’s see some examples:

 What equipment do they use to access your site — smartphones, desktops, or tablets?

 When, how, and where do your potential customers determine they need your products/services?

What drives your customers the most — a personal desire like food, favorite place to visit, or an event?

Knowing these questions will help you identify the language they use while searching for your business. Thenceforth, you’ll be in a better position to find appropriate keywords and create content, along with other tasks.

2) Fix Common Technical SEO Issues

You may look healthy, beautiful, and brainy from outside, but it doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re similar from inside your body.

In the same way, your website may be attractive from outside having excellent color choice, graphics, fonts, and logo. But your site would have technical glitches that may adversely impact your website’s rankings on SERPS and traffic as well.

So, it’s advisable to pay heed to fix the technical aspects, if there’s any, before content and link campaign. For this, the most important thing is an SEO-friendly website structure so that search engines could scrawl properly and index pages.

Some common technical SEO problems that you need to work on are:

Plagiarized content.

 Website speed.

 Un-optimized webpages.

Broken links, and

Improper use of canonical link elements, etc.

3) Focus on Page Speed

When it comes to usability and conversions, page speed plays a crucial role. A lot of people often confused page speed with website speed. Well, there is a difference. Page speed is the speed at which a single page load on your website.

On the other hand, website speed is the speed at which your site loads as users go through it. But page speed is not as straightforward as it appears. It is measured in a lot of different ways, such as fully loaded speed, time to the first byte, and first contextual paint. You can check your page speed by using the Google Page Speed tool.

If you find that your page speed is slow then here are a few tips for you:

Image Compression.

 Upgrade Hosting.

Activate Browser Caching.

Implement CDN.

4) Create Quality Content

After the web became the mainstream; the adage ‘Content is a king’ still stands true. Without content, your website has a very less chance of getting ranked in search engines. Creating content doesn’t mean simply putting the product details and contact details on a website. Focus on publishing relevant, high quality, original, and optimized content. And for that, you need to keyword research by using tools like Ahref, Google Keywords planner, etc.

These tools will help you in knowing the keywords your target audience is using in searching for your products/services. You will also get to know which keywords a certain amount of search volume already exists. Add those keywords in your all form of content like product descriptions, titles, blogs, category names, guides, etc. While adding keywords, make sure you don’t do overstuffing; otherwise, Google may penalize your website.

5) Optimize Your Website for Mobile Devices

Today, half of the world’s population is using mobile. Currently, there are 4.8 billion mobile users globally. This data shows that companies cannot ignore mobile users. Mobile optimization is a technique of adjusting website content so that visitors, who access your website from their mobile devices, have a great experience.

Given the fact that smartphone users are snowballing with each passing day, you won’t leave any stone unturned to tap the opportunity by making your website design mobile-friendly. 

As per the Statista report, smartphones (including tablets) accounted for approximately 52.6% of the global web traffic in the fourth quarter of 2019.

Therefore, you must create a mobile-responsive website for your business. You cannot afford to ignore it in the age where the usage of mobile devices is so rampant.

But you need to pay heed to these tips to creating your website mobile-responsive:

Optimize the visual content like logo, etc. ensuring that they load quickly.

Create relevant, crispy, easy-to-digest content.

 Create touch-friendly navigation tools and buttons.

Add social sharing buttons to your content so that visitors can easily share them with their social networks.

 Make sure that the page designs are vertical and not static or horizontal.

6) Creat Content Clusters

Creating content clusters isn’t rocket science. All you need to create a main page that will act as the pillar page — the center of content. And all the pages related to it link back to it and also to each other.

To understand it better, let’s have an example. You’ve one pillar page on SEO. Create many other pieces of content on different SEO and other topics such as page speed optimization, keywords research, voice search optimization, etc.

Such kind of linking structure will attract search engines’ attention, and they will have a sense that your pillar page has an authority on the topics that it covers. Consequently, over a period, this strategy will help the page receive a better ranking for the topic.

A HubSpot study proves this. The study reveals that pages with more interlinking get higher ranking in SERP. The study also finds that an increase in internal links also improves impressions.

7) Keep an Eye on Your Competitors

What your competitors are doing – it matters a lot, especially when you’re online.

So, visit your competitors’ websites in order to know them better. Ideally, you should bother businesses that rank 5-10 positions of search results for the targeted keywords. They’re your potential competitors, and you should analyze them carefully.

While analyzing their websites, try to find out:

What website structure they follow.

What these websites rank for.

How many webpages these sites have indexed.

How the quality of their backlinks is.

Besides, you should check their page loading speed using a tool because it’s one of the most vital factors in Google’s ranking algorithm. Identify their grey areas – are their pages loading slow? Have they missed any important keywords?

