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red-hood-vigilante · 4 years

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more hbo spn rambles, thoughts, drabbles etc. long long post.

part 1 here

there’s some things i’ve omitted here bc others have already posted about those things, certain headcanons and characterizations and stuff. those posts are in my likes somewhere (and i’ll reblog them someday), and there’s some posts i’ve read but not liked, which i now can only vaguely remember, which is why some ideas/thoughts are similar

ALSO most of these follow the model i talked about in part one: how s1-5 will stay more or less how they are but s6-10 is changed (some things are cut out entirely, some things are tweaked and some characters + arcs are more fleshed out. more focus on sam’s trauma and post-cage adaptation to the real world as well as dean letting his rage and control issues consume him and how he’d recover and redeem himself)

as i typed these paragraphs, i realized i really have 10 seasons mapped out and ready to go. hbo hire me!!

alright go:

sam and dean get wearier as the show progresses (second half), and eventually they stop putting so much care and thought in the people they save. like...hm how do i say this, like as long as a victim/victims are saved, they don’t care about how that happens or how those people suffer potential consequences, like if the victims lose a limb or have their homes burned down because of the monster, then sam and dean don’t really care. they saved your life, now they’ll leave you with your life in potential shambles and not care because all that matters is that they saved your life, not how it is afterwards. they still care about saving that one person, but eventually it pales a little in comparison to a war between heaven and hell, being the vessels etc. ---> saving people becomes less about making sure they’re actually alright and healing from horrific events and more about just making sure they have a pulse before they move on

when angels lose their wings they are either burned off in the actual fall or ripped off of them in their vessels, which leaves pretty nasty scars on the vessel

ed and harry are so young and bright eyed about the whole hunting thing; sam and dean as kids, idolizing it, finding it exciting and intriguing when they shouldn’t. sam and dean try to get them out of the business before they too are too traumatized and desensitized to do anything but hunt. neither sam or dean will say it but they are jealous of ed and harry and their freedom to leave, and hate them for choosing this voluntarily instead of being dragged into it by tragedy

hbo spn is a slow burn. there’s a lot more shots of sam and dean in silence just sitting together after a hunt, exhausted and too tired to move yet. they’re covered in blood and guts on the side of the road after killing or covered with dirt in a graveyard after burning bones, sitting next to the fire, just watching it. the times they park the car and watch the stars? we get to see it.

dean wears rings and the amulet all the time in the beginning, for the first five seasons. the rings vary; first they’re some of john’s old ones and stuff he finds in thrift stores. then later on he begins wearing rings from people they’ve saved/haven’t saved as a keepsakes etc. when he begins his descent to the holy murderer in s6-10 he wears less and less rings. they don’t matter anymore -> symbolically shedding who he was and what mattered to him

the only accessories sam has is a rosary/cross around his neck. he has jess’ engagement ring in his pocket/wallet. after the cage he vaguely remembers why the ring was there and who jessica was (more on this further down)

the four horsemen are manifestations of different aspects of human nature at its most grotesque and strongest, can’t be killed as long as humans live. war is conflict, famine is desire, pestilence is physical and mental illnesses.

(the seven sins are like the horsemen, tulpas of human nature instead of demons)

death isn’t a concentration of an existing aspect of humans as much as it is the end of life, the antithesis of life. death the oldest of the horsemen and has existed since the beginning of any life, organism, cell and atom. the opposite of life and light, the other half of god (as i’m typing this i’m confused as to why amara was the opposite of god instead of death). death isn’t evil or good, remains 100% objective. doesn’t care for sam or dean at all, but has a begrudging respect for their stubbornness and entertainment they provide due to their flat out refusal to do as they’re told by celestial bodies when anyone else would crumble

by including death i feel like it very naturally begs questions of who decides when someone dies, when someone lives, why would death follow these guides instead of reaping whomever whenever, what happens if a life isn’t reaped at the right time etc. the reader in me adore the idea of death having a library with books and records of everyone who has ever lived and died and how they died - but then, who writes these books and why? do they decide, and if in that case, how? these questions are above my paygrade but you know what i mean? like there has to be some sort of system right, god created everything, death executes to maintain order, some third party deity writes the laws and the books. the three branches of government. ok but it’s hbo so again, i think we shouldn’t dive this deep into things, like as much as these topics intrigue me i don’t want to stray too much from the dirt road trip aesthetic

shapeshifters are extremely rare because they don’t require any kind of human blood or organs/sacrifice to live

i want more exploration of how magic is like science, like it just needs the right ingredients and right conditions. sam thinks of magic as an obscure branch of science; it just requires research and knowledge and clear intentions because science can be controlled and do a lot of good when used responsibly. dean doesn’t like it. he doesn’t trust the unpredictable elements and he’s seen enough to know it never goes well. magic is a force that can’t be controlled by anyone.

sam and dean have full on fist fights regularly. to practice and keeping each other sharp, but also because they’re siblings. they’re feral, insane and unhinged with each other and they get on each other’s nerves A LOT. it’s petty and childish and sometimes it can get a lil ugly but it becomes their way of family therapy. after a fight the next scene cuts to sam and dean with ruffled clothes, nosebleeds and swollen lips at a diner eating silently after beating each other up. either they sit in silence because they’re tired or both are harping on the other’s openings and weaknesses

sometimes they’ll fight a little dirty but they do so in different ways; dean will pull the old ‘look!’ and point to something and then tackle sam when he turns to look while sam will just cry out in fake pain which makes dean stop dead in his tracks before sam headbutts him or kicks him in the groin

we, the audience get used to these fights, they’re sometimes funny and for comic relief, sometimes for narrative purposes (like tricking a monster they’re fighting each other when they’re really not) BUT. then comes the times when sam and dean are actually fighting without holding back and we see how much they are capable of hurting each other or how heartbreaking and difficult it can be to watch when of them are incapable of fighting back/doesn’t defend himself -> swan song when dean doesn’t fight back against possessed sam, or when dean beats soulless sam unconscious

sam and dean also just verbally bully each other constantly but they do have their odd ways of expressing affection and care. they get the other person their fave snack whenever they go grocery shopping without being asked to and are the only other one they truly trust to have their back in hunts. have a cup of coffee ready before the other asks for one. brothers and each other’s best friend. nightmare duo but in a sweet way. the cooperation of ‘the usual suspects’ when they’re in different interrogation rooms but still has the cover story down to a t. code words and code names and cover stories, they know it all

when sam and dean fight together against a common enemy they’re a damn nightmare - because they know each others weaknesses and habits, they cover each other perfectly and in complete silence. they’ve been at it together since they were kids and read each other’s nonverbal cues like a picture book

to build off of what i said in part 1; the winchesters are pretty hated in the hunter’s community. even the people sam and dean frequently work with (bobby, ellen, jo, ash, rufus, bela, kevin, charlie, castiel etc) roasts them all the time and don’t hesitate with calling them out on their self-pitying crap when it get’s too much (spn was just objectively better when characters weren’t afraid of dragging sam and dean through the mud for being selfish and stupid) and this WILL persist in hbo spn. the only reason people continue working with sam and dean is because they know deep down a lot of the things that happens aren’t sam and dean’s fault - but they still blame them for it. doesn’t make it easier how sam or dean sometimes start crap on purpose to save the other

the winchesters are terrifying and people for sure tell stories about them, but not like ‘they’re heroes’, more like ‘they’re insane and dangerous. stay the fuck away from them’. some stories are true, like how they’ve worked with demons, but some are just game of telephone. (dean has apparently a ghost he is frequently possessed by while sam is actually a mutant vampire). hunters hate and are scared of the winchesters. sam and dean are never invited to hunter stuff (burials, memorials etc) but crash them nonetheless even though the hunters do NOT want them there.

you know what drives me insane when i think about it? how some characters in spn already are their hbo spn counterparts; john. mary. adam. maybe kevin?

other things that already are their hbo spn counterparts: dean throwing away the amulet right in front of sam. eyes burning when angels are seen. how ghosts are just tragedies, stuck in a loop they can’t leave. how a lot of the monsters they meet are just victims or their circumstances or the first victim of a curse. the impala being sam and dean’s home. dean not knowing how to comfort sam when he’s upset other than trying to do things for sam that usually brings dean comfort (driving the impala, listening to rock music etc). the roadhouse. heaven being an eternal version of the memories that made you the happiest even though it’s not real. sam wanting independence and freedom but never fully having it. dean fearing being alone more than anything else and that’s where he always ends up. sam has an eating disorder after the demon blood and dean has an alcohol problem he refuses to see as a problem. dean saying “i’d do it again” without an ounce of regret and pouring himself a drink when sam tells him it was fucked up to lie to him about gadreel

the demon/angel hybrid: THIS could be sooo interesting to explore. an angel and demon hybrid are you kidding me?? not to toot my own horn too much but i’m so clever. i should write this story myself. SO. does this creature have parents who fucked in their vessels or was this an experiment by god (yes i love the ‘mad scientist’ idea, that really should’ve been played up way more) or did a pre-existing creature (human or otherwise) drink demon blood and angel grace at the same time so that it created itself? so much potential for some really intriguing storytelling and character exploration - not only the creature itself and what they would be like, but also for the people around; sam, dean, castiel, jack etc. how would they react to this thing that is the very definition of defying heaven and hell and all the natural laws? does it exist before the show starts or will we see its birth?

the powers of the demon/angel hybrid would be tricky; a mix of holy and defiant, grotesque and beautiful. unconsciously forces people to tell the truth when talking to them. poisons whatever they touch. eyes of a demon, wings of an angel. can smite but skin will burn when touching iron. can do deals but will require a sacrifice in return, not a soul, usually a body part taken then and there (the hybrid eats it. it favours eyeballs and the liver - angels like raw meat). lights always flicker. makes things explode when angry (esp people and cars). can manipulate feelings, thoughts and memories. can travel to both heaven and hell, not welcome in either places. + standard stuff like telekinesis, teleportation, mind reading, super strength etc.

sam and dean’s wardrobe are pretty much the same; whatever’s cheap and not covered in blood. however, they do have stylistic differences. sam thinks graphic tees are funny, dean uses whatever’s black combined with john’s leather jacket. their wardrobe melds as they stop thinking of themselves as individuals and more of “me and my brother,”. their clothes are tattered and torn to shreds all the time. hand me downs, hand me ups. when they stray off their “path” and do things that are the crux of a storyline/character arc, this would reflect in their clothes. when sam is with ruby and becomes more and more “evil” he wears more and more red, a colour he has stated in the past he doesn’t really like. when dean is dead, sam starts to wear his rings and john’s and dean’s leather jacket. when dean decides he’s going to say yes to michael he dresses in white, when sam is dead dean takes off every piece of jewelry except the amulet. he holds it clenched in his fists when he’s whispering what comes close to a prayer

logically the amulet should have a backstory but you know what? i love that it’s hinted to be just a piece of cheap jewelry sam found in a thrift store he decided to give to dean. but narratively it should be explained so... idk. what could be logical solution as to why it would react to GOD himself? maybe god wore it once cuz he thought it was neat but he sold it for three dollars because he wanted coffee and then sam found it a week later

i would prefer it if god didn’t show up at all (absent father number one) but if he DID he’s not all powerful just a true neutral (like death, 100% objective) who created a thing that just took a life of its own, much like a parent and a child - the parent helps the child but can’t control it. the times he did intervene or tried to do something it didn’t really have any real long lasting effect so he gave up on trying a while ago.

@spneveryseason talked about this, how the storyline of sam being possessed by gadreel would be horrifying if we saw everything from sam’s perspective instead of dean’s (her fic is wonderful). in the ‘dean slowly descends into a righteous murderer to become holy’ idea i have this tracks so damn well because again, if dean believes something is right, it is right, no questions about it. everyone around him is like “that’s really fucked up and you should make amends” but dean doesn’t see any reasons for why - sam is alive isn’t he? and seeing it from sam’s pov would really underline how horrifying, dehumanizing and belittling that experience was

john and mary are adam and eve. sam and dean are cain and abel are michael and lucifer. time is a flat circle. history never stops repeating itself.

sam is the villain of s4. he is manipulated and key information is withheld from him but in the end... would it made a difference? it crossed his mind, that he could be tricked because ruby is a demon after all, but maybe he likes the power, the feeling of freedom, that he wasn’t just the baby, the one who always needs permission to do things. if he has to drain possessed people to get that power... so be it. and it’s for a good purpose, until it isn’t. he’s hungry for more, to be feared and respected. he’s enticed by lucifer’s sweet words, the potential of all that power and the idea of ruling two out of three realms. dean manages to pull him back from the brink because sam decides he doesn’t want to be what john thought he was and fail dean and himself like that.

dean is the villain in s9. he is controlling, the mark of cain without the mark. what he says goes - it’s not a democracy, it’s a dictatorship. he doesn’t see how much pain, doubt and fear he causes the people around him. if some victims or civilians die on his watch that doesn’t matter - just some collateral damage. sam can’t make dean listen to him because dean is the older one, the one who’s always called the shots. dean is the angelic one, heaven’s chosen warrior, he is untouchable and unkillable. he’s is an excellent killer, filling the void with blood and rage which is better than the crippling fear of loneliness carved into his bones. 'i butcher for love, to protect,’ he tells himself. ‘why shouldn’t i exterminate, regardless of the cost? i’ve followed the rules, i’ve always sacrificed. now i call the shots. it’s my right.’

sam’s hell trauma is never magically removed. he’s stuck with the memories and the nightmares and the occasional hallucinations. castiel can’t do anything but offers to wipe his memory completely, but sam says no, he is still doing penance.

after dean comes back from hell he starts calling himself old man and jokes a lot about he’s 40 years older now (after he’s more comfortable about speaking about hell)

when sam comes back he feels ancient (he’s over 900 years old at least but he lost count), weary, tired and so so so out of place in this world. he’s forgotten how to put gas in a car, how to drive, how to use a credit card, all the song lyrics he and dean used to yell together, the faces of people he knew before he fell, the softness of a bed, the schools he went to, most of the hunts he and dean, how john died, who mary is, the initials carved into the impala, the taste of food that isn’t raw meat. it’s so much he’s forgotten that he has to relearn. he prefers figuring things out with castiel instead of dean because castiel doesn’t silently resent him for everything he’s forgotten

sam doesn’t laugh anymore. despite dean’s many and castiel’s few awkward attempts, it’s more like quick smile and a quiet “hmm”. on some days he recoils when he sees blood and guts, on other days he’s so apathetic it’s unnerving

sam sympathizes with the brought back mary and castiel more than ever. dean tries to get sam to remember things he’s forgotten from his childhood but sam can’t connect with it anymore. he stopped being that sam a long time ago. dean doesn’t know what else to do than try to force this connection to be revitalized and he fails. sam isn’t that person anymore and this wedge in their relationship becomes a central factor in dean’s s6-10 desperation and isolation. sam is here and safe but it’s not really sam, not the sam dean grew up with

while sam has forgotten how to make coffee, he now knows everything about angels, effective torture tricks, a bunch of lore + biblical history, how to navigate hell, the most powerful and influential demons, rare and powerful spells as well as perfect enochian (he will speak enochian without realizing and it feels more natural than english). lucifer and michael were surprisingly talkative (raging about the unfairness) when taking their anger and hatred out on sam and adam and each other. sam had access to all of lucifer’s memories and knowledge for the time he was the one in control. walking library and encyclopedia of biblical lore.

he still has some muscle memory from hunting and sparring, but sam is ghostly thin and very rusty. even though he’s an expert on lore, he’s not fit to go on hunts anymore and he knows it.

sam remembers adam and swears he’ll try to get him out, but he can’t. just thinking about the cage makes him vomit. he can’t talk about it, much less go near it. after a while sam thinks it might be better to let adam stay down there than let him come back up and feel this crushing emptiness and loss of direction

sam’s trials take place in s9 instead of 8; coinciding with dean’s villain arc. for sam the trials are a chance to redeem himself again, this time for good by closing hellgates forever. they’re scrubbing him clean of the demon blood and his sins and they give him a sense of purpose again now that he can’t join hunts anymore. it doesn’t matter if he dies because of it. it would be nice with a permanent and peaceful death that did something good. dean is taken aback by sam’s devotion to repent for something that happened years ago and for something sam has already paid for a thousand times over. dean realizes how messed up he himself has become and how he’s helped put sam here, on the cusp of self sacrifice again because of sickening guilt and self hatred. dean begs sam to not complete the trials at the cost of his own life and swears he’ll better himself, be a friend and a brother, not a jailer, dictator or a murderer. ‘if you won’t give yourself or life another chance, please give me one.’ ---> s10 pacifist dean learning to let go of the control, the violent tendencies and the rage

oh wait what if gadreel still possessed sam after the trials to heal him but sam is the one who invites the angel in? he’ll keep his promise to dean about staying alive, as well as heal from the inside and have breaks from the world when he doesn’t want to be present, like he and gadreel will alternate being the one in control. he keeps it a secret from dean and helps gadreel imitate him so dean won’t notice. it’s not so bad, being possessed by this angel - sam can say no anytime and gadreel is a nice guy. since they alternate on who’s present they can access each other’s memories, which is terrifying and embarrassing at first, but since gadreel and sam have been tricked and used by lucifer and been punished for it for far too long, they understand each other. now another creature knows their trauma and terrors without the need for verbal explanation. also having an angel residing in his body makes sam feel like he can hunt properly again because gadreel can heal him and take over in situations sam’s overpowered. this could show how messed up sam has come to view himself and his body.

dean is conflicted when he finds out; sam lied but gadreel does help sam heal, sam’s traumatized and his self-worth is fucked up and dean has contributed to that. dean convinces sam to push gadreel out, that sam is still valuable, loved and a good person who shouldn’t be in a place where he views his body and mind like a property to be occupied. sam’s faith begins to come back bit by bit, not in god, but in himself, his brother, in the good things in life. they build their little family; sam, dean, castiel, the hybrids, whomever of their allies that are alive at this point.

castiel can heal sam and dean’s wounds but they are never completely gone; they leave scars and phantom pains. the brothers have SO many scars over the years. dean flaunts them to impress people because he likes the questions and the fearful admiration, the attention and the nods of approval. sam hides them.

when dean is in a bad mood or needs to get his mind off of things, sam just drops something like ‘i don’t get the deal with led zeppelin. one of the most overrated bands of all time’ and dean will go OFF every single time about the entire led zeppelin history, their discography and how they’ve shaped rock music. this will go on for hours and sam will zone out after 1 minute. but dean rants nonsensically the entire drive and it does get him to think about something else for a little bit. they stop at a motel and dean is STILL ranting while brushing his teeth. stops when going to sleep but without fail picks up where he left off the morning after and is so into it he doesn’t notice sam not paying attention at all. we could see this once in s1 when they’re searching for john, another in s3 when dean is anxious about his deal coming to an end and then again in a later season, when sam doesn’t remember to ask/doesn’t have the patience or mental capability, so they’ll sit there in tense silence, showing how much they’ve changed.

---> i can see this SO clearly in my head, how they’ll get in the car and we, the audience, will recognize the camera angle, the same lines and dean’s grumpy mood, and we’ll anticipate what comes next. but sam isn’t that kid anymore and he’s not peeking at dean to gauge what his mood is and how much of a shit eating grin he should wear when being an annoying little brother to cheer dean up. now he’s looking out the window, leaned back, they’re not looking at each other. this shot is a minute or two long, uninterrupted. dean turns on music but neither are singing along or doing anything to lighten the mood.

s1-5: sam gets hooked on demon blood, dean has an alcohol problem. when sam goes through withdrawals, dean decides to quit drinking and joins him because he wants to be supportive, and he realizes that when he drinks two beers for breakfast there’s a problem

s6-10: sam takes painkillers, anti depressants and anti psyhosis meds to numb himself from the phantom pains and reduce post-cage effects. dean started drinking again after sam jumped and still does, but started smoking in addition because he still drives a lot and doesn’t want to die in something as pathetic as a car crash.

there a scene in an episode in the first half of s8, when sam has decided to stay with dean instead of amelia, and dean has rejected benny in favor of sam, and then the brothers sit in a couch watching tv while drinking beer and neither of them look particularly happy about it - that’s how their relationship is a lot of the time. they know they’re fucked up and neither of them will ever be truly happy when the other’s around, but they owe each other so much and they don’t have to explain themselves to each other the way they do to others. they know each other so well, each other’s traumas and the things they’ve done, it feels fake and exhausting to try to be something other than the veteran hunters they are. misery loves company; they are miserable together but would be far more miserable apart and living a normal life. they do love each other, but neither of them are particularly happy as the show progresses. family is hell and so is the lack of it.

OK OK i mentioned it in part one, how i had my own very specific idea about how jack should come to be and here it is. long winded but (might just write a damn fic):

after lucifer was cast back into the cage, he is stronger than he has been in a long time (being in his true vessel helped him stretched muscles he forgot he had. and fresh air.) sam is pulled out of the cage and it leaves a rift in the magic and chains - the binding is weaker and lucifer must act fast to get out before it heals. the cage is still strong enough to hold two archangels, so lucifer has to become weaker somehow to slip out through the cracks. he can’t get out of the cage, but souls can come in. demons bring themselves and human souls as tools for lucifer to use. there’s not much he can do here - consuming them, eating them, touching them, dissecting them doesn’t give him what he wants

eventually lucifer realizes he must do like azazel and create something new of two halves, like when he created demons. he begins melding his archangel grace with a human soul. he tries with demons, but his archangel grace automatically purifies them and leaves them too weak. he must try with a human soul who is good. he finds the soul of kelly kline, who sold her soul to save a loved one. with her, the merging, works.

he has another self, a twin, a son, who’s half human and half archangel. half lucifer. the old lucifer will die but that’s ok, his desires, presence and self will live on in his new creation. the new lucifer barely makes it out of the cage, only able to due to its human side. on earth it creates a body for itself and takes shape, no longer a form of pure power and energy akin to the sun itself but now a person, reminiscent of kelly kline on earth and lucifer in heaven. they name themselves jack. jack searches for familiarity and finds it in sam, their old self’s perfect tool and another hybrid. jack finds a mentor in castiel, a younger brother and fellow angel with human elements. they do not find anything in dean, the key to his former self’s doom.

jack’s powers: their powers are like and unlike the angels because he is half archangel. jack has wings but sometimes they don’t work, or they’ll end up somewhere else entirely. their body is their own, not a vessel, so jack can’t possess people. doesn’t talk but people “know” what they’re saying or want because jack emits their emotions and thoughts to people they’re talking to like a radio tower. jack can also have this empathic connection and communication with animals. his mood affects the weather. immortal. reads minds. can remove a soul from a body and send it to heaven/hell by touching it, with practice they don’t need to touch a body.

other stuff about jack: the human/archangel nature means jack only need sleep and food once a week or so. eats only nougat and raw meat. because jack is a kid they nap a lot. levitates when sleeping. never blinks, stares intensely at everything. their eye colour changes based on their mood. eyes glow in the dark. normal humans who look at jack for too long experience memory loss, fainting spells or migraines and eye contact for more than 10 seconds give vivid hallucinations of their worst nightmares. always barefoot, often floats like 10 cm off the ground because they find it more enjoyable than walking. wears the wildest clothes they can find, nothing matches and nothing is weather appropriate

i have a very specific image of jack in my mind; they look like delirium from the sandman comics with the hair that looks like it’s underwater and the fishes floating around their head, here and here are examples. in live action this would look not good or maybe even ridiculous for sure but in animation... endless potential for angels and monsters to have super interesting designs sigh

castiel’s arc should end with him going from blind soldier, to the unwilling ruler of heaven, finding a place on earth with sam and dean, becoming closer with humanity and eventually a father of three (the hybrids).

#hbo spn #sam winchester #dean winchester #supernatural #iben spoke #ok i'm tired of looking at this now #i just needed to get these thoughts out of my head to get some peace and quiet #more character centric than part 1 #and it turned into such a long post.... jesus #i should make a separate post for post cage sam headcanons #ana if you see this i'm so sorry to drag you into this mess but i wanted to give credit where credit is due

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poptod · 5 years

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Baisemain

Description: Your dead body is dressed up in ancient Mesopotamian clothing, and hidden in the Museum of Natural History. What your murderer doesn’t know is that you’re about to come to life, every night, for as long as your skeleton exists.

Notes: So this is just a quick blurb (and basically a shitpost) about this idea of a murder victim’s body being held in the Museum of Natural History. It’s not specifically Ahk x Reader but there’s a bit at the end that’s pretty flirty. I suppose I could write more, but I don’t know if I really wanna do that. I promise I’ll come up with something new and actually good soon!

Word Count: 1.9k

What comes in death is… nothing. There is no you, no consciousness going by your name, and there is no reality where you exist. Not anymore. You hold no anger towards the cause of your death, but only because you simply can’t, not when there’s no mind to store it in. If you were still alive, still holding a consciousness, you’d probably be rather annoyed - you’re not a cynical person but you’re not a saint, either.

So, there is a time on earth in which you are not a thought, not a tangible thing, and all sense of who you are is subject to the tide of the wind - the idea of you exists, in abstract form, only the image of what you are in other peoples minds. It’s rather blissful, nonexistence; quiet, but not lonely, and peaceful in every way existence cannot be. For one point in time it is blissfully quiet, blissfully dark and nothing, till a bright light sparks, and your consciousness comes back to being.

There’s a light shining in your face, fluorescent and painfully bright as your eyes barely open. Squinting, you try to see through the brightness, taking a minute or so to adjust. Around you is darkness - the only light in the room is the one directly above you, and you’re lying on top of a table that is suspiciously cold. With a groan you sit up, fully taking in where you are, and what in the hell could be happening.

A thousand different solutions, none of them right, ran through your head. Perhaps this is a hospital, you thought, incorrectly, followed by, no, this is too empty. Perhaps I am in a morgue of sorts, which was also wrong. There’s a distinct smell, not especially rancid but certainly not a nice smell, and the room is filled with it. Without word or grunt you slip off the table, and the clacking on your feet is odd - not right for being shoeless and not right for the sneakers you usually wear.

It’s only then that you notice you’re not wearing your normal clothes, or anything that could be considered normal. Long cloth drapes from your shoulders and hips, colorful and softer than anything you own - nothing that belongs to you, no wallet or keys or I.D. are in your pockets, which are sizable. A sort of shawl covers your chest, while a long skirt tied somewhere around your shoulders or waist (it’s all so tight and confusing) covers you from waist to ankle. If you had to guess, you’d place the origin of the style and cloth somewhere in the Middle East, which would be the one thought so far that was right.

The only appropriate course of action, you decide, is to explore, and try to piece together what exactly was happening. So, trying to keep your clothing up (which is an easier task than you think it is, it’s very well made and knotted), you leave the cold examination table, and wander through empty halls.

A good amount of time passes before you hear faint music coming from above you. Someone’s playing ABBA, you recognize that in the least, and you climb up several flights of stairs in hopes of finding some hint of life. As you get slowly closer, the thumping of hundreds of feet begins, then the shouts, and you realize that there’s not just one person playing ABBA, it’s an entire party.

Maybe someone’s having an office party, you think to yourself, back on the course of thinking wrong things. When you reach the final door, you’re only aware it’s the final door by the impossibly loud music, and the vibrating of the door handle when you grasp it. Anxiously you turn, your nerves flooding your hand till it tingled with excitement - well, that or fear, and you preferred to be excited. Though, if you knew exactly what you were getting excited for, you might’ve not been so excited in the first place.

In the center of the room is a very familiar globe, spinning and still glowing even though it’s clearly nighttime outside. Every exhibit you ever remember seeing is dancing, playing games, or talking with one another, and you can feel your breath leave your body - perhaps you weren’t really alive again, but you can still feel your heartbeat. In fact, your heartbeat is about the only thing you can still feel, and when a soccer ball comes hurtling towards your head you can almost feel yourself faint. Instead you duck, and the ball bounces off the wall and back to - Attila the hun, who is definitely not a wax statue anymore.

You’ve been here before, you know this place, and the fact that you’re here is terrifying you more than you ever thought it could. The Museum of Natural History in New York, which is funny, because you don’t live in New York.

Pretending as if everything you’re seeing is normal, you try to look for a night guard; you know they have one, and maybe they’ll know whats happening. At the top of the steps you find him, dressed in the usual dark blue garb, flashlight in hand. He’s talking to someone who’s definitely Egyptian, Ancient Egyptian, and if the crown meant anything, very likely royalty.

“Hi, uh, I’m sorry,” you say, tapping the night guard on the shoulder. “I… what’s happening here?”

He turns to you, and a smile of recognition crosses his face. Patting you on the shoulder, he says, “Oh! Yeah, you must be the, uh, new exhibit. From Mesopotamic or something?”

“Mesopotamia,” the Egyptian corrects him, with a surprisingly strong British accent. You look to him, then back at the night guard, still confused.

“What? No, I’m - I’m not from Mesopotamia, I’m from Colorado. What’s going on here?”

The two men look at each other, communicating in silent looks before turning back to you.

“Um… well, you’re in a museum. A magical tablet brings you to life every night, belongs to this guy,” the night guard says, pointing a finger back at the Egyptian behind him.

“I was dead. Like, really dead, did anyone solve - I was dead! Someone murdered me with a - a knife or something, and now I’m here?!” The reality of your situation begins to set in with you, and it’s not a pretty sight - your eyes go wide and you grip at your hair, wondering how in the hell this situation is in any way possible.

“Hey, hey, calm down. Are you sure you’re not from Mesopotamian?”

“Mesopotamia,” both you and the Egyptian say at the same time, glancing at each other before both turning back to the night guard.

“Right, whatever. You’re from Colorado?”

“Yeah, well… at least that’s where I was living. Wasn’t born there.”

“Makes sense,” the Egyptian says. “Most Mesopotamians don’t speak English.”

“Most Ancient Egyptians don’t speak English either,” the night guard points out. “You’re going to have to prove it to me.”

Internally you groan, ready to recite the events of the current age.

“It’s 1999, and -“

“Wrong. 2005,” the night guard interrupts helpfully.

“In that case, I must’ve been murdered a good long while ago.” An anger courses through you, and you begin to spit facts like you hate them, when you couldn’t feel less apathetic about it. “There’s fifty states in America, which was founded in 1776 by George Washington, John Adams, some guy named Richard I think, and the rest of the founding fathers. Umm… Nelson Mandela recently stepped down from his presidency, and the Sixth Sense came out, which I haven’t ever watched so don’t ask me about it.”

“Okay,” he says after a moment of contemplation. “That’s fair.”

“So you believe me?” You ask excitedly, smiling for probably the first time that night.

“Sure. But I don’t think I’ll be able to convince the other exhibits, they hardly speak English some of them… it’d probably be best just to say you’re Mespotamic.”

You and the Egyptian look at each other, too tired to correct him, and you both silently agree that he’s never going to get it right. At long last the two introduce themselves; the night guard’s name is Larry, and the Egyptian’s name is Ahkmenrah, and your previous deduction had been correct - he was royal, a king to be exact. Larry offers to look your murder up on the internet, but it’s safely assumed beforehand that it isn’t solved, considering your dead body is dressed up in Mesopotamian garb in a museum. No, someone is just a very smart killer.

“Like hiding a dead body in a graveyard,” Larry comments, to which you agree. After that fun excursion in which you are deeply unsettled by your Missing Persons poster, he decides to introduce you to the wide variety of characters inhabiting the museum.

By the fifth person you meet you’re a little numb to meeting famous historical people, and to the fact that everyone keeps calling you Mesopotamian. You don’t look the part, either in skin or facial features, and everyone’s immediate assumption is more than tiresome after the seventh person you meet. The only thing that jostles you by the time midnight strikes is the massive T-Rex, which, defying all logic of the tablet, does not have meat on its’ bones. You point this out to Ahkmenrah, who seems to be the leading expert on the tablet, and he just shrugs.

“Some things just happen some ways,” he says, leaving you more confused than you were before.

Your heart skips a beat when you notice a small child on top of the dinosaur, and begins to beat faster yet when Larry runs after him, leaving you alone with Ahkmenrah. He turns to you with a polite smile, a little too real to be only cursory.

“I never got to officially introduce myself,” he says, and you recall that it was, in fact, Larry who told you the King’s name. “I am Ahkmenrah, fourth king of the fourth king, and very pleased to meet you.” You hadn’t noticed he held your hand till it comes to his lips, a gentle, admiring kiss upon the back of it. Stuttering, you try to get a grasp on your words, blushing furiously from this single show of affection.

“I - I, uh… I’m (Y/N). I hold no title,” you finally get out, wondering if you should add your job in, before ultimately deciding that saying you’re a writer isn’t a great way to earn respect. “But it’s nice to meet you as well.”

He takes you on a tour of the different rooms just as Larry toured you around the people, telling you who each room belonged to, and a little history of the exhibit. He directs you by holding your hand, sending flutters into your heart every time he squeezes your hand when pulling you along to another room. You don’t have the heart to tell him you’ve actually visited the museum before, and whenever he smiles at you, you find you don’t want to tell him anyway - if only to get him to keep holding your hand.

To your quiet delight he keeps holding your hand throughout the night, tracing your veins as he explains exactly what to do when the night comes to a close.

Ultimately, it takes a good long while to adjust to what life is - it’s explain to you that you can’t leave the museum, and it takes you a much longer time to adjust to the fact that no one will ever solve your murder. As close as your friendship gets with the Pharaoh, it doesn’t fully fill the hole in your heart left by the fact that none of your friends or family know what happened to you. But, there are ups and downs to every story, and this story is pretty far-fetched anyway.

#ahkmenrah #ahkmenrah x reader #night at the museum #rami malek

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deathduty · 4 years

Text

I Sidhe You || Lydia & Deirdre

TIMING: In the distant past...at some point before Lydia’s attack PARTIES: @inspirationdivine & @deathduty SUMMARY: Lydia and Deirdre have a fun time in the mirrored district. Until Jerry.... WARNINGS: Some light stabbing, as a treat

Lydia had found an excellent puddle. Puddles under the right moonlight were much easier to get through than mirrors that had to be perfectly aligned to get the angle of sunlight just right, but the lunar puddles were rarer throughout the month. At least once they were correct, they were correct for the whole night. Not that it mattered on the other side, where it could be sunlight or a different lunar phase, or possibly even a different century. Lydia looked up, and grinned as she spotted her beautiful friend. Good lord, she desperately hoped this went better than their last fae escapades.

There were few places more scared to the fae than their aos sí; their communities, where life could be lived by their traditions. Deirdre's ancestors detailed the rise of humanity, their spreading like disease of the lands. And the importance of the aos sí, a place to exist as they were. Home. Deirdre's tether to her fae identity might have been confused, but she was happy to right it and could think of no better person to help her than Lydia—the kind of fae that had every right to be proud. "Hey," she waved at her as she approached, smiling happily under the moonlight. This wouldn't be like Emma, she wanted to say, but didn't think Lydia cared about that now. They were friends, even if Deirdre still worried Lydia might suddenly realize she wasn't fae-enough anymore. And friends were probably just happy to spend time together, like Deirdre was. Gleefully happy. "Is that the puddle?" She gestured. "It looks a little small. Is this a 'tuck your hands and feet in so they don't get chopped off' kind of deal? Teleportation?" She approached Lydia, eager to jump, itching to move—having to gently lay her hand against Lydia's arm to keep herself from plunging in. The idea of visiting an aos sí was magnetic. "You know….I've always wondered why you don't live in an aos sí."

“Hello darling!” Lydia greeted with a wide grin, giving Deirdre a quick hug in greeting. Emma also clung to her mind, but she didn’t see any sign of concern or worry in Deirdre’s features. She looked down at the puddle. “I don’t thin it will be a problem for either of us. I was entirely unprepared when Felix pulled me in. I flailed rather spectacularly, and wasn’t harmed. It’s more important we go together.” She offered her hand to Deirdre, to help guide her in. She looked up at the moon with a wide grin. “When I have children, I will. Many fae in Aos Sí are too… exclusive to other species by even my stands.” When she had Deirdr’e hand, she winked at the other woman, stepped into the puddle, and pulled Deirdre towards her hard as the floor gave way beneath her.