Based on your findings, start working on your website and eliminate those drawbacks.

8) Use Free SEO Tools

The availability of free tools and software is a boon for startups, small enterprises, or any other business owner having a budget issue. But some businesses ignore such free tools presuming that they aren’t worth using.

But, I would advise you not to do that. Make use of it and save money that would be used on other essential business activities.

There are plenty of free SEO tools that you can use:

Google Analytics.

Google Webmaster Tool.

SEMRush.

 Backlinko.

Yoast.

SEO Analyzer, etc.

So, don’t hesitate to use the above mentioned free SEO tools. They all are exceptional in their specific use.

9) Boost the User Experience (UX)

Who is your website for? Of course, for the users, right?

Since user experience is directly related to the website ranking, you need to work on it.

As per Google’s guidelines, webpages should be created mainly for the users and not for SERP.

Therefore, it necessitates you to ensure that your website provides an outstanding user experience to your users. For that, you need to identify your potential users, their needs while developing a webpage for them. Search engines keep an eye on how the users behave on a particular page.

So, how can you achieve this?

Well, there are quite a few elements that you should take into considerations while developing a website — streamlining the website structure being the most crucial aspect. Make sure that your website is easy-to-navigate. It ensures that your target audiences are moving efficiently through your site.

10) Start a Blog

Many businesses don’t think of starting a blog in their early days, but it’s an essential step to take when you create an SEO strategy for your business.

If your blogs are informative and engaging, your users will love to your site time and again, thus building a bridge between you as a business owner and your customers. Make sure that your blog pages match the colors, along with others, for your brand consistency.

Before you start writing a blog, you need to identify your target audience and their taste and concentrate around. Don’t deviate from there because you’re not there to provide information on every topic or to make your colleagues impressed.

Don’t also forget to create accounts on different social media channels and running a campaign there. You can start only with those social channels you’re comfortable with.

11) Improve Meta Tags

You may not know that even small meta tags can help you improve your website’s click-through rate SEO performance. If you optimize your meta description and titles correctly, it can have a massive impact on improving your impressions and website traffic.

It’s because meta-tags appear in the search results, and users see. And they will click only if they’re enticing. Thus, meta tags play a significant role in improving a website’s click-through rates. The more click-through your site gets, the more you’ll be able to convince search engines that your content is relevant to that particular search term.

12) Get Featured Snippets

Fucus on getting featured snippets for your content in order to improve visibility and traffic to your website. Given the fact featured snippets rank on the top, which is also called the ‘0’ position, getting featured snippets will ensure your site’s high ranking.

13) Use HTTPS Over HTTP

Google favors websites using HTTPS over those using HTTP. In its announcement, Google has clearly said that the site that uses HTTPS will rank high. This is because Google believes that the websites using HTTPS is more secure, and thus more trusted.

So, it’s one crucial SEO hack to use HTTPS and not HTTP. Therefore, it is advisable that if you get an option to choose a website, go with one using HTTPS.

Use These SEO Hacks to Boost Your Small Business Marketing

Now you understand how vital these SEO hacks are in improving your site’s ranking and thus growing your business. They can have a massive impact on your business growth, especially when you’re a small business owner and can’t afford an expensive marketing way.

If you know any other SEO hacks for small businesses that worked for you, do let us know in the comments below.

  The post 13 Simple SEO Hacks for Small Business Growth appeared first on CareerMetis.com.

13 Simple SEO Hacks for Small Business Growth published first on https://skillsireweb.tumblr.com/

[thepalladiantraveler]

Despite his dream of building a capital city along the banks of the Potomac River and unlike the real estate cliché “George Washington slept here,” America’s first president never once laid his head down on a pillow within the District of Columbia, aka Washington, DC. The closest he ever got was a good night’s sleep at his homestead in nearby Mount Vernon, VA.

Some 228 years later, our nation’s capital welcomes more than 22 million visitors a year. A world-class city embedded with a vibrant history, spectacular monuments, outstanding museums, plentiful parks, lush gardens and exceptional chef-driven cuisine, Washington, DC is well worth a visit. But, don’t just take my word for it, join me as I take the lens cap off and document this monumental city originally planned by Pierre L’Enfant.

For starters, there’s the Smithsonian Institution, a collection of 19 massive, artifacts-filled museums and galleries and the National Zoo, many standing shoulder-to-shoulder on either side of the two-mile long National Mall, “America’s front yard.” Art, history –– natural and chronicled –– science, and red-white-and-blue ingenuity to rocket into space, are all on display inside these titanic buildings. And, the best part? Entry is absolutely free for we, the people.