“Felix took you inside?” Deirdre shifted, “why does he never take me anywhere fun?” But that was a problem she’d take up with Felix after. For now, there was a puddle, and an aos sí to plunge themselves into. “Exclusive to other species---AH!” Her question was halted by a shout, barely subdued to keep its destructive property at bay. She tried to scold Lydia, remind her that surprising a banshee was a very deafening thing to do, but she couldn’t speak. Or move. Or do anything but fall. Her slow beating heart leapt up, as if trying to find an edge to hold. But whatever her body tried to grab for was simply not there, she fell and fell and then the sky was at her feet and she wasn’t falling so much as feeling like she was. “This--” She wasn’t afraid of heights by any stretches, but she enjoyed how grounding reality looked around her. This was not reality. “The---everything is flipped.” It sounded dumb as soon as she said it. “I mean, okay, I guess that’s why it’s called the mirrored district. But it’s---” With lingering nausea, she clung closer to Lydia. “How long until I get used to this?”

Lydia plunged through the water, and gasped in delight as she did every time. The world shrank and shrank around them until it would fit in a snowglobe, then popped and began to grow again, inside out and upside down. She held tight to Deirdre if only so that they wouldn’t be separated as the sky fell in place around them. Lydia laughed and laughed as the world settled, and she looked at the bridge leading them to the other side of town. Fairy lights twinkled in the evening air, and everything around them made her chest hum. Here, the grass, the fish, the birds in the sky, all of it was fae. Not too far away, a gold eyed woman waved at them. “Welcome cousins!” Lydia grinned and returned the greeting, only to hold Deirdre closer to herself. “A while. Don’t worry. I won’t let go of you while we’re here.” Deirdre could bind her to that. “Shall we explore?”

“Oh, are you two related or---” Deirdre thought about it, she looked at the fae Lydia was greeting and then Lydia. Definitely not related. Every aos sí had some number of quirks to them; ways to weed out the others and keep the members close. This place had a number of quirks she was only grasping at understanding. “Hello cousin,” she greeted back awkwardly, swallowing as chill after chill trickled down her back. Fae, fae everywhere. She wasn’t expecting anything less, but it was thrilling to see nonetheless. “Oh good, I’m still worried I might fall down…” Deirdre glanced at the floor...or what should have been the floor. She decided to keep her eyes on Lydia instead. “Lead the way. What’s there to do here?”

“Not like that,” Lydia agreed, “but we’re so interconnected, it looks like this place takes it more seriously than most.” She gave Deirdre’s arm a reassuring squeeze when Deirdre returned the cousin greeting. Here and there, other visitors dotted the streets, only identifiable by the wonder in their eyes. Sometimes that wonder held trepidation too, or downright fear. That was smart, but they didn’t have to be. Lydia chuckled. “Felix and I didn’t fall. Although, I have to say, every time I’ve been here, my stomach has felt completely out of place.” She held Deirdre’s gaze with a soft gaze. “There’s a beautiful flower garden. Or we could go to the shopping street, with cute artisanal fae things. Or the cemetery, if that’s more your thing,” Lydia winked, genuinely happy to go anywhere, as long as it was with Deirdre.

Deirdre smiled, "we are, aren't we?" That interconnection was exactly why she wanted to come here, and one of her favorite parts of being fae. "If that's how you look when your stomach is out of place well…" Deirdre grinned again and trailed off. Lydia seemed at ease, then again, she always seemed to. But her happiness rubbed off on Deirdre, and her eyes lit up at the mention of a cemetery. "That," she pointed out, "I want the cemetery. That—why would you even bother listing anything else? Of course I want the cemetery, I always want the cemetery." Since she stepped foot in the district, she wondered if death felt the same here, of course she did. She was a banshee after all, and a creature of habit just like anyone else. "Let's go there first. Maybe some shopping after. I'd love to buy something to take out to the...uh, other side." She gestured for Lydia to lead them, eager to get on.

“You know me, I’d never show even if it did bother me.” Lydia said softly. The incident with Marley had rattled her a little, which made her all the more determined to come across as pristine, always. She did laugh, joyfully, as Deirdre lit up in delight. “That sounds like an excellent idea, my love.” Lydia had, of course, only suggested the cemetery because it was Deirdre she was with. She lead her along what should have been a cobbled path, but the cobbles hovered above them, creaking ever so slightly with each of their steps. Little yellow lights danced alongside them as they stepped into the necropolis. It wasn’t too big, considering how few people were buried there relative to the graves in the rest of the town, but the monuments to the dead, well, Fae did that best. Each tombstone was a tree. Not carved in any way, but grown carefully so that over the years the bark would reflect the name and species of the individual entombed. Some tombstones were vines, intricately wrapped together. Some were great oaks, will gnolls like faces looking over them. It wasn’t covered in grass cut into submission, but a beautiful meadow, everything growing wild - clumps of hungry grass and stray sod abound. “Is this what you expected?”

“But you can,” Deirdre started in a small voice, realizing how strange she must have sounded; no one wanted to share that vulnerability, least of all a fae. “If you wanted to. It’s just us.” Or it wasn’t really, catching the hubbub of fae around her. She coughed and moved the conversation along, eager to see what the cemetery here had to offer. She pulled away from Lydia, mouth agape and eyes wide. The forest that surrounded Deirdre’s family estate was a necropolis itself, the trees stood tall and stalwart, though hundreds of years of no longer being a functioning graveyard let nature claim the land, and the markings of fae were buried under grass and flowers, as if they’d never existed there at all. By comparison, her family catacombs were filled with rigid stone structures, skulls and engravings. Neither of those places were like this, and her chest thrummed with the call of death, easily awash with the fae around her. She felt peace. “It’s lovely.” She moved forwards, running her hands along the twisted bark of the nearest tree. This was a resting place and a standing memory for fae as any should be--the perfect balance of wild yet tamed. This was how the fae were meant to live, at peace with nature. “I never know what to expect when I come into places of death, that’s the fun of it.” She turned to Lydia, “I can almost get over the fact that this place looks like trees growing out of the sky. It’s beautiful.” Deirdre glanced around with awe. “Fates, I wish Regan wasn’t so bound by idiotic human understandings of life, she’d really like this too; if she could just get over the fact that the ground is the sky.” Deirdre sighed, wistful. “Do you ever miss---” Rustling broke her sentence. “Did you hear that?” The banshee snapped her gaze around, trying to find the source, there was no telltale pull of a fae. “Does this place have animals?”

Lydia smiled wrily. “You’re one of my dearest friends, Deirdre,” she said simply. They both knew better than to expect more than that. Her composure was as much a shield from the world as her glamour. Without it, she’d walk into endless fae word traps, lose herself in her own vanity, and become altogether much too human. She could control herself, mostly, so why oughtn’t she? Deirdre looked serene as they walked through the cemetery, looking over the trees and markings, and presumably steeped in the feeling of death. Lydia laughed. “I’m just trying to work out where the coffins are. They must be somewhere, but I certainly can’t see them.” Then again, Lydia wasn’t looking too hard. Her stomach wouldn’t entirely handle it if a cloud shifted and revealed a mostly decayed corpse. “She would love it. Someday she will,” Lydia replied softly, but her eyes narrowed as the sound of someone or something nearby. “Fae animals, certainly. Foireaux cats, mummers, that sort of thing. I don’t know about anything else,” Lydia replied hesitantly. Not all fae creatures were as kindly to other fae as Foireaux cats. She couldn’t imagine that redcaps would be allowed to live here, but, well, something was hiding behind that tree there. Lydia slid her hand into her purse. She looked to Deirdre as they walked around where the noise was. She could hear trembling breathing. Pulling her pistol out, she pointed it to the source. “Come on out, whoever you are. Are you spying on us?”

And then Lydia pulled a gun. “Fates,” Deirdre’s eyes grew wide. “Why do you have a---” Deirdre gawked at it, the glinting metal against the odd mirror district reflections and Lydia’s hands wrapped around it. Guns were taboo in her family, whether it was the blade's sacred role or the offense of another loud, screaming object that made a deafening noise, she didn’t know. But there was always a particular shock she felt when seeing one.

“P-p-please don’t shoot me,” a weepy voice filtered out behind the stumpy tree before an equally stumpy man stepped out from behind it. He was trying to hold his hands up, but he was shaking so much it looked like he was dancing. “I j-j-just want to go h-h-home.” He started to cry, but he was so sweaty that Deirdre had trouble discerning what was droplets of tears and what was perspiration. He was human. Deirdre didn’t need to verify by triple-checking the absence of her tingling fae senses, she knew that because he was pathetic in that way only humans were. Which was very pathetic. His white dress shirt was completely soaked through with sweat, clinging to every quiver of his body. His pants were rolled up, in what Deirdre assumed was an attempt to cool down, though it obviously hadn’t worked. Sweat pooled in each wrinkle on his face and his peppery hair laid flat on his head. Deirdre hated him. “Please--” he sniffed ineffectively at the snot dripping out of his nose, “--help me.” And then he started wailing.

Deirdre cringed, picking up a nearby stick and poking him with it. “There, there, uh, poor human-sweat-creature.” She glanced back at Lydia expectantly, as if she would know what to do because she was, somehow, infinitely more wise. Or, as Deirdre hoped, would just shoot him.

"Because I need something with a little further range than kissing people when I need to protect myself." Lydia replied drily, but she was cut short as the man stepped out from behind the treestump. Her lip curled with disgust as he spoke, his body odor palpable even from here. Humans. They disgusted her on their best days, but the look she gave him now was like she’d found maggots in her wine. Doubly so when he began to wail. Lydia stepped back, and met Deirdre’s gaze. “Let’s leave him for a glaistig or something to finish off. If he didn’t want to be in danger, he shouldn’t have wandered somewhere he didn’t belong. I imagine that’s a new feeling, for him. Come on. I have so much more to show you!” Lydia smiled again, turning so sharply that her clothes swished in the wind, and began to walk away, Deirdre in tow.

“Can’t you just...spit?” Deirdre asked, though it probably wasn’t the point right now. She was raised to treasure fae abilities as their tools and weapons, anything else was just tacky. Then again, Deirdre had a scream far more potent than a gun. “Ugh, fine, I guess.” She turned to walk with Lydia, but found resistance. She tried to move her foot; it was frozen. She glanced back. “Please don’t leave me!” The man bellowed, hugging Deirdre’s leg. “I have dogs! I need to go home to my babies! What are they going to do without me!” Deirdre hissed, trying to shake him off, “let go of me!” But the more she shook, the harder he clung to her and the louder he begged. “Someone’s going to hear you!” And then find them, and then see some human wrapped around her leg and how was she supposed to explain that? He looked up at her pleadingly, continuing to repeat something about dogs and how they were named Ben and Jerry but not to be confused with his name, which was also Jerry. And they were chihuahuas, and they needed him. “Fuck,” Deirdre groaned, giving up, “fine! Fates, just let go of me and shut up.” Jerry obliged and Deirdre turned pitifully to Lydia. “It wouldn’t be so bad if we just...helped him out for a bit, right?”

Lydia smirked at the idea that she might be able to spit as far as she could shoot. This was very much not the case, she wasn’t a llama, but it was the most amusing type of image. Her turn to pull Deirdre away from the man was rudely cut short. She sneered at the man. “On the one hand, I do so love seeing humans grovelling on their knees. On the other, for goodness sake, we’re in a cemetery. Do try to have some inkling of dignity.” Lydia said scathingly, ignoring his pleas. Dear god, chihuahuas didn’t need foot massages, why on earth was he blathering on as if they did? Deirdre surrendered far too easily, and Lydia didn’t quite manage to hide her irritation in time. “Or I could make him drown himself in a cloud,” she said blasély, as if suggesting what they might have for dinner, then remembered their last encounter with human death. “Or just tell him to stay here silently.”

When was it that senselessly killing humans started to seem wrong to Deirdre? Was it before or after Emma? Before or after falling in love with a human? She grimaced at Lydia’s plan, then flinched as she expected some kind of outburst at her facial expressions. It didn’t come, and then she waited as the man continued to grovel and wail and beg. Deirdre continued to drag him along on her leg until he quieted enough for Deirdre to speak. “Or we could help him,” she asked Lydia quietly. Not as another fae, but as a friend. “Just this once. Just...maybe we can atone for Emma, in some small way.” Emma was, of course, a beloved student and daughter. This older man seemed like his only family were two poorly named dogs that he insisted needed daily massages, bedtime stories and a kiss goodnight or else they would be absolutely inconsolable. “Please, Lydia…” It wasn’t right, it wasn’t even what she should be doing. She didn’t even care about humans, let alone carry any desire to save them. But this one, just this once, she thought it might be the right thing to do.

If Deirdre had been anyone else, Lydia might have shook her head and moved on with their day. They would have forgotten the human under the enthralling nature of everything else they had to do here. Even for a human, he was a pathetic, unsightly specimen. He grovelled and begged, but Lydia didn’t care about that. She cared about the way Deirdre had flinched, just for having a contrary opinion. That fear, expressed, that Lydia would punish her. It wasn’t the first time Lydia had seen her flinch like this. Fae wanted to belong even with their strangest idiosyncrasies, and neither of them were any different. Someone, somewhere along the way had made that flinch necessary. It might even have been Lydia, who was not thrifty with her harsh words. Deirdre said please, and Lydia gently cupped the other woman’s face. “For you, fine,” she said softly, and press a small kiss to Deirdre’s cheek, safe in the knowledge that it wouldn’t hurt her, and would provide the comfort Lydia’s own affectionate traditions wouldn’t. “Let us find ourselves another puddle.”

Deirdre swelled with happiness. She grinned wide and perked up, flushing with affection under Lydia’s kiss. She had never had a friend quite like her, and she treasured every second of it. She didn’t know a fae that was better than Lydia, and she didn’t want to. “You’re the best, you know that right?” She beamed, then raised her voice to dramatism--if only to avoid sounding overly sentimental. “I just don’t know what I’d do without you, oh great Lydia. I would be hopelessly lost. I might even adopt two chihuahuas and become a very sweaty man.” She eyed the human, who was struggling to stand up now on account of all his sweating. She didn’t help him. “If he cries like that again, I’ll personally drown him.” She stood between Lydia and the sweaty human--Jerry, not to be confused with his dog Jerry, he kept trying to tell them--as they walked. She couldn’t figure out how to thank Lydia with her words, for all that Lydia was and for all that she had done, but she hoped her delight might have said it for her.

“I do try,” Lydia said, brightening up just under the influence of Deirdre’s cheer. If it was so easy to make her so happy, why didn’t she do this all the time? What was saving one paltry human when it could do this for Deirdre? She elbowed Deirdre at the dramatics, but the smile she was biting away was far from fake. And then her gaze turned to the miserable wreck of a man on the ground, waiting impatiently for him to stand up. He had a briefcase, she noticed with a groan. Not even real leather, and the seams were fraying at the edges. The classic way for white collar men to stroke their own ego and over value their own importance, to make themselves seem more valuable than they were. It was disgusting. She didn’t see how this would balance out for Emma in the slightest, but it was what it was. Because even here up was still down and left was still wrong, she held on to Deirdre’s arm tightly as they began looking for a way back to the other world. “Look, there.” Lydia wondered if they might push him through and be on their way, but they had no idea what part of town he might emerge in.

Jerry was insufferable. This was quickly apparent in the way he tried to wrench himself between Deirdre and Lydia, afraid that if they couldn’t see him, they would forget about him. When he realized he couldn’t do that, even with trying to swing his briefcase out, he started talking loudly instead. Mostly about his dogs, but occasionally about his new girlfriend, Jerri---with an ‘i’ he said, so it wasn’t confusing. It was with great relief that Deirdre took to observing the gateway out. "Look there sweat-boy, just go through that and you're done!" Jerry approached cautiously, glancing back at the two women. He asked where it led, Deirdre shrugged. "Outside, obviously. Who knows where. That's not our concern." And then he started to cry again. "I hate him," Deirdre turned to Lydia, "he's like a fully-grown baby! Fates, let me just push him in." With great reluctance, she untangled herself from Lydia and approached Jerry, who she then began to shove towards the exit. "Just. Get. In. There." But Jerry kicked and screamed and when his foot fell through the other side, he gripped Deirdre and dragged her down with him.

Jerry with a y was so intolerable Lydia briefly considered stealing his girlfriend Jerri with an I, and giving his dogs Ben and Jerry (also with a y) to Jared for safe keeping. In short, the more he talked, the more Lydia day dreamed about leaving him to the pixies to eat on. But Deirdre has wanted this, and Deirdre was the one batting him away every time he tried to squeeze between them. Lydia just held Deirdre closer until their shoulders were pressed together. "Oh, for God sake man! Pull yourself together. This is what a rescue looks like!" Lydia snapped - but it was too late. He grabbed Deirdre, yanking her right out of Lydia's grasp, and into the puddle. Lydia winced at Deirdre's fall, because it looked painful and terrifying, and being grabbed by that man seemed as disgusting as wading through a swamp. Lydia hesitated, then jumped in after them. Unfortunately for her, that second's hesitation had stretched into an hour on the other side of town.

“I’M GOING TO KILL YOU AND FEED YOU TO YOUR DOGS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? YOU’RE DEAD, JERRY. DE---Oh, hello, Lydia.” Deirdre grinned, happily holding a knife above Jerry with one hand while Jerry’s sweaty dress shirt was bunched in her other. She hadn’t been expecting Lydia to join her. Life on the other side was an unimaginable nightmare. Deirdre watched and waited for Lydia to pop out, then considered that she wouldn’t---because why would she? There was a whole fae district for her to explore. And so she turned to Jerry, who had taken to looking around. “You know,” he started, “I actually think this might be the forest behind my house. Look! I can see my backyard from here.” And then Deirdre lost it. She could barely remember how exactly she’d spent her hour, but Jerry was crying and Deirdre hair and clothing were disheveled. Her dress was muddy, as was Jerry’s sweat-stained attire. She could remember chasing him around and throwing rocks and sticks in anger, all of it culminating in tackling him to the floor in front of the puddle they popped out of with a knife in her hand and murderous intent in her voice. “How fun for you to finally join me. Did you stop to do a little shopping or---” Jerry whimpered as Deirdre spoke and she slapped him. “I said cut that out! Fates--Do you know where we are Lydia? Jerry, tell her where we are.” He sniffled, “b-behind my house.”

Lydia took in the scene in front of her with a startled look. The knife raised, the mud, the leaf dangling from Deirdre's hair. How had so much happened in the blink of an eye? "H-Hi Deirdre," she replied, flummoxed as she stepped off the puddle and into the forest, momentarily thrown by the shift of the floor back where it ought to be and the pop in her ear that was always disorientating upon return. "Finally join you? Shopping? Deirdre. What?" Lydia replied with a long stare. The stare became even longer at his reply. "In your back garden? You miserly shrimp. We helped you and you dragged us to just behind your house? You really do top the dung heap don't you?" She pinched her the bridge of her nose. The trees filtered out the moonlight, so this puddle wouldn’t work anymore. Their trip to the mirrored district was thoroughly scuppered. “I don’t care whether you kill him or not, but this puddle is dead.but the night’s still young if you’d like to find some fun around town.”

Deirdre snapped her gaze back to Jerry like a crazed animal. He and dragged her down because he was afraid of where he's end up, and where he ended up was right behind his fucking house. Deirdre wanted to kill him so badly she nearly frothed at the mouth about it. One hour she chased this fool around, and one hour she wrestled with the desire to just scream and end him. "Look at my dress," she said, "look at my hair. I sincerely doubt I'll be able to enjoy a night on the town while I look like I just enjoyed a night pretending to be a pig." Jerry whimpered in her grip; she hated him. And so, she stabbed him. Three times. In the shoulder. She dropped him and staggered back. "I should kill you," she prefaced, "but I went through so much effort to save you. So, let's call ourselves even, right?" Jerry nodded. "And I need a promise you won't tell anyone about me, or her." Jerry promised. "Well then," Deirdre kicked him, "get on with it." Jerry, clutching his shoulder, scrambled away. Deirdre pulled the handkerchief she kept out and began wiping blood away. "You were gone for a while, Lydia. I didn't think you'd follow. Not that I'd blame you if you wanted some more fun in the aos sí." She smiled gratefully at her friend. "If you'd still like some fun, I'm sure I can steal someone's shower and a change of clothes. I don't really mind…" she slipped her knife away. "As long as I'm with you, my friend. That's the only place I'd like to be."

Deirdre was unnervingly unpredictable at times. It was extremely fae of her, perhaps more fae of her than Lydia, if they were both honest with themselves, but that didn’t change how unnerving it was to have heard just minutes ago (from Lydia’s perspective) that Deirdre wanted to make up for Emma’s death, only to watch her stab him, the blood immediately staining his soaked shirt, spreading faster through the cloth because it was already so sweat stained. She didn’t say anything as Deirdre made the promises, only stepping away to give Jerry a wide birth as he scampered away. Deirdre cleaned her knife methodically as Lydia walked over to her, concerned. She touched Deirdre’s muddy shoulder, careful to avoid the worst of the mud but also to offer reassurance. “I came right after you. I promise, I wasn’t trying to leave you with him. I’m so sorry, Deirdre. Especially for your dress and hair.” She smiled conspiratorially, and took Deirdre’s hand again. “Why don’t we go back to mine. You can shower, borrow one of my dresses… it’ll be a little short on your legs, but you have ever such nice legs, and then we can decide what we want to do for the rest of the evening.”

"Hey, I'm not mad at you about it, Lydia. Even if you were trying to leave me with him. I don't mind. You came out in the end after all, anyway. And you're here now, and that's what matters to me." Deirdre smiled, her anger had dissipated with the stabbing, and couldn't find a foothold under Lydia's reassurance. But there was...one thing she thought she might do anyway. With her free hand, she wiped up a glob of mud off her dress and held it. "Mhm, sounds great to me, friend." She grinned madly, holding up the mud. "You know, it'd be such a shame if I was the only one showering, right?" And with all the mischief of a fae, she chased Lydia around, threatening muddy demise.

#chatzy #wickedswriting #i sidhe you #c: lydia #this is wholesome time #WHOLESOME ACTIVITY ONLY #also i adopted the timing/summary layout because yOU KNOW WHAT IT IS BETTER #THE NON-EXISTENT PEER PRESSURE GOT TO ME #also lydia is good :/

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shikagemaru · 4 years

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Sometimes Tumblr is like a graveyard of ideas and fandoms. Dead fandoms are so intensely sad. You come across some art that really touches your heart and click on the links. "Based off of this fic ____, and this art___" but both links are dead. Those accounts don't even exist anymore and haven't for years. Then you realize that what you thought was brand new was just a ghost, calling to you through time. Community, ideas, in jokes and shared references, art, fiction, friends, the internet devours them all.

My first fandom was The Real Adventures of Johnny Quest. We had a group called JQHR and had message boards and chat rooms. I was just a kid and it hit me right where i lived. Other people liked, loved even, this thing i cared about. They like the characters too and have their own thoughts about them that they can share with me. I read my first fanfictions. The artists were people i could meet and talk to.

But we were based on the early aol message board and chat room systems. They changed and deleted. I lost my friends and my fandom. It never found purchase elsewhere. The show wasn't being renewed despite our petition. They were moving on.

I had Ronin Warriors and Gundam after that. I had friends again. We all loved the thing together. There were people who hated me for whatever reason they needed to hate me. But it was great. I had some of my closest relationships in my entire life because of Ronin Warriors. I even met new friends in real life because of it. Older friends. I'd never had older friends. But of course a half obscure anime can only sustain fans for so long.

Gundam Wing became a home for me. I nervously emailed a fanfiction author who, as far as I was concerned, was the most talented writer to ever exist. She went by Harmony Chan. Pretty hard to search for even on early internet. We became friends. I gushed all lver every new story. Then she just disappeared one day. No new fics. No online presence. I downloaded ICQ just to talk to her but she never signed on again.

I hope they're okay. I'll never know.

Years later I googled JQHR and found a result. It didn't lead me back to anyone I used to know. They were gone. Back into the forgotten places of the world.

I found that again because of Monster Hunter. We talked, we shared experiences and built a network of comrades. Friendships don't always last forever. Not when the servers shut down. Poof.

Bob and George webcomics.

Poof.

Avatar the Last Airbender.

Naruto.

Poof.

Sometimes I come across a ghost and suddenly I'm in that time and place all over again. Wonderful memories abound. Things I might not have thought about it in years fill me with joy for a few moments. Then I remember how many gray hairs I have now. Some names I remember, some I don't. There's no one else to ask but me. My heart soars for a second or so before it sinks. I wonder if the new generations will experience that.

Sometimes the people all go away and they take the fandom with them. Sometimes you see a ghost.

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nickburn · 4 years

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Art and the Artist in EDH

Most Commander players enjoy constraints in deck-building. Constraints give our decks creative and strategic focus while providing a lens for personal expression. One only needs to look at a chairs deck once to understand that constraints can be interesting problems to solve as well as fun talking points at the table. We’re already well-versed in navigating the 100-card singleton restriction and the nuances of color identity and multiplayer politics. How we navigate them is a series of personal choices we ultimately have to make for ourselves.

With Wizards of the Coast deciding not to work with Noah Bradley or Terese Nielsen anymore, Commander players now have an interesting new conundrum to think over: should I continue to run cards with art by these creators? For me, I think it’s worth the time to take these cards out of my decks and find replacements. In other mediums, it can be harder to separate art from the artist, and even worthwhile to explore how some innovative or groundbreaking works were created by problematic people. In magic, though, the art is not just what sits between the card name and the type line: it’s all the pieces of the card, from the frame, to the flavor text, to the mechanics, coming together to form a cohesive whole. Bradley’s and Nielsen’s art, while objectively beautiful, is also now a negative reminder of the people that made it, and that reminder is not entirely cohesive with the messages the rest of the game should strive to communicate. Recently, some cards with racist depictions have even been completely removed from the game, and I hope WotC continues this trend going forward.

So how do we go about finding alternatives for cards with Bradley’s and Nielsen’s art that we may be running already? Well, I’m going to tell you which offending cards I found in my own decks and the suitable replacements I’ve picked for them. Hopefully, you’ll have an idea of what you’d like to do with your own builds after you see what I’ve done here.

I currently own six commander decks built around these commanders: Ayula, Queen Among Bears; Niv-Mizzet Reborn; Princess Twilight Sparkle; Grenzo, Dungeon Warden; Zedruu the Greathearted; and Gavi, Nest Warden. My first concern when examining the decks for Bradley or Nielsen art was the commanders themselves. Thankfully, none of my commanders were painted by them. A quick Scryfall search shows us that Nielsen has created art for seven legendary creatures, and Bradley does not have art on any commanders at present.

Thankfully, for the two Akroma’s, gorgeous alternate versions of the art do exist and are cheap to acquire in a variety of card frames (I think I personally prefer the Angel of Wrath art by Chippy anyway). For Hanna, Ship’s Navigator, we have to go all the way back to Invasion to find the original art. Basandra, Ertai, Sydri, and Thromok, though, do not have other versions yet. Hopefully, they will see reprints someday. For now, I wouldn’t begrudge anyone for running them, as they all have unique niches in their colors, and I’d never want to ask someone to give up their favorite commander. If you do run them, though, you may want to consider commissioning an alternate art version from an independent creator, if that makes you more comfortable with playing them.

So that leaves the other 99 for each of my decks. For Ayula, I found that I was running a basic Forest of Bradley’s and Hunter’s Insight by Nielsen. The Forest is trivial to replace, and I already have a Fifth Edition one by David O’Connor I want to use from a Starter Deck I recently picked up. Hunter’s Insight is a good draw spell for the deck, for sure, but there is no shortage of those in green now. I just happen to have a Heartwood Storyteller lying around (art by Anthony S. Waters), so I’m going to slot that in for the same draw function. It’s a creature to boot, so it can pick up the deck’s equipment, and it might even make me some friends around the table. Ayula’s not a particularly group hug-y deck, but it couldn’t hurt, since most of the deck is creatures anyway.

For my Niv-Mizzet Reborn/Maze’s End deck, I was happy to see that I don’t have to worry about replacing any of the Gates or Maze’s End itself. I did place an additional constraint on the deck of only including cards from Ravnica sets, so it already doesn’t have as much wiggle room. But the only card I found to take out was Transguild Promenade by Bradley. I do hope it gets a reprint someday, but it’s honestly not that good of a card. I was mostly running it for flavor anyway, so I don’t feel too bad about putting in a Novijen, Heart of Progress that I have instead (art by Martina Pilcerova). This card is not optimal for a five-color deck, but it is flavorful. And I can always find something else later.

Princess Twilight Sparkle was running Nielsen’s Swords to Plowshares and Bradley’s Winds of Abandon. I’m replacing Swords with the original Path to Exile, since it basically does the same thing and I’ve always loved Todd Lockwood’s art for it. It also helps my opponents find lands if they’re mana screwed, which feels a little better than just giving them some life. Winds of Abandon is a lot harder to replace, since it’s still a new card and I was really looking forward to playing it. I could definitely see it getting reprinted soon, though, so I’m sticking in a Kirtar’s Wrath (art by the prolific Kev Walker) as an alternative board wipe with some upside.

My Grenzo deck was running Bradley’s version of Forgotten Cave and Nielsen’s Darksteel Pendant. Luckily, I still have an original Forgotten Cave from Onslaught, so that was easy to replace. I have a soft spot for Darksteel Pendant since there aren’t that many Darksteel cards, so I do hope WotC reprints this obscure common someday. Scry is an all too common ability now, though, so there’s no shortage of options. I’m slotting in a Conjurer’s Bauble (art by Darrell Riche), since it’s cheap utility and getting things from the graveyard to the bottom of the library is actually super great for Grenzo.

I recently bought Approach of the Second Sun for my Zedruu build (my long-time favorite commander deck), so I’m the most sad to see this one go. The card has become a commander staple since it was printed, as it’s a great alternate win condition for white. It’s especially great in Zedruu, which doesn’t have many other ways to close out games. I’m replacing it with Sphinx’s Tutelage (art by Slawomir Maniak) as a way to mill someone out, although there’s really no replacement for Second Sun. I was going to take out Bradley’s Leyline of Anticipation in favor of another Fifth Edition card, Ray of Command, but then I realized Ray’s Fifth Ed. art was created by known neo-Nazi Harold McNeill, the artist behind the infamous Invoke Prejudice. So I’m going with Dack’s Duplicate instead (art by Karl Kopinski).

Finally, my newest deck is headed by Gavi, Nest Warden, which really likes to have Forgotten Cave and Lonely Sandbar to function. Since I don’t have another Forgotten Cave or Heather Hudson’s version of Lonely Sandbar at the moment, I’m just slotting in a Fifth Edition Mountain and Island (art by John Avon and J.W. Frost respectively). That just leaves Bradley’s Spirit Cairn to take out, which isn’t a particularly stellar card anyway. So another Fifth Edition card, Forget (art by Mike Kimble), is going in instead. It’s cool to have some targeted discard in blue, so it can either trigger Gavi or disrupt an opponent’s hand in a pinch.

And that’s all of my decks updated! Phew.

This is a game and a format I love and want to continue to share with others. I think that can only happen as long as the space we provide for new players is kind and inviting. Bigotry and harassment have no place in games or elsewhere. So by ditching some of these potentially-problematic symbols, my hope is that it makes Magic a little safer for everyone.

If you stuck with me this long, thank you for reading!

You can follow more of my thoughts on Twitter @NCBurnham.

Be kind and stay safe out there. <3

#edh #commander #magic #deckbuilding #art

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mostlysignssomeportents · 5 years

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Mint: late-stage adversarial interoperability demonstrates what we had (and what we lost)

In 2006, Aaron Patzer founded Mint. Patzer had grown up in the city of Evansville, Indiana—a place he described as "small, without much economic opportunity"—but had created a successful business building websites. He kept up the business through college and grad school and invested his profits in stocks and other assets, leading to a minor obsession with personal finance that saw him devoting hours every Saturday morning to manually tracking every penny he'd spent that week, transcribing his receipts into Microsoft Money and Quicken.

Patzer was frustrated with the amount of manual work it took to track his finances with these tools, which at the time weren't smart enough to automatically categorize "Chevron" under fuel or "Safeway" under groceries. So he conceived on an ingenious hack: he wrote a program that would automatically look up every business name he entered into the online version of the Yellow Pages—constraining the search using the area code in the business's phone number so it would only consider local merchants—and use the Yellow Pages' own categories to populate the "category" field in his financial tracking tools.

It occurred to Patzer that he could do even better, which is where Mint came in. Patzer's idea was to create a service that would take all your logins and passwords for all your bank, credit union, credit card, and brokerage accounts, and use these logins and passwords to automatically scrape your financial records, and categorize them to help you manage your personal finances. Mint would also analyze your spending in order to recommend credit cards whose benefits were best tailored to your usage, saving you money and earning the company commissions.

By international standards, the USA has a lot of banks: around 12,000 when Mint was getting started (in the US, each state gets to charter its own banks, leading to an incredible, diverse proliferation of financial institutions). That meant that for Mint to work, it would have to configure its scrapers to work with thousands of different websites, each of which was subject to change without notice.

If the banks had been willing to offer an API, Mint's job would have been simpler. But despite a standard format for financial data interchange called OFX (Open Financial Exchange), few financial institutions were offering any way for their customers to extract their own financial data. The banks believed that locking in their users' data could work to their benefit, as the value of having all your financial info in one place meant that once a bank locked in a customer for savings and checking, it could sell them credit cards and brokerage services. This was exactly the theory that powered Mint, with the difference that Mint wanted to bring your data together from any financial institution, so you could shop around for the best deals on cards, banking, and brokerage, and still merge and manage all your data.

At first, Mint contracted with Yodlee, a company that specialized in scraping websites of all kinds, combining multiple webmail accounts with data scraped from news sites and other services in a single unified inbox. When Mint outgrew Yodlee's services, it founded a rival called Untangly, locking a separate team in a separate facility that never communicated with Mint directly, in order to head off any claims that Untangly had misappropriated Yodlee's proprietary information and techniques—just as Phoenix computing had created a separate team to re-implement the IBM PC ROMs, creating an industry of "PC clones."

Untangly created a browser plugin that Mint's most dedicated users would use when they logged into their banks. The plugin would prompt them to identify elements of each page in the bank's websites so that the scraper for that site could figure out how to parse the bank's site and extract other users' data on their behalf.

To head off the banks' countermeasures, Untangly maintained a bank of cable-modems and servers running "headless" versions of Internet Explorer (a headless browser is one that runs only in computer memory, without drawing the actual browser window onscreen) and they throttled the rate at which the scripted interactions on these browsers ran, in order to make it harder for the banks to determine which of its users were Mint scrapers acting on behalf of its customers and which ones were the flesh-and-blood customers running their own browsers on their own behalf.

As the above implies, not every bank was happy that Mint was allowing its customers to liberate their data, not least because the banks' winner-take-all plan was for their walled gardens to serve as reasons for customers to use their banks for everything, in order to get the convenience of having all their financial data in one place.

Some banks sent Mint legal threats, demanding that they cease-and-desist from scraping customer data. When this happened, Mint would roll out its "nuclear option"—an error message displayed to every bank customer affected by these demands informing them that their bank was the reason they could no longer access their own financial data. These error messages would also include contact details for the relevant decision-makers and customer-service reps at the banks. Even the most belligerent bank's resolve weakened in the face of calls from furious customers who wanted to use Mint to manage their own data.

In 2009, Mint became a division of Intuit, which already had a competing product with a much larger team. With the merged teams, they were able to tackle the difficult task of writing custom scrapers for the thousands of small banks they'd been forced to sideline for want of resources.

Adversarial interoperability is the technical term for a tool or service that works with ("interoperates" with) an existing tool or service—without permission from the existing tool's maker (that's the "adversarial" part).

Mint's story is a powerful example of adversarial interoperability: rather than waiting for the banks to adopt standards for data-interchange—a potentially long wait, given the banks' commitment to forcing their customers into treating them as one-stop-shops for credit cards, savings, checking, and brokerage accounts—Mint simply created the tools to take its users' data out of the bank's vaults and put it vaults of the users' choosing.

Adversarial interoperability was once commonplace. It's a powerful way for new upstarts to unseat the dominant companies in a market—rather than trying to convince customers to give up an existing service they rely on, an adversarial interoperator can make a tool that lets users continue to lean on the existing services, even as they chart a path to independence from those services.

But stories like Mint are rare today, thanks to a sustained, successful campaign by the companies that owe their own existence to adversarial interoperability to shut it down, lest someone do unto them as they had done unto the others.

Thanks to decades of lobbying and lawsuits, we've seen a steady expansion of copyright rules, software patents (though these are thankfully in retreat today), enforceable terms-of-service and theories about "interference with contract" and "tortious interference."