Bookending the Mall is the Capitol Building at the eastern end, where the legislative branches of government apply their checks and balances atop old Jenkins’ Hill, and the awe-inspiring Lincoln Memorial, where Honest Abe sits in deep contemplation at the western edge along the banks of the Potomac. And, smack dab in the middle of it all stands the Washington Monument, a 555-foot marble obelisk — the tallest structure in the District — honoring the “Father of His Country” that’s encircled by 56 American flags, one for each state along with the five territories and the District of Columbia.

Our historical walk around the Mall also includes a bevy of memorials: Jefferson, Vietnam and Korean War Veterans, Martin Luther King, Jr., FDR and World War II. Join the lengthy queue to get inside the National Archives to view  John Hancock’s John Hancock on the Declaration of Independence, along with the Constitution of the United States and the Bill of Rights. Book way in advance for access to the National Museum of African American History and Culture, the newest venue on the Mall. Spend an entire day exploring the myriad of exhibitions at the National Galleries of Art and Portrait. Reach for the sky and the stars beyond at the National Air and Space Museum. And, stop long enough to smell the plant life inside the US Botanic Garden.

The United States is a cultural melting pot and its capital reflects the nation’s sea-to-shining-sea international roots. Heavily influenced by Egyptian, Greek, Roman, medieval European and 19th-century French architecture, wherever you look, especially up, you’ll see an abundance of tall columns, massive domes and the occasional flying buttress. From the White House to the U.S. Capitol, from the Washington Monument to the Library of Congress, from Union Station to the National Cathedral, a simple stroll around architecturally impressive DC alone is well worth the airfare. Right?

The District’s a showcase of American performance arts and is home to such iconic venues as the National Theatre and the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts.

In the early 20thcentury, jazz music had a dizzying effect here as DC natives, like Duke Ellington, played the night away on stages up and down famed U Street. Years later, homegrown go-go, a blend of funk, R&B and hip-hop set the beat around clubs and out on the street.

And, let’s not forget that John Philip Souza came marching down Pennsylvania Avenue at the dawn of the 1900s leading the Marine Corps Band, the oldest musical group in the US. Today, Souza’s iconic march music is one of the highlights at the annual A Capitol Fourth, the national Independence Day celebration that unfolds at twilight on the West Lawn of Capitol Hill.

The White House, Congress and the Supreme Court, the three pillars of the US government, all punch their clocks here, while the Pentagon, the State Department, the World Bank and embassies from almost every corner of the globe float around their orbit. Power, those that carry it and those eager to wrestle it away, is why DC emits such a 24/7/365 buzz. Can you feel it?

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Washingtonians, all 700,000+ of them, know full well the difference between the city itself and the District of Columbia, aka “inside the beltway.”

Beyond the high profile attractions, the city, all 68 square miles of it, is made up of small, distinctive neighborhoods where normal folk live and breathe; where restaurants, cafes, bars and nightclubs are hopping; where Ubers are hailed and bicycles and electric scooters are shared via smartphone apps, and one of the cleanest metro systems in the world moves the populace quickly; and, where friends share a laugh, like my DC-based fam, on colorful row-house front porches or on terraces atop apartment complexes with fab views of their fair city spread out below.

While we’re here, let’s grab some cutlery and tuck in to one of the country’s hottest food scenes. The District is a can’t-miss epicurean destination touted by the likes of Bon Appétit, the Michelin Guide and Zagat, and where celebrity chefs like José Andrés, Tim Ma and Marjorie Meek-Bradley conjure up their culinary wizardry.

From food magazine-worthy dishes created and plated at coveted tables around Penn Quarter, to local favorite half-smokes served at a 24-hour diner up in Adams Morgan, to one-stop grazing at foodie mecca Union Market, just about every kitchen on the planet is represented within DC.

Regardless of your crave one thing is certain, it’s all delectable no matter where you dine. Uh, I’ll have the Maryland crab cake sandwich topped with crispy bacon, please.

With loads of attractions and activities for every visitor, budget-minded and value-added, Washington, DC is teeming with a good-time vibe. Affording unmatched free access to museums, monuments and memorials and one-of-a-kind events, like the National Cherry Blossom Festival, not to mention five pro sports teams — Redskins, Nationals, Wizards, Capitals and DC United — the District is in a class all by itself.

Washington, DC, America’s monumental city that our first commander-in-chief envisioned, is all grown up now. I’m just happy that you let me show you around.

©ThePalladianTraveler

________________________________________________

  Washington, DC: America’s Monumental City Despite his dream of building a capital city along the banks of the Potomac River and unlike the real estate cliché “George Washington slept here,” America's first president never once laid his head down on a pillow within the District of Columbia, aka Washington, DC.