These have grown to such an imposing degree that big companies don't necessarily need to send out legal threats or launch lawsuits anymore—the graveyard of new companies killed by these threats and suits is scary enough that neither investors nor founders have much appetite for risking it.

For Mint to have launched when it did, and done as well as it did, tells us that adversarial interoperability may be down, but it's not out. With the right legal assurances, there are plenty of entrepreneurs and investors who'd happily provide users with the high-tech ladders they need to scale the walled gardens that Big Tech has imprisoned them within.

The Mint story also addresses an important open question about adversarial interoperability: if we give technologists the right to make these tools, will they work? After all, today's tech giants have entire office-parks full of talented programmers. Can a new market entrant hope to best them in the battle of wits that plays out when they try to plug some new systems into Big Tech's existing ones?

The Mint experience points out that attackers always have an advantage over defenders. For the banks to keep Mint out, they'd have to have perfect scraper-detection systems. For Mint to scrape the banks' sites, they only need to find one flaw in the banks' countermeasures.

Mint also shows how an incumbent company's own size works against it when it comes to shutting out competitors. Recall that when a bank decided to send its lawyers after Mint, Mint was able to retaliate by recruiting the bank's own customers to blast it for that decision. The more users Mint had, the more complaints it would generate—and the bigger a bank was, the more customers it had to become Mint users, and defenders of Mint's right to scrape the bank's site.

It's a neat lesson about the difference between keeping out malicious hackers versus keeping out competitors. If a "bad guy" was attacking the bank's site, it could pull out all the stops to shut the activity down: lawsuits, new procedures for users to follow, even name-and-shame campaigns against the bad actor.

But when a business attacks a rival that is doing its own customers' bidding, its ability to do so has to be weighed against the ill will it will engender with those customers, and the negative publicity this kind of activity will generate. Consider that Big Tech platforms claim billions of users—that's a huge pool of potential customers for adversarial interoperators who promise to protect those users from Big Tech's poor choices and exploitative conduct!

This is also an example of how "adversarial interoperability" can peacefully co-exist with privacy protection: it's not hard to see how a court could distinguish between a company that gets your data from a company's walled garden at your request so that you can use it, and a company that gets your data without your consent and uses it to attack you.

Mint's pro-competitive pressure made banks better, and gave users more control. But of course, today Mint is a division of Intuit, a company mired in scandal over its anticompetitive conduct and regulatory capture, which have allowed it to subvert the Free File program that should give millions of Americans access to free tax-preparation services.

Imagine if an adversarial interoperator were to enter the market today with a tool that auto-piloted its users through the big tax-prep companies' sites to get them to Free File tools that would actually work for them (as opposed to tricking them into expensive upgrades, often by letting them get all the way to the end of the process before revealing that something about the user's tax situation makes them ineligible for that specific Free File product).

Such a tool would be instantly smothered with legal threats, from "tortious interference" to hacking charges under the Computer Fraud and Abuse Act. And yet, these companies owe their size and their profits to exactly this kind of conduct.

Creating legal protections for adversarial interoperators won't solve all our problems of market concentration, regulatory capture, and privacy violations—but giving users the right to control how they interact with the big services would certainly open a space where technologists, co-ops, entrepreneurs and investors could help erode the big companies' dominance, while giving the public a better experience and a better deal.

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/12/mint-late-stage-adversarial-interoperability-demonstrates-what-we-had-and-what-we

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gayregis · 5 years

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sleipnirlo replied to your post “bro if im this petty about how they treat dandelion think about how...”

I feel you friend - from what we've got already, whatever they're doing to Dandelion/Jaskier seems... not ideal, to put it gracefully, and it pains me quite a bit, but if/when they get to Regis... considering the pain in my heart during some parts of b&w, having in mind that I generally believe cdpr's interpretation to be proper (aside from some jarring mistakes) it's going to be a completely another level of ridiculousness on my part; like,, I know it's most probably not possible for the show to meet my standards, but pls... just... get SOMETHING right...

I came to feel so protective of this particular vampire, and people not familiar with the books knowing him as a caricature of himself fills me with dread

tbh my main hope for regis if/when they get to him is that they don’t shy away from making him complicated. he’s kind, also ominous, also funnie … to summarize: shitty old bitch.

b&w did this thing where they just made regis a very solemn character and also made him closer to the typical arrogant immortal which was just ooc imho... and then they created a new plotline that revolved around him being Uncontrollably Violent for a few seconds which.......... like i just found it SO disrespectful to how regis’s backstory is an analogy for alcoholism/addiction in general........ they literally did the opposite of humanizing him, they uh... monsterfied him?

regis’s entire character (like geralt’s, and also the rest of the hansa’s) is about paradox and logistical impossibilities. if you’re this, you can’t be that -- but he’s both, for some fucking reason, he defies logic.

regis is supposed to thread this weird line of what is man and what is monster, and if you’re kind for a century does that make up for three centuries of absolute cruelty? what does it mean to act honorably? at what point can you feel safe and trust someone?

one thing i appreciate about regis’s character is that he’s always just seemed to go BEYOND his context in the fictional world he exists in. at the end of the day, these characters are not the people we love them to be, but rather messages about what ARE good and evil, what IS humanity, and other deep questions the witcher loves to tackle. within the books, i got a VERY clear sense of how regis as a character was answering these questions and the kind of messages sapkowski was trying to communicate with him. same with the rest of the hansa, in fact. that’s... why... the hansa and ciri and yennefer are my favorites...

to contrast, in blood & wine, i didn’t get this sense of existing beyond the context of the media at all. cdpr just wanted cool vampires which is fine, but the elements of the books are lost because they just gave them up

(wow this got long sorry! i just wanted to explain my thought process behind this list im about to give)

as for netflix.............. i don’t necessarily think that regis is easy or difficult to cover. but IN MY OPINION nailing these things would help out regis’s character the best:

we should feel safe. one of the things that struck me so hard when reading baptism of fire was how much i initially trusted regis when they found him in that stupid graveyard, despite being well-familiar with the adage of “stranger danger.” he just seemed safe to me.

this is probably because of how eloquent he is and how omniscient he has the ability to come off as..... so good writing for his dialogue that captures his superfluous nature, that isn’t just what cdpr did where “funny smart guy use big words unnecessarily” ... no, you need to put effort into it by having him use words of an intermediate vocabulary, but using them in such a way as to philosophize about everything and anything that comes up.

this also relies heavily on how regis delivers his lines when they first meet him. all of his dialogue cues are like, “said softly,” “said gently.” there’s NO aggression, no harm in this man. no reason to fear him.

the atmosphere of his cottage should really communicate this wonderful sense of bucolic bliss, as it were.... the intoxicating heavy scent of herbs... the only lighting in the cottage being fro a pot-bellied stove........ remember, geralt describes this as having could have come directly from a fairytale. in contrast, fen carn should feel ominous, until his appearance.

costume design! don’t forget the apron wrapped around his black coat, please! who can fear a man in an apron?

we should feel suspicious. we SHOULD still feel like he’s harboring some kind of dark secret, though.

there are so many little clues and points in baptism of fire that hint at his identity, that just should NOT be cut out or overlooked: him being able to detect the healing brokilon medicines in geralt’s sweat, when he refuses the drink politely and says softly, “it’s a matter of principle. i never violate the principles i set for myself,” the dipping into a conversation to name every type of vampire that exists......... the sense that he knows just a little too much to be only who he says he is.

cahir and dandelion making guesses as to who he ‘really’ is shouldn’t be cut out, either. i think their guesses are conduits for the audience to attach onto as we make our own guesses and theories within this short amount of time.

we should feel fear. oh so cdpr wanted crazy ass vampires? well don’t worry, because regis is a crazy ass vampire. but how to get this through to the audience, when he’s not off his shits anymore because it’s the 13th century and not the 9th? it’s going to need to come mostly from geralt.

they should emphasize the tension in the scene by the yaruga where geralt has his blade to regis’s throat by having geralt’s lines be delivered in a very precise, careful manner. he shouldn’t be furious and dripping with adrenaline, ready to fight regis. he needs to be wary, conserved. we need to sense apprehension to engage in conflict, because he knows that he would likely lose the fight... which will freak the audience out, because asides from that bit with djikstra, geralt up until this point has been pretty powerful and undefeated, i mean we just saw him cleave his way through a fuckton of scoiatel at thanedd (that bit with torque in edge of the world was more for comedic relief imho)

on a related note, the scene where milva and dandelion have doubts about regis and ask geralt for advice, and geralt answers with a laundry list of all the things regis can do and says for himself that he doesn’t know if he could kill him....... that shouldn’t be cut and should strike some fear into our hearts.

regis shouldn’t be devoid of humor. he has his own sense of weird humor...

please keep the fucking pun in: “the immortal soul (...) abandons the stinking carcass and spirits away, forgive the pun.” i think this demonstrates how he has this kind of skewed sense of humor, that serious philosophical topics aren’t dull to him... rather they are exciting and full of riveting debate and also, jokes

that really long conversation with geralt where he concludes with “but i’ll give you some advice anyways: life differs from banking somewhat,” and in the fish soup scene where he really makes fun of geralt as well... but really the whole company should do this

don’t make him an asshole

he should be self-sacrificing for humanity. he should protect the girl in the refugee camp with the utmost conviction... i think this part is kind of easier because regis’s pure actions in the books are enough to demonstrate how committed to humanity he is, unlike cdpr which just made shit up and it went sour because their shit was all like “oh haha humans are so weak and i dont get why they dislike death :/”

tldr: don’t cut shit because even the smallest details add to the larger picture, make a cool atmosphere, paradox of safety and fear. you’re welcome

#sleipnirlo #replies #regis #the witcher netflix #this post basicaly answers the 'what are your hopes and fears for twn regis :3' wonderful question that ive gotten a bit #long post /

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kunoichi-ume · 5 years

Photo

May Drabbles, Day 15

Prompt: awake without them (Anticipation)

Characters: Jedi Dina Volezz and Sith Prince Ari Drellik (who belongs to @cinlat who made the beautiful banner)

Word Count: 1536

Dina pulled her knees to her chest as she huddled against the headboard of her bed. It was late, enough that everyone else was asleep. During the day it was hard to imagine the Zakuulian palace ever being silent, between the constant guard shifts, the twins’ antics and the sounds of someone training – because there was always someone training – the background of the palace was a constant source of the white noise that comforted her so.

Then night would come, and everything seemed to stop. The guard changes were quieter and the large, eclectic royal family retired for the night.

On nights like tonight it was torture. The silence. It was like going back to those dark days when her world was defined by silence, by her inability to communicate with anyone. Days when her mother would shove her away if she approached her and father’s eyes glanced over her like she didn’t exist. The only comfort in her life was her big sister, Rasiel, who comforted her when she was hurt and snuck her medications when she was sick.

The older girl had even tried to teach her to read, but that was mostly a lost cause until she got her hearing implants. After leaving their parent’s home, Rasiel had almost never left her side. She alone knew how the silence terrified Dina.

Even Ari didn’t know how these nights weighed on her. Until Rasiel had moved into Nuada’s room recently, they had shared one, so she could fall asleep to the sound of her sister’s breathing. It was a reassuring sound, one reminding her that she wasn’t trapped in that soundless hell and that she wasn’t alone.

Tracing her finger in mindless circles on her kneecap, Dina hummed softly. The sound of her own voice was the best she could do at the moment, unless she wanted to sneak out of the palace. It was tempting and if she didn’t have one of her fevers she might have. Instead she was restricted to her bed, in a room far too large for one person, in a palace that sounded like a graveyard.

“Why’d you have to move out Ras?” She whispered in the darkness, even though she knew exactly why. Her sister loved the crown prince, they were even speaking of marriage. It wasn’t fair to continue to cling to her anymore. Their entire lives Ras had been the responsible one, the strong one, the one that made sure they had a place to sleep and food to eat.

Then there were the countless times she had tended to Dina while she was sick. When the doctors found her heart problems and the poor condition of her health was finally discovered to be birth defects from alcohol. Their mother drank like an Imperial sailor and being pregnant with her second child hadn’t stopped her from reaching for a bottle at every opportunity.

A sob worked its way up her throat as she realized this was her future. Ras wouldn’t share a room with her again, not as a married woman – and that was one sound she did not need to hear no matter her fears – and for almost half of every day cycle on Zakuul she would drown in silent misery.

Pushing her loose hair out of the way, Dina cupped her ears angrily. “Why couldn’t you just work,” she snarled into the stillness, both venting her frustration and soothing her paranoia, “why even grow ears if they won’t do anything?”

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she shook, her quiet sobs deafening against the silence around her. She wanted, desperately, to go to her sister and take whatever comfort she could get, but it would be selfish to wake her. Dina had even temporarily blocked their force bond as soon as she felt Ras fall asleep, a habit she had picked up in the first few days since the room change occurred. She was determined to stop holding her older sister back from having her own life.

Another ragged sob escaped her a moment before she heard a knock on her door and froze.

“Dina?” She squeaked when Ari’s muffled voice came through the door. “Are you awake?”

Slowly, Dina unfolded her legs and pushed herself off the bed. The room spun slightly as she came to her feet and she braced herself against the bedpost for a moment before making her way to the door. Stopping to make sure her hair was covering her ears, she opened it slowly, she peeked out to see outside her room.

“Oh Dina, do you have a fever again?”

While him immediately knowing she was sick was disheartening, she must look a mess, the genuine concern in his voice made her smile. It was still such a novelty, hearing that in another voice besides her sister’s. “It’s just a mild one,”

Placing his hand against the door, Ari slowly pushed it open further so he could cup her cheek with his other hand. Brushing her tears away with his thumb, he frowned, “then why were you crying?”

“It’s nothing,” Dina said with a sigh as she stepped away from the door. Hit by a sudden wave of dizziness, she stumbled, and Ari caught her.

“Alright, let’s get you back to bed sweetie.” Supporting her with an arm around her waist, Ari helped her back across the room to her bed. Once he had her lying back down, properly on the fluffy pillows and covered in a warm blanket, he sat on the side of the bed next to her. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

Sniffing, Dina turned her head away from him. “It’s really not important.”

“Hey now,” Ari said softly, lying down on his side next to her and turning her face to look at him, “anything that can make you cry is important to me.”

Dina wasn’t sure if it was her fever or her heart condition, but she could have sworn her pulse skipped a beat at his words. She hadn’t wanted to bother anyone else with her problems, but when he looked at her with those beautiful green eyes, she couldn’t deny him. “It’s too quiet,” she said, “it’s like before, when there was no sound.”

Ari frowned, “it was pretty bad back then wasn’t it?”

With how little she had told him about her childhood, she couldn’t blame him for asking. She was ashamed of how much those days affected her still and telling someone who grew up loved and cherished that her parents hated her? That she was definitely not brave enough to do.

Wiping away the fresh tear on her cheek, Ari leaned over and kissed her forehead. “You don’t have to answer that, I’m sorry.”

Dina caught his hand, lacing her fingers between his, and smiled softly. “Please don’t apologize for those people, you’re nothing like them.”

“Good, I’d hate to make you feel like that. So, silence is hard to deal with?”

“I know it’s silly,” Dina sighed, turning her head to stare at the ceiling, “it’s just so hard not to be scared. Implants are imperfect, you know? Someday these are going to stop working and my world is going to be silent again.”

“Dina look at me,” Ari said, waiting until she turned her face down to meet his gaze. “I swear to you, that is not going to happen. If something happens to your implants, we will get them repaired or replaced. Zakuul has the best medical tech in the galaxy, I want to take care of you. Just let me.”

“Thank you, Ari,” Dina smiled softly even while her heart hurt. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate and adore him for what he said, and even more so because she believed him, but just once she wanted to be strong enough not to be a burden on the few people she loved. She was such a mess that Ras was just barely starting to have a life that didn’t revolve around her little sister and now it was like that caretaker position was being foisted onto him.

Fingers carding gently through her hair brought her thoughts back to the moment, to the feel of Ari’s weight on the bed next to her and – most importantly – to the gentle sound of his breathing. It was a soft, comforting sound and filled the silence and settled her nerves.

Dina didn’t want to spend her whole life relying on others, but maybe it would be okay just for tonight. Scooting closer, she wrapped her arm around his waist. “Would you stay with me? I can’t sleep in the silence.”

“I can stay,” he answered right away, before frowning, “has it like that every night? Not sleeping I mean?”

“Since Ras moved out,” Dina nodded, head laid against his chest where she could listen to his heartbeat, “being able to hear her breathing helps.”

Ari wrapped his arms around her and settled more comfortably in the bed. “We can’t have that, not sleeping is going to keep you sick,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “According to Nuada I can even promise to snore in your ear.”

Dina smiled at the thought, “that sounds perfect.”

#swtor #Ari Drellik #OC: Dina Volezz #whydidwedothis #May Drabbles '19 #My writing

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purkinje-effect · 5 years

Text

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 37

Table of Contents. Second Instar, Chapter 4. Go to previous. Go to next. TWs: lascivious themes, insects, blood, coprophobia, mysophobia, decomposition. It’s not as explicit as the nosedive or the short story, but he’s revisiting the memory of those things here so.

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Now that the sun had set, little light entered the clubhouse’s lounge lobby through the high paneled windows to either side of the back wall behind the bar or the broken windows at the front. At first, ‘Choly had made his way by the sound of Bogey and Angel chatting, but they fell quiet once he exited the locker room and 'Choly instead came up to the bar by the light the two Mister Handy robots’ thruster flames emitted. He sat at one of the stools with a tired smile, and hooked his cane beside him on the edge of the countertop.

“I hope the change of attire suits you,” Bogey started, to break the silence. ‘Choly looked between the two of them and nodded. “You really must forgive my poor hosting. I was programmed as the bar and grill server, but it’s all bar and no grill as of late. Could I interest you in a drink? I regret to note we’re out of ice at the moment.”

Angel answered on his behalf before he could even consider cocktail options.

“Mister Carey, a Nuka-Cola Wild sounds to your liking, doesn’t it?”

'Choly would have rolled his eyes and objected to the euphemism for a designated driver, were it not for the irony that Angel had still not noticed that he had sampled at least three flavors of bicentennial Nuka-Cola and discovered they’d each turned alcoholic. But, he hadn’t encountered the sarsaparilla flavored variety in mention in the past few months, so although he had a suspicion it too would have fermented, he couldn’t confirm it from personal experience.

“We’re fresh out of Nuka-Cola Wild, I’m afraid,” the brass Handy apologized, believing its patron to be making up his mind as to what to order. “If you’d like something non-alcoholic, could I interest you instead in a Nuka-Cola Classic, or a Nuka-Cola Cherry?”

The chemist gave it a sloppy grin.

“You’re really too kind, Bogey. You don’t need to provide me dinner. I’ve already eaten tonight. Angel has the right idea. A Nuka-Cola Cherry sounds refreshing.”

While pouring the Nuka-Cola Cherry into a highball glass using two pincer tendrils, with the third Bogey surreptitiously flicked on the fusion cell lantern on the counter. The bar area illuminated with a warm coppery glow, and highlighted the myriad of dents in the chassis of the brass Handy. It set the glass in front of ‘Choly, as well as the bottle of what wouldn’t fit, and awaited his approval in bated posture.

“Thanks for the drink. Really hits the spot.” He sighed comfortably. “And thanks for turning on some light. My eyesight isn’t so great anymore.”

Bogey flinched, only to loosen, accepting the gratitude.

“You’ll be staying the night, then?” it fielded at a caution.

“If it’s all right with you, that is.” He took another drink. “You wouldn’t happen to have a straw, would you?”

It provided without skipping a beat, and he smiled approvingly as he fidgeted with the bending section. A straw made it so much easier.

“I suppose you could put down a bed roll behind the bar, or in the corner. Or, if it’s no trouble to you, there is a couch in the ladies’ locker room. We’ve no other patrons on the premises, and haven’t for many years, so I don’t think it would create any fuss.”

This time ‘Choly flinched, but recovered quickly enough to conceal the cause of the discomfort in Bogey’s proposition. He’d sooner admit loathing the idea of sleeping on yet another couch, than that he took exception to the furniture’s location. No, he couldn’t ask either of them to move it, either, because then they might ask why.

“Is this the only lantern?” ‘Choly asked it. “I wouldn’t ask to borrow it, if you need it.”

A little too readily, it nearly foisted the lantern upon him.

“It is! But, neither I nor Angel need it, if you’re so inclined.”

Bogey’s nervousness didn’t go unnoticed. He put a hand to the pincer holding the handle, and looked into its ocular lenses in earnest.

“You’re doing an amazing job. Really. Provided everything that’s happened, I’m still getting the same quality of service as I always have coming here.”

Bogey set down the lantern. It withdrew all its tendrils in close and turned away from him a moment, before glancing back to him by turning its lenses and not its body.

“...I’m glad to have your vote of confidence, Sir. It’s really been far too long since I’ve hosted anyone. You’re the first civil person I’ve encountered in easily a hundred years.”

“I can’t imagine there’s many people left with interest in playing golf, let alone knowledge how to play. The Commonwealth’s always had love affair with baseball, really. I always preferred fairway over diamond. Quiet. Broad. ...Cathartic. A real head space sport.”

“We shall see about arranging you with a bucket in the morning, if you so desire it, Sir. From the sound of things, you could really use a quiet commune."

“I’ve been telling Bogey about the recent series of scraps we’ve found ourselves in, Sir,” Angel elucidated, a little sheepishly. “It’s just I worry for you.”

“As long as you haven’t been exaggerating and telling Bogey I took out that deathclaw all by myself, or any of that,” ‘Choly laughed. He poured the rest of the bottle into the glass now that it had the room. “That couch already beckons. The day has already tried me.”

“It’s been trying for sure,” Angel agreed like a grammarian. “I’ll go lay out your blanket and pillow.”

“And my holotape, if you could,” ‘Choly called off to him once it was halfway to the lockers. “You know the one.”

“Ah yes. A bedtime story. Certainly, Sir!”

‘Choly left the empty glass for Bogey. He nearly reached into his pocket for a tip, but stopped short of the thought process at the realization that in lieu of human coworkers, a Mister Handy had no real use for money. His mouth became a thin line before he shot the brass Handy a huge grin and patted both hands on the counter. Even if it asked for money, he couldn’t in good conscience follow through with that habituation when he’d since learned better of the current economy of the Commonwealth. He stood and took up his cane, and picked up the lantern in the other.

“I must figure out a proper way to repay you for your hospitality before we head out, Bogey. Good night.”

“Oh, it’s quite all right, Sir. If it’s important to you, we can discuss it tomorrow. The only thing pressing at the moment is that you rest well.”

“With the two of you here, I’ll sleep easy for sure.”

“Mister Carey, I’ve arranged your bedding,” Angel reported emerging again from the lockers. “I’ll be right here in the lounge lobby, protecting you and Bogey. Just call for me if you need anything.”

At the mention of Bogey, he turned back to look at the brass Handy, to discover it had put out its pilot light to crouch on its tendrils through the night. His head fell askew as he continued on his way to bed, but he chalked it up to it reserving Handy Fuel. He snapped his fingers. Maintenance. He could provide Bogey maintenance. It’d be nothing as fancy as he’d given Angel, without the proper tools or materials, but surely Bogey had gone decades if not centuries without a re-fuel and a tune up. That would serve the Handy bounds before any currency ever could, especially one isolated in the middle of a large abandoned golfing green.

The ladies’ locker room had fewer lockers and more space. Angel had left not just the ‘Flyblown’ holotape on the coffee table, but also a canister of water, and he set down his glasses and the lantern with them. He’d leave on the light throughout the night, just for sake of it being an unfamiliar location. 'Choly toed his shoes under the faded dark blue leather couch, settled down onto it, and pulled the covers over himself. Since the couch’s arms still had most of their filling, he opted to stuff the pillow between his legs. He popped the holotape into his Pip-Boy’s cassette deck and set to reading to unwind amid the heavy low of the final Melancholia and the slurring comfort of intoxication.

The notion of scandalizing bloatfly syringe usage had rotted into an entirely different context since the conception of the work of fiction. It had been his go-to escapism off and on for months now, but he hadn’t reread it since before he’d escaped the burning pharmacy. Bloatfly syringes no longer exclusively existed in fictional parameters. He’d seen what they were capable of in reality. He found himself glazing over every few paragraphs and having to reread frequently, and ultimately closed the document and turned off the Pip-Boy screen.

‘Choly stared off into the recessed detailing of the ceiling, and how the lantern light, trapped in the crumbling edges of the peeling paint, created the illusion of a pile of dead leaves. He’d dodged death more times than he probably knew in just the last week alone. He could have burned alive in the pharmacy. Jared’s raiders could have caught him and murdered him for killing their leader. The deathclaw could have torn every last one of them apart. Radiation poisoning would have gotten him, if Angel hadn’t found him in the Red Rocket. They could have been blown to bits in that car graveyard. And if that giant mosquito had stabbed him in the chest even an inch further down, it would have pierced his heart. It seemed like just about anything in the wasteland could kill him, and a majority of it would kill him without hesitation.

Inspiration lay in wait all around him. He’d have to get more creative with his bucket list erotica, next time he penned any. Even in the slim chance that Mama Murphy hadn’t explicitly spoken the future into the present, it at least proved he could endeavor that his works act as a form of vicarious self-fulfilling prophecy. He drifted to sleep floating amid the notion that very little stood in the way of fiction becoming reality any longer. He need only apply himself...

‘Choly completed his rooftop chem break for the afternoon, and retired to his office garden to sow a fresh layer of fertilizer. The next thing he knew, he was coming up for air after having his face shoved down in the gardening planter full of brahmin manure. His head swam and swirled with kaleidoscoping hubflowers and flies. Eventually he was washing himself in the Mystic River while Angel laundered his clothing, chastising him all the while as though it believed he’d taken that nosedive on purpose. “Did you intend for that encounter to end your life?” If it’d had a tongue, it’d have clicked it in distaste. A cloud of bloodbugs swarmed him as Angel fish-eyed further and further out of reach. They jabbed him and sprayed his naked body with his own partly-digested blood. The Quincy survivors stood on the opposite bank, staring at him. He tried to cry out for his Mister Handy, but it minded the laundry. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it, Mister Kara?”

He was in the Red Rocket with Jacob again, fucking on the desk. He clawed for breath in a panic as the familiarity of acute radiation poisoning overwhelmed him. Bloatfly larvae packed into the feral ghoul’s fetid features, and they fell off and out of the ghoul and onto ‘Choly. Rather than lingering, they fell off into the floor and all over the desk, seeking to crawl back onto feral ghoul. Tears rolled down his face between the pain and rejection, and he could tell the mosquitoes had infected him with something that caused him acute, rapid swelling in his lower half. He realized the recoolant station office was crowded with other faces, all as rotten and disfigured but just as recognizable as Jacob’s. All of them teemed with those diligent lichinka, in wriggling indifference to ‘Choly. Jared. Mrs. Rosa. Heydar Jahani. Gristle, Lonnie, and Jerry. Jerry, in her power armor frame, with her Fatman perched squarely on her shoulder, ready to fire on him.

He shot awake when Jerry pulled the trigger, and gasped amid smoke. The pharmacy was on fire, and Angel was nowhere to be found. His legs had become so swollen, tight, and stiff, that he couldn’t move. He pulled his face into his shirt collar, and couldn’t stop coughing. A woman in ornate sheer lace lingerie stood before him, rubenesque and redheaded in silhouette of the flames behind her. She administered a Stimpak syringe to her hip and sneered at him with a sustained stare. He knew it was Duchesne, but he didn’t have the breath to call out to her. Stocking-foot and disinterested in the fire, she approached him out of pity. In closer proximity, he recognized she had succumbed to the same flyblown putrescence as the others. “You always wanted to know what the Stimpaks were for, didn’t you?” She administered another, and discarded the empty syringe to the floor. The fold of her thighs roiled with lichinka beneath her panties. “It’s so they don’t leave before they finish what they’re here for.” Duchesne traced a third Stimpak from ‘Choly’s jaw down to his stomach, and he stuttered. Her lip curled in revulsion. Both of them could tell the larvae would not contour to his body despite hers came in proximity. “Not even Radroaches would eat you.”

'Choly awoke hyperventilating in a fever chill. He steadied his breathing as he opened the health tab on his Pip-Boy to double-check it had not sensed blood pathogens of any kind during its diagnosis. No malaria, no filariasis. No bacteria, viruses, or parasites. His tongue stuck to his cotton mouth and he frowned, reaching for the water canister. Sitting up, he wet his throat then washed his face. The sun had risen, and filtered in through the clerestory windows which lined the top of the wall at the half of the locker room with the lavatories and showers. He turned off the lantern, then folded up his blanket.

Like the men’s locker room, the ladies’ lockers had also all been left open, with the patrons’ clothing folded neatly. He skimmed their contents, half-lucid, and realized only in contrast to the women’s garments, what had been missing from the men’s lockers. He helped himself to any socks and stockings he found, as well as a geranium red cashmere sweater. No valuables of any kind lay in either set of lockers: no money, no jewelry, no timepieces. If this place had been looted, the clothing wouldn’t have been folded so ceremoniously. Bogey must have combed it over and deposited all valuables in a safe somewhere on premises. He caught himself scheming whether he needed to sneak around Bogey to determine the safe’s location, and chastised himself for even thinking about taking advantage of such a good host. He put his hands on a pair of lacy black panties and guffawed in delight at the very thought of wearing them, only to jerk in recollection of the nightmare he’d just had, and he flung them down with a nauseated snarl.

He piled his things, old and new, atop the blanket, and carried his effects in this way across the way to the men’s room, where he’d left everything else overnight. He found Angel had slung his canvas spinal corset and Vault Suit over the locker doors to dry, and stared at the blood stains for some time. After pinching the fabrics to test their dryness, he disrobed, slipped on his orthotics, and redressed. He appreciated how tacky it was, to wear one striped sock and one argyle. One mirror in the men’s room had survived, and with it he used a few splashes of water to slick his hair and tuck it into a fresh french twist.

The chemist cursed his initial craving to start his day with a Melancholia, recalling he now had none left. He couldn’t tell if he sought the comfort of the meal replacement, or the nepenthe of the opiates. With a sigh, he opted for the cashmere sweater rather than the sweater vest, and folded the contrast cuffs over the cuffs of the sweater. He then put on his shoes, and went out into the lobby lounge with his cane.

“Good morning, Sir!” Angel sped up to him with a fresh cup of coffee for him. “You slept well, I hope?”

“I think the healing affected me in a bad way,” he murmured, taking the coffee to the closest table to sit. His face scrunched up and stared into the drink. “...This isn’t my mug.”

“...Ah, it’s one of ours,” Bogey explained, also approaching. “Angel told me this morning that, in your haste to escape that explosion yesterday afternoon, the two of you left behind the hot plate and percolator it had been using to brew your coffee. Between my appliances and dishes, and its purified water and coffee grounds, we concerted our efforts to ensure you had a fine drink to awaken to.”

‘Choly’s face journeyed through exasperation to appreciation in a matter of seconds, and he let the mug warm his hands for lack of a better reaction.

“We can easily replace the percolator and hot plate,” Angel reassured. “The hard thing to replace would have been the beans, and that’s still safely stowed in my storage.”

“You can keep the mug, if you like it. A souvenir from the Billerica Golf Course.”

“Heh. You two are just swell--”

He winced at his choice of words, still unable to distance himself from the nightmare. He thanked them both through clenched teeth, and shoved it all down by taking a testing sip of the hot black drink.

“Would you like me to whip up a box of Insta-Mash for you, Sir? Or perhaps you’d rather some more sweet rolls?”

“I’ve honey roasted peanuts, as well.” Bogey dropped five heat-sealed clear bags of peanuts onto the table, then returned to hovering just behind Angel. “If you’d like. It’s all I have.”

He smiled.

“Peanuts and a sweet roll sound superb. My appetite’s not so great when I first wake up. I’ll eat more at lunch.” Angel set the requested pastry before him, but he didn’t eat just yet. He patted his hands together, then wrung them. “In the mean time... Bogey. I’ve been giving it some thought. I have the money for the cola from last night, and for the peanuts and coffee now, and for your hospitality... But you’re the only one on premises, aren’t you? Money’s not going to do you much good if you’re out here all alone.”

“I-- I meant it last night, that you haven’t got to recompense my attentions. It’s been a delight in itself to have someone to tend to again after all these years.”

He persisted in the offer, his smile widening. His nose scrunched to push up his glasses.

“I’m sure Angel’s mentioned that I do maintenance on it, and that I’m responsible for its recent upgrades. I can take a look at you, and see what I can do about anything ailing you. Angel went a long time without upkeep, and I’m sure you need it just as much as it did. You mentioned Angel provided the water, for instance. I can get your condensators working again. And I noticed you put out your pilot light last night. You were conserving gas, weren’t you? I can refill your fuel tank.”

“Oh! that sounds just delightful,” Angel beamed. “Bogey, Mister Carey will get you right as new. You really must say yes. I swear by his care.”

“I... I’m not sure what to say.” Bogey withdrew back by a row of tables, its tendrils curled at its front. “You... you noticed I put out my pilot light. I didn’t mean to give you cause to fret.”

"Neither of you affected the quality of my sleep. I promise.” He bit into his pastry finally, his mouth suffusing with cinnamon oil. “We really can’t stay too long, Bogey. Say you’ll let me look you over before we go. I have to pay back your hospitality and kindness somehow.”

“If you really must insist, a tune up sounds... well, it sounds too good to be true.” Bogey caught itself in the reflex to dart away, and stood firm. “I... I have to admit, I thought you might be one of those... ugh, Devils, when I first caught a glimpse of Angel. I should have known better. Your work is much more sightly, and much more careful. I can certainly appreciate that you stayed within the scope of the General Atomics warranty.”

‘Choly’s brow flattened, then raised slowly from behind his coffee as he sipped.

“Devils? You’ll have to tell me all about it while I work.”

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#fallout 4 #fo4 fanfic #fallout 4 fanfic #sole survivor #mister handy #the anatomy of melancholy #melancholy #angel #bogey #the plot thiccens

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cecilspeaks · 7 years

Text

Ghost Stories: Bonus Tracks

You can purchase Ghost Stories here.

Transcript of the main tracks here.

16. CARLOS

The finale of my ghost story coming up.

But first. A lot of people don’t believe in ghosts, which is kinda weird, because we have an entire city full of them one town over in Pine Cliffs. But people just refuse to believe that there could be any presence of a spirit after a person dies. And I figured that there is only one way to really investigate the truth of the paranormal. And that is to ask a scientist.

So I invited my boyfriend Carlos to the radio station. Hi, Carlos!

Carlos: Hey, Cecil!

Cecil: So Carlos, what scientific evidence, if any, supports the existence of ghosts?

Carlos: Oh there is lots of valid research done on ghosts, like that famous story where Ben Franklin tied a kite to a gravestone, you know? Ghosts are 100 % scientifically real. In fact, I have a story about a project I worked on that proved that ghosts were real.

Cecil: Ooh.

Carlos: So, I was working late one night, and it was exactly midnight, OK? And there was a full moon, and I was alone in my laboratory. So context: right next door lab is a graveyard filled with former scientists who all failed to have OSHA standard eye wash stations. It’s very scary, OK?

So some of, like, the great minds of our field are buried there. Marie Curie, George Washington Carver, David Blaine, OK? But David Blaine, he comes in and he comes out, right, you got that.

But so… Back to the story, so I was pouring green bubbling liquid from one flask into a beaker full of orange steaming liquid, when I heard a noise, OK? Footsteps. [breathes heavily] I thought it was Winchell, one of my assistants, who lives in the crawl space above the lab. The footsteps were coming closer. I could hear the wind howling outside and I could see an owl on an angular branch just outside the window, it was staring back at me but... [whew] just a normal government surveillance owl!

And then the room, it grew so cold that I began to shiver. And the footsteps stopped suddenly, their sound coming from just behind me and I couldn’t look!

Cecil: Because you were frozen in fear!

Carlos: No, OK so like I said, I was pretty sure that it was just Winchell coming down the stairs..

Cecil: Oh, OK..

Carlos: Yeah so yeah, just stay with the story. So you know, thought he was getting a snack and then I was trying to finish my experiment by logging the results of what happened when I mixed the two liquids. Um ahem (quote), “the new mixture turned brownish”, I wrote in my science journal, satisfied at my productivity. But after that, I turned around to see that it wasn’t Winchell at all, it was an apparition, a hazy silvery form of a person and his hair was curly and wite, and he wore an 18th century cravat and long coat with like really ornate buttons like little flor de lis, you know, carved out it was so delightful. And anyway, he hovered a few inches off the ground and before I could say anything, the ghost opened its contorted wrinkled maw like this! [long pause, audience laughs]

Cecil: So this is the radio, Carlos.

Carlos: Then, stil making that ghastly face, he groaned. [groans] Yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrr… [coughs, gasps]

Cecil: Oh.

Carlos: Anyway, he reached out his cloudy hand toward me, still moaning, and the wind outside roared, and I could hear the owl flapping quickly away. And he stepped forward and I heard the booming clop of his buckled shoe on the hardwood floor, and I jumped back and I shouted…

Cecil: Whoa Carlos, this is too scary.

Carlos: [high-pitched] No, how interesting!

Cecil: Wait, what?

Carlos: That is what I shouted, I said “how interesting!” This ghost with no real tangible form still made noise when he walked.

Cecil: Oh.

Carlos: And I asked the ghost, “how are you making that noise,” and he continued toward me still groaning. [groans] Right, ok. Still groaning and I backed away from him making notes the whole time! I had to circle backwards around the lab several times as he continued following me and I asked him more questions like, “so how did you die” and “where did you get those stunning thights, your calves look fantastic?” But he didn’t answesr. He simply maintained his slow pursuit. I ended up writing down some calculations and observations, but it was getting late so I backed on out of the lab. The ghost didn’t seem to want me to go. He wailed as I stepped out of the front and he made an even more horrible facial expression than before. Like this. [long pause, audience laughs]

Cecil: Radio.

Carlos: And while he made that facial expression, he made one final terrible sound, OK? Like this: eeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.. [gasps] I felt bad, so I told him, “I’ll be back Wednesday night, I want to learn more about you physically..”

Cecil: What?

Carlos: And then I said – oh god, no no no no. I said no no, that came out weird like I want to study your body and then I said aaah, wait wait I just mean I wanna experiment with you, you know? Agh, nevermind, I’ll see you Wednesday!

Cecil: Ohhh. That was a harrowing encounter!

Carlos: Yeah.

Cecil: So did you learn how the ghost makes sounds when he walks?

Carlos: Oh you know what, so it turns out he doesn’t.

Cecil: No.

Carlos. Yeah. That was Winchell just walking aroud the the kitchen, making a little snack. Just coincidentally exactly timed with the ghost. Also, really cool, I learned that the ghost was actually the ghost of Winchell’s like great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, visiting from early colonial Canada.

Cecil: Whoa! I’ve actually never heard of Canada. Where is that?

Carlos: I’m a scientist Cecil, not a map maker! [chuckles] It’s in Boston.

Cecil: Oh, OK. Whoa! Thank you for sharing your story, Carlos.

Carlos: Sure. You know I love it when [flirtily] science and radio overlap.

Cecil: [flirtily] I do too. [chuckles] Love you!

Carlos: Love you too.

Cecil: Thank you, Carlos.

17. DANA CARDINAL

So. Because the ghost stories competition is such an important event in our town, Night Vale’s Mayor, Dana Cardinal, has sent herself, Dana Cardinal. And she is here at the station to deliver her own press conference, so please welcome Mayor Dana Cardinal!

Hello there, Mayor Cardinal!

Dana: Hello to you, Cecil.

Cecil: Now you sent Pamela earlier to speak on your behalf.

Dana: And let me guess, she just told you this story about that rock she ate?

Cecil: Wellll…

Dana: There weren’t even any ghosts in her story, were there?

Cecil: Aaaah not explicitly, but her argument was that she we-

Dana: Cecil! Today it is I who speaks for myself. Not Pamela. Not hollow-eyed messenger children, or the City Council, or community radio, or that power all city officials have to completely take over anyone’s personality and body and use them to spread propaganda.

Cecil: Wait what, you can do that?

Dana: Today I am going to speak for myself. I want to tell a ghost story. It sounds like fun, and frankly being mayor of Night Vale is a lonely and tedious position. I could use some fun.

Cecil: Well great, let’s hear it!

Dana: [clears throat] This is a true story. Or as true as any story is, which is to say that it’s entirely made up. And it is about my great uncle Herbert. Now my great uncle Herbert owned the old mansion on the hill. You know, the one with walls continuing upright bricks meeting neatly doors sensibly shut, silence laying steadily against the wood and stone, and whatever walks there walks alone?

Cecil: Oh sure, yeah. I saw that real estate listing.

Dana: Right. Well, old Herbert died a few years back. His passing was sad, but not unexpected. Our family had long seen it coming because the day, time, and detailed description of the exact farm equipment he would be found scattered beneath were written in detail at his birth by the doctor on the birth certificate under “expiration date”. Also, he had cut off all contact many years earlier with his family, relying only on his silent glowering manservant, Sherfwood, to see to his affairs. Which is how it came to be that Sherfwood was at the door of my family’s house one morning with a message from my late great uncle. Whosoever could spend the night on the old mansion on the hill would inherit it, along with the rest of Herbert’s property.

Cecil: Whoa.

Dana: Mm hm, yeah. You know, you’d think a weirdo like that would have done something strange, like make everyone in my family uncomfortable by naming one specific person the owner and leaving the rest of us feeling left out. No, but instead he followed normal procedures for will settlement. So we all went to the old mansion on the hill and were shown to our rooms. We were nervous but excited, confident that sleeping inside a house couldn’t be that hard.

Cecil: Well, I do it almost every day.

Dana: Mm hm. But none of us made it through the night.

Cecil: Oh no! Dana, what happened?

Dana: Well it was the house. The house was full of truly hideous things, horrible things!

Cecil: Oh like monsters and ghosts?

Dana: No. Glass-topped tables!

Cecil: [gasps]

Dana: Lacker-veneered dressers.

Cecil: Ooh.

Dana: High-pile rugs. Wallpaper. Wallpaper, Cecil!

Cecil: No, eww. Just eww!

Dana: It was all so badly thought through. Everything clashed with everything else, the design was a disaster! All the cups in the kitchen were covered in a garish star design. We tried to ignore it, to grit our teeth and wait for dawn, hoping to find just a hint of Danish modern or even something made of driftwood. But even my cousin Denise, who’s a ghost, couldn’t stand it. She said that she did not want to waft transparently through any of those ecru walls.

Cecil: OK, now I am going to be sick.

Dana: Plus, what ghost wants to drift through walls anymore? Had Herbert never heard of an open concept floor plan? I mean, it provides more room for ghostly activities, like dragging chains and wailing! In the end, the only one willing to stay was Sherfwood, who had been in charge of designing the place, and so was the only one able to withstand the outdated décor.

Cecil: Ughh. Well, I don’t know if I would call that a ghost story, but at least it did have one ghost in it.

Dana: Don’t you see, Cecil? In this story, the house itself is the ghost.

Cecil: [long beat] Really?

Dana: No, that was a joke.

Cecil: Ah! Oh haha, ahahaa-hahaa, I totally get it now, that’s hilarious!

Dana: [long beat] [clears throat] You know Cecil, I love civic events like this. Serving your town, giving it every hour of your working day, can paradoxically make you distant from your town and from the people in it. You no longer are among them but over them. The dynamic shifts. I miss hanging out with you.

Cecil: Yeah, I miss hanging out with you too, Dana.

Dana: Well then let’s hang out sometime. How about anywhere but the old mansion on the hill?

Cecil: That sounds great.

Dana: OK.

Cecil: Thank you so much, Dana!

18. EARL HARLAN

So this Thursday afternoon, Night Vale’s hottest restaurant, Tourniquet, will be hosting a chefs master class, taught by executive chief LeShawn Mason and sous-chef Earl Harlan. Now, Earl has agreed to come up to the studio and talk about this educational culinary event. So please welcome Earl Harlan!

Earl: Hi Cecil! I am so excited to promote this class.

Cecil: Oh I can tell! I mean, you have your index fingers pulling back the corners of your mouth to expose your teeth.

Earl: Yeah, people say my smile really gives me away.

Cecil: Mm hmm.

Earl: Now, with so many popular cooking shows like Top Chef, The Great British Baking Show, Chopped, America’s Next Top Self-Surgeon and Who’s in the Slow Cooker?... culinary classes are in high demand. Chef Mason and I will be teaching amateur chefs some important cooking techniques. Things like knife skills, knifing skills, descaling a fish, chicken manipulation, using industrial strength lye to dissolve a corpse, how to peel an orange, and what that strange humming closet at the end of the counter is for.

Cecil: Oh yeah! Carlos and I have one of those humming closets, and when I open it up, there’s a light inside and cool air washes over me and I’m just like – what is this thing?

Earl: Well, that’s just your refrigerator, Cecil.

Cecil: Wait, that’s a refrigerator?!

Earl: What have you been using as a fridge?

Cecil: [beat] So tell us more about this master class um, Earl.

Earl: Well, Cecil, since this is the ghost story competition day, I had a ghost story I wanted to share with you, one I heard back when you and I were in the boy scouts. So I need to set the spooky campfire mood a little bit, so just hang on.

Cecil: OK. Um oh listeners, Earl is now stacking some wood on the floor, oh aand he is pouring gasoline over it…?

Earl: Oh haha no no no no, no I wouldn’t pour gasoline on your studio floor, Cecil! This is just a fancy bourbon that’s sold in five-gallon gasoline canisters.

Cecil: And listeners, he is now lighting a fire, um, [chuckling] there is a large fire in the studio, listeners!

Earl: No no, like I said it’s just bourbon! Right, here’s a stick with a marshmallow on it.

Cecil: Oh, thank you.

Earl: Here’s another one with a hot dog…

Cecil: Thank you.

Earl: And here’s another one with a live rabbit.

Cecil: Oooh! Cute and delicious! [creepy chuckle]

Earl: So the story goes, as our old scout leader Ron Veal used to tell it. one summer, a troupe of scouts went camping. They didn’t know how to use a compass yet, so they followed the North Star. But it turns out that what they thought was the North Star was just a firefly, and they were soon lost. It was getting dark. They were alone and afraid. It had been over an hour, so they had to rely on their special survival training. So they drew straws, and the scout who drew the short straw was eaten by the others.

Cecil: Uh, I never actually completed that activity, so I never got my survivalist badge.

Earl: Aww. I did.

Cecil: Oh, cool.

Earl: [clears throat] So. By early that evening, the boys had painted their faces, removed their scout uniforms, donned animal pelts, and developed their own language, government, and currency. They sharpened sticks and invented war chants. Then, just as the sun went down, they heard a voice close by. The voice called, [cheerfully] “Dinnertime, boys!” It was one of the boys’ mothers, calling from the porch of the back yard they were camping in. But they had been away from civilization for so many hours, they did not understand English anymore. Her voice was gibberish. They silenced their chants and paused building the bonfire, and the voice called again. “Enough horsing around, kids! Come inside!” Now they understood her welcoming gesture, so they went inside and they had dinner. The voice called out again, this time from across the dining room table. “Where’s Richie?” But they said nothing. They only ate the food ravenously with their bare hands. “Do you boys know where Richie went?” the voice called again, the boys’ eyes darting guiltily to one another. [high-pitched] “Richieee!” came the voice one final time, but the scouts only shifted in their chairs, pretending not to understand her refined, civilized rhetoric.

[creepy voice] To this day, it is said that if you stand in a backyard at dusk, you can hear the sound of wind rustling through trees, and birds chirping, and you can watch the bright dot in the sky turn orange and sink into the horizon.

Cecil: So that must be the ghost of Richie, right?

Earl: No, that’s just the wind and the birds and a sunset.

Cecil: Oh?

Earl: [creepy voice] But Richie’s ghost did rejoin the troupe later that night, and they all played board games.

Cecil: Ooh.

Earl: He got his apparition badge, and all of the other boys eventually got theirs, too!

Cecil: Oh wow! Gosh, it just feels like centuries since we were boy scouts together!

Earl: Yeah that’s because it has been, Cecil. How have we lived so long? And forgotten so much?

Cecil: [long silence]

These last lines are in the next track for some reason.

Cecil: Well, thank you so much coming on Earl.

Earl: You bet.

19. INTERN JEFFREY CRANOR

I’ve asked my station intern, Felix, to prepare a ghost story of his very own. You see, Felix has been such a hard worker with a great attitude, and I wanted to reward him with some practical broadcasting experience. So Felix, come on over to the microphone, and tell Night Vale your story!

…You’re not Felix.

Intern Jeffrey Cranor: No, Felix couldn’t… [sighs] [softly] make it.

Cecil: So who are you?

IJC: Oh I’m your new intern, I’m Jeffrey Cranor.

Cecil: Oh, intern. Intern Jeffrey, alright um, hey what happened to Felix?

IJC: It’s difficult to say.

Cecil: Aww. Because you don’t know what happened?

IJC: No I know, it’s just emotionally difficult to say it out loud. You know the fridge in the break room?

Cecil: Yes.

IJC: And you know how it makes that mechanical grinding noise whenever you open it, that krrrrr?

Cecil: Oh, yeah yeah.

IJC: Well it stopped making that noise. But you know how blood pours of it now when you open it?

Cecil: No?

IJC: Oh oh oh, heh, well okay let me back up then. You know how near the break room there’s that hole in the wall? Cecil: Oh yeah, I’ve been asking operations to fix that for weeks now.

IJC: Right and you know how that hole is like three feet wide and these weird noises and shouts can be heard from it? and you know how Felix was always talking to those voices?

Cecil: Oh yeah, like all the time!

IJC: Right, like (blablabla).. So you know how when you die, your soul drifts through all of time mostly simultaneously, it’s not really as a ghost although some people manifest as such, but most of us fill the void with our decimated consciousness, all of the pain of life melts away as we pass into the beyond, and the sweet relief is immediately replaced by the crushing pain of knowledge, of eternity and the vastness of a universe that has no fences and no borders, but in death we can see what lies beyond, and you know how it is awful and beautiful and inspiring and ultimately boring because of the whole forever thing, you know?

Cecil: I mean, I’ve never died.

IJC: [laughs] OK, Cecil. Anyway. You know the hunger, the hunger we feel during mortality? You know, that insatiable urge to fill our temporary bodies with comfort, sustenance, something to momentarily destruct us from the immense pain of it all, yada yada yada? Felix had that hunger. He had that hunger, and he went to the fridge in the break room. Because he remembered the potato salad he brought to work last December but didn’t finish. And the fridge made that noise, that krrrrrr! Felix went to open the door but that was, he had forgotten what the voice in the hole in the wall had just been telling him, and that was unfortunate because it turns out that that voice in the hole in the wall was him, it was Felix’s immortal soul across all of time attempting to warn Felix that there was an active jet engine from an Airbus 8320 inside the fridge door. Which Amy in sales left there yesterday after lunch. Krrrrrrrrrrrshhhhhhhhhhup! [long beat] I mean. And Felix was just… [sighs] Um, HR made Amy take the jet engine home but the – oh man, the insides of that fridge is still covered in uh… memories of Felix.

Cecil: [whispers] That’s terrible! Well… [normal voice] To the family of intern Felix… He was a really good intern.

IJC: He was.

Cecil: And he will be missed.

IJC: Yeeeah, I guess. I mean, he’s still in the wall over there, you can go talk to him through that hole right over there.

Cecil: Oh, well that’s good, well could you ask him to finish up his filing by the end of the day please?

IJC: [chuckles]You got it, boss!

Cecil: Alright. Oh hey, Jeffrey Jeffrey Jeffrey. You seem to know like a lot about the afterlife. Are you – dead? I mean I mean I mean are you – like a ghost?

IJC: Oh.. It’s um, difficult to say.

Cecil: Oh, because you you don’t wanna talk about it?

IJC: No it’s just difficult because I’m eating this peanut butter stuffed pretzel. [chews]

Cecil: OK.

IJC: [mumbles through chewing]

Cecil: Oh.

IJC: [chews for a long time] But no, I’m not.

Cecil: Alright, well welcome to the station!

IJC: Thanks boss!

Cecil: Alright, thank you Jeffrey!

20. LOUIE BLASKO

Cecil: It is time for one of our favorite segments: Louie Blasko’s music moment!

Louie Blasko: No.

Cecil: No?

LB: No I don’t wanna do music, I’m trying to get out of the whole… music thing. I, I’d like to tell a ghost story.

Cecil: But but you’ve got a ukulele and a music stand?

LB: I don’t think so.

Cecil: OK. So listeners, it is now time for Louie Blasko’s – ghost story moment!

LB: Thank you Cecil. Now my horror story is about a haunted locker room at Night Vale High.

Cecil: Mm.

LB: Now there have always been strange sounds heard in there, you know footsteps, the cawing of crows. Distant warped voices singing the Night Vale High fight song.

Cecil: Wait wait wait, Night Vale High has a fight song?

LB: Oh yeah, you know, it’s that song they sing before every football game to remind us that no matter who wins, everyone involved will eventually perish.

Cecil: It’s not really ringing a bell.

LB: No no no, it’s uh, [tone-deaf] “You didn’t have to do that to him, uh he had nothing to do with any of this…”?

Cecil: No…

LB: You know it’s like uh, “I-I was gonna get you the money, I just needed like” um…

Cecil: I dunno, maybe, I…

LB: OK OK. W-w- uh [clears throat]. [plays ukulele, sings] “When doing business with spiideers, I advice that you always honor your debts. I have it on the very good authority of the most reliable insiiiider, that though they seem harmless, even dare I say kind, on the day of the deal when the contract is signed, and though, [out of breath] I cannot stress enough that you must bear in mind that they do not forgive and they will not forget…

[high-pitched] “Ooo-ooo, ooo-oooo, o-o-o-a ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-oo…

[speaks] And you can tell yourself: What have I possibly got to lose? But even a humble music teacher, who has never known the warm breath of love, whose cold heart has no room in it for friendship, companionship, partnership or any manner of ship whatsoever. They will find, who long ago traded his soul for a can of trombone grease, and a very rare limited edition Chet Baker LP. No, even a man such as this is not immune, for somehow they know [whispers] the architecture of his heart even better than he knows it himself. And they will find that one thing or person that he cherishes above all else in this world, that single creature whose presence gives him just a little rush of joy. We’ll use just for example, [sings] a boy.

[talks] A pudgy, awkward little boy. We’ll just call him Harold. Ignored and abused by his schoolmates, spectacularly unmemorable in almost every respect. But with a certain promise on the clarinet and not without a charming – lack of fashion sense.

[high-pitched] Oooo-ooo, ooo-oo-oo, o-o-o-o-a-oooo-ooo-oooo. [yells] Everybody! [Cecil and audience chime in] Ooo-ooo, o-o-o-a- ooo-oo-ooo…

[yells] They act with speed, great precision, and professional care. Leaving just a small smudge of blood and a little bit of hair. And an endlessly echoing scream through the halls! [speaks] As if to intimate that his horrible suffering has still not ended yet, [screams] at aaaall!

[speaks] And I know that the terms of the contract were abundantly [high-pitched] cleeear! The language concise, and the interest rates [falsetto] faaaaiiiir! But as much as one pleads and as much as one begs, to their eight empty eyes and their long furry legs… [quietly] He wasn’t coming back. He really isn’t coming back. Ooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaghhhhhhhhh…

[yells] You didn’t have to do that to him! He had nothing to do with any of this! I was going to get you the money, I told you that! Ooooooo-oooo, oooo-oo-o-ooo…

Four, three, two, one! [Cecil joins in] Night Vale High is number one! Zero, negative one, negative two, if we go down then so will you!!”

LB: [yells] I’m so sorry, Harold! I am so so sorry!

Cecil: OK, yes, I do remember that song now. Great, great. So OK, um, let’s get on with the story then.

LB: What? Oh oh oh oh yeah uh, that was the story. Uh, Night Vale High’s locker room, it’s haunted. Uh.. the end?

Cecil: OK.

LB: Well, thanks for having me. Oh and if anyone wants to learn the basics of bluegrass, just head down to the burned down site where Louie’s Music Shop used to sit, and just hang out there in the ruins til it gets dark. And then, wait until you are taken gently by the hand. And then, bluegrass lessons! Or something else - will happen.

Cecil: Thank you, Louie!

21. MELONY PENNINGTON

So listeners, I have to admit something. Um, I had some computer difficulties earlier and I had to call technology support. And actually I was pleasantly surprised when Night Vale’s top computer programmer and creator of the local numbers station, WZZZ, showed up to fix my computer. So please welcome Melony Pennington!

Melony, welcome to the radio station!

Melony Pennington: I’m in a radio station? You just said that. I mean, you say a lot of things. How many things do you say that you mean? How many things do you mean to say? What are some mean things you’ve said? Maybe radio station is a joke. Like maybe it’s your house, and you’ve just left some headphones and microphones lying around and you’re like, this is totally my radio station. L.O.L!

Cecil: Well I never joke when it comes to the radio.

MP: I didn’t catch your name. Did you know saying LOL out loud takes just as long as saying the words they stand for? Loss Of Lungs.

Cecil: Oh.

MP: But somehow it feels shorter saying the initials, LOL.

Cecil: You’ve such an active mind, Melony! Oh, thank you by the way for helping me with my computer earlier. Um, I’m so embarrassed that the problem turned out to be, it wasn’t even plugged into the wall.

MP: You would be surprised at how often tht happens, even with computer professionals. Just the other day, I was trying to debug the software the City Council uses to control earthquakes. I brought my laptop, like usual, but then I realized I completely forgot to bring a basic (-) [0:01:41] Ethernet cable to plug into the network. Thankfully, it turns out the device that controls earthquakes wasn’t even running Windows (-X). It’s a glowing red gem inside the hollowed-out skull of some land mammal. Horse, I guess? So I didn’t even need cables, those things run on wi-fi. And you can connect to any wi-fi network with chanting and a little blood.

Cecil: Wow!

MP: Got that software all patched up.

Cecil: Wow! It’s hard to believe that we can control earthquakes with a glowing red gem!

MP: Oh, you can control anything with one of those. I have one that I use to make birds attack my enemies.

Cecil: Oh.

MP: Yeah. I also have it set to move the stars around into coded messages, plus it runs Bluetooth audio from my record player. They’re really handy! [chuckles] I’m tired of talking about that subject. I have a ghost story for the ghost story contest. I’m going to tell it now.

Cecil: Oh excellent, I would love to hear it!

MP: OK, so I got a brand new computer. It was night and I was home alone, or I thought I was alone. When I turned the computer on, the blinking cursor on the screen started moving, without me touching the keys. The cursor began typing out a message. “Help,” the screen said. “I have been murdered and my killer programmed me into this computer.” “Oh, like a literal ghost in the machine!” I exclaimed. Then, there was a long, long silence. I watched the cursor closely, but it just blinked in place. Just when I thought I couldn’t wait any longer, it moved again and began to write out a message.

Cecil: What did it say?

MP: It wrote, “you have to type it out for me to know what you’re saying. I can’t hear you speak.”

Cecil: Mm hm.

MP: So I wrote back, and he told me he used to work in a computer factory, which is how he ended up inside this computer, and that his killer is an evil supergenius programmer.

Cecil: Whoa, whoa, but if the ghost was a computer program that the killer wrote, then the KILLER must have been the one sending the messages. [very fast] Oh my gosh this is so exciting, a cat and mouse chase between two brilliant programmers, so you must have had to decipher clues from the program but then had to consider whether the killer was one step ahead of you, and how do you determine the truth, how do you know what’s important and what’s a red herring, oh my gosh I live murder mysteries so much! What happened next Melony, what happened?

MP: Oh, I formatted the drive.

Cecil: [disappointed] Oh.

MP: [chuckles] It was a new computer, and these box store manufacturers preprogram so much bulky chunk on there. Do I need a cloud-based calendar solution and a pinball game and the ghost victim of an evil programmer? No I don’t. So I formatted and installed my own operating system.

Cecil: Wow, that was pretty easy then.

MP: Mm hm. I’ve got a load of memory now for gaming though. [excited] Hey, hey look, the birds are gathering! Oh I think something cool is about to go down. I should go.

Cecil: Well bye Melony.

MP: Bye, whoever you are. Nice house.

Cecil: Oh, thank you. Thank you, Melony.

22. MICHELLE NGUYEN

A quick update on next Saturday’s open mic night at Dark Owl Records. For more on that, let’s talk with Dark Owl owner, Michelle Nguyen!

Michelle, thanks for coming in.

Michelle Nguyen: Thanks, Cecil. This is Dark Owl Records’ first ever open mic night. We are encouraging everyone in Night Vale who has a song to sing, a standup comedy set, or a thing on their back they want a doctor to look at to come down to Dark Owl Records.

Cecil: OK, so attendees will sign up for a slot to get up on stage, sing their song, do their comedy, or get their back looked at.

MN: Oh, god no. I don’t wanna hear any of that. An open mic isn’t an invitation to just walk up it and start yammering like you’re a real artist. Eww. No.

Cecil: Oh.

MN: An open mic is a live microphone and an empty stage at the front of the room. Attendees will sit quietly and stare at it.

Cecil: But you said that people who have a song, a comedy set, or a diagnosis needed should come.

MN: Of course. I only want people who think of themselves as performers to come. But I want them to pay attention to the only real true performing art. Silence and nothingness. If we were to just stop all of that for a moment and listen to that silence, we would understand what art is. A void.

Cecil: Oh. That’s actually quite beautiful.

MN: Oh no, it is.

Cecil: Yeah. I mean this sounds like a lovely event and inviting and welcoming night for everyone to experience art together. So thank you for sharing your space with Night Vale.

MN: On second thought, I’d rather just hear people read their awful poems and struggle through another (Churches) cover. Everyone come on down to open mic night next Saturday and kill us all slowly with your desperate need for attention.

Cecil: OK! Oh, while you’re here, do you have a ghost story you wanna share?

MN: Yes. I was making myself a mix tape one night. I recorded myself chewing on some tin foil, as well as the sounds of distant coyotes. Coyotes are dope. Also I was wearing a leather wristband, knee-high red socks, and armored chest plate because – it was fashion week.

Cecil: Ah! Mm, I wore my new antlers and rubber hip waiters because it was fashion week. [chuckles]

MN: Antlers and hip waiters? Was it fashion week 2008?

Cecil: [long beat] [through clenched teeth] Go on with your story, Michelle.

MN: So when I played the tape later, it wasn’t what I recorded at all. What I heard was not the chewing or the coyote howls. It was something much much worse. What I heard chilled me to my bones.

Cecil: What was it?

MN: It was a hiss, like a single unbroken breath. A gentle… shhhhhhhh, for like 30 minutes on both sides of the tape. I wept from fright. I was terrified, I couldn’t turn it off! Shhhhhhh.. It must be a curse, a haunted sound that once heard cause you to die exactly one year later. Now that I think about it, that would be pretty exciting. No one in the music industry is doing anything like that anymore. I mean, Madonna popularized audio death curses in the 80’s, but that was like 30 years ago, so it’s like it never happened.

Cecil: OK Michelle, that shhhh sound across both sides of the tape, I’m pretty sure that the recording just failed, and you were listening to a blank cassette. So you’re not gonna die in a year.

MN: [long beat] [sadly] Oh.

Cecil: Are you OK?

MN: [sadly] Nothing fun ever happens to me.

Cecil: Oh well, well that’s not true! I mean, you have a great record store, you have good friends, and you host fantastic events. You’re an important part of our town, Michelle!

MN: [softly] Thanks Cecil. That means a lot. [angrily] I guess!

Cecil: Oh OK, well I’ll see you soon.

MN: [angrily] Don’t tell anyone I accepted your compliment!

Cecil: Alright, I won’t, I won’t. Thank you Michelle! [long beat] She likes me.

23. SHERIFF SAM #1

Oh but first, listeners, my red phone is ringing. And that means it’s time to pick up the beige phone and hear which of the six other ringing phones I should be picking up, so let’s see here. Orange. Oh, that means it’s the sheriff, oh – standing right next to me in the studio!

Sheriff Sam: It is a simple system.

Cecil: Oh, hello Sheriff Sam! You know, you could always just knock and say hello.

SS: But we already spent the money on this coded phone stuff. The taxpayers deserve to get what they paid for, even if it makes everyone’s lives harder. That’s democracy. Or maybe it isn’t. I don’t know or care what democracy is.

Cecil: So how has this day of ghost stories gone for you, Sam?

SS: Look, I want to tell a ghost story but uh, I’ll be honest Cecil..

Cecil: Please.

SS: I’m afraid.

Cecil: You’re afraid of ghosts?

SS: Of ghosts? Well of course. But also – pine trees. They’re just so tall and pointy, you know? And I’m also afraid of the tiny scampering feet of mice I can hear in the ceiling running back and forth, and in addition, I’m afraid that while I sleep an earthquake will happen, or a flood, or a sunspot. I’m afraid of the night time because I can’t see anything and – I’m afraid of the daytime because I can see everything.

Cecil: Oh.

SS: I’m afraid of action and interaction. I’m afraid of contradictions, I’m afraid of food poisoning. But do you know what I’m really afraid of? San dunes, terrible things, like indecisive mountains. Are you a hill or a heap? Make up your mind, sand dune! And I’m afraid of being afraid. I’m afraid that if I’m afraid for too long, then that’s all there will be to me.

Cecil: Well, maybe it’s time you faced your fears.

SS: Ooh... No. I’m quite afraid of faces. The only person I’m not afraid of is the Faceless Old Woman who Secretly Lives in My Home. Or I wouldn’t be, except that I’m also afraid of the elderly.

Cecil: Now I gotta say this doesn’t seem like you, I mean you’re always so authoritative and shouty.

SS: Well what I seem like and what I am is not the same! [chuckling] Except I am very shouty. I mean not now obviously but then [shouts] suddenly, at any moment I am shouting and I cannot hear my fears!

Cecil: Aww, there’s the sheriff I know.

SS: But then I’m not shouting and I’m afraid again. Cecil, one day I will look you right in the eye, and I will tell you a ghost story. I promise you that.

Cecil: Well great!

SS: Until then, Cecil – uh oh, it appears your silver phone is ringing, and you know what that means.

Cecil: Uhh, actually I don’t. What does the silver phone mean? Oh.. Now they’re gone. Now I’m gonna be worried about this.

24. SHERIFF SAM #2 This is the same story told by Dana above

Oh, listeners, it appears that Sheraiff Sam has something to add to their previous statement as… they are currently breaking down my door with a battering ram and have thrown several smoke canisters into the room. [coughs] Sheriff, what is this emergency?

SS: Cecil, I’m ready. Even though I’m still afraid, I want to tell a ghost story of my own. It’s my legal right, says so in the law. Don’t try to censor me.

Cecil: I won’t. You know, you could have just asked, I mean you don’t need to break down the door.

SS: Oh no, the door broke itself.

Cecil: Oh.

SS: We were trying to stop it. Anyway. This is a true story. Or as true as any other story is, which is to say that it is entirely made up. And it’s about my great uncle Herbert. Now, my great uncle Herbert owned the old mansion on the hill. You know, the one with walls continuing upright, bricks meeting neatly, doors sensibly shut, silence laying steadily against the wood and stone, and whatever walks there walks alone?

Cecil: Yeah, sure. I saw that real estate listing.

SS: Right. Well, old Herbert died a few years back. His passing was sad, but not unexpected. Our family had long seen it coming because the day, time, and detailed description of the exact farm equipment he would be found scattered beneath were written in detail at his birth by the doctor on the birth certificate under “expiration date”. Also, he had cut off all contact many years earlier with his family, relying only on his silent glowering manservant, Sherfwood, to see to his affairs. Which is how it came to be that Sherfwood was at the door of my family’s house one morning with a message from my late great uncle. Whosoever could spend the night on the old mansion on the hill would inherit it, along with the rest of Herbert’s property.

Cecil: Oo, wow.

SS: Yes. You know, you’d think a weirdo like that would have done something strange, like make everyone in my family uncomfortable by naming one specific person the owner and leaving the rest of us feeling left out. But instead he followed normal procedures for a state settlement. We all went to the old mansion on the hill and were shown to our rooms. We were nervous but excited, confident that sleeping inside a house couldn’t be that hard.

Cecil: I mean, I do it almost every day.

SS: But none of us made it through the night.

Cecil: Oh no! Sheriff, what happened?

SS: It was the house. [sighs] The house was full of truly hideous things, horrible things!

Cecil: Monsters, ghosts?

SS: No. Glass-topped tables!

Cecil: [gasps]

SS: Lacker-veneered dressers.

Cecil: Ohh.

SS: High-pile rugs. Wallpaper. Wallpaper, Cecil!

Cecil: Oh god!

SS: It was all so badly thought through. Everything clashed with everything else, the design was a disaster! All the cups in the kitchen were covered in a garish star design. We tried to ignore it, to grit our teeth and wait for dawn, hoping to find just a hint of Danish modern or something made of driftwood. But even my cousin Denise, who’s a ghost, couldn’t stand it. She said she did not want to waft transparently through any of those ecru walls.

Cecil: Oh god, ecru? I’m gonna be sick!

SS: In the end, the only one willing to stay was Sherfwood, who had been in charge of designing the place, and so was the only one able to withstand the outdated décor.

Cecil: Ughh. Well, I don’t know if I would call that a ghost story, but at least it did have a ghost in it.

SS: But I told it, didn’t I? I’m proud of myself. Thank you. But uh, but I am sorry about your door, heh. I’m sorry about a lot of things. I find that scaring someone else does help alleviate my own fears, so I had to break down your door, I’m sorry.

Cecil: That’s OK, Sheriff. You know, a true apology is changing how you act in the future.

SS: Mmm.. that sounds difficult. I-I’m not sorry enough for that. I said some words and that should make up for anything I’ve ever done or ever will do. Until next time, Cecil!

Cecil: Alright, until next time She- oh, and… [long beat] And they broke my window on their way out. [sighs]

#welcome to night vale #wtnv transcripts #live shows #ghost stories #sorry it took me a few days #but i was really swamped at work

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and-it-freezes-me · 3 years

Text

Not Resembling A Morrow

Not Resembling A Morrow is the second part in the What Happened In Lichmai series.

Title is from ‘Monotony’ by Constantine P. Cavafy

Summary: Most people never really left the town of Lichmai.

Not for good, anyway. They might go away to university for a few years before coming back to settle into a job that they can’t quite remember ever wanting, exactly, but one that they’re content enough to do until they finally retire.

They might even end up with a job they prefer in some other city - but in the end, something always brought them home. It could be a relative falling suddenly ill and needing them to be there; it could be that the pressures of work became too much and they needed to shift to something a little calmer, a little closer to somewhere they knew.

They might go away on holiday for days, weeks, maybe even months at a time. A few people have spent a year or two just travelling before finally admitting that nowhere else really feels like home.

That might have been because, in most other places, it gets dark when the sun sets.

Not in Lichmai.

Content: non-graphic child death, disappearance, discussion of death, this sounds dark I don’t think it’s as dark as it seems?, corrupting light, vampire!Remus

Words: 6,972

There he was, in the dark, alone, waiting, watching.

In the early days, sometimes there had been challengers. People that had heard of a reward for slaying his lord, and had met their deaths at the end of his now rusted sword, his claws, his teeth.

In the early days, he had talked, near constantly, about everything, about nothing. About revenge, about the future, about waking up, about fighting and rebuilding and tearing down and moving on and living. The words that hadn’t been eaten by the darkness around them had fallen on unhearing ears.

If a knight speaks and there’s no-one to hear, did he really speak at all?

Sometimes he told stories, just so that he could hear a voice, anything other than the quiet, steady breathing that seemed so loud in the silent chamber.

Sometimes he sang, just to remind himself that he could.

Usually, he stayed quiet. There wasn’t much to say, not after this long alone.

In the early days, he measured time by his lord’s unhurried exhalations.

He had stopped counting when the numbers became too large to mean anything to him anymore.

Most people never really left the town of Lichmai.

They might go away on holiday for days, weeks, maybe even months at a time. A few people have spent a year or two just travelling before finally admitting that nowhere else really feels like home.

That might have been because, in most other places, it gets dark when the sun sets.

Not in Lichmai.

Oh, it gets dimmer, of course. The town is cooler at night and no plants grow when the sun is no longer overhead (a series of experiments have been done to prove this, first started by a somewhat mad scientist in the early nineteenth century and repeated every year by the town’s highschool). The only shadows cast are those cast by the street lights and the lamps in houses - and those were only installed recently, when almost every single delivery-person or traveller just passing through commented that it was weird to see a town in the late twentieth century with practically no electricity at all.

But it only gets properly dark during the blackest of storms.

Nobody knows why, of course - and they’re not about to start calling in people from Outside to try to figure out what’s going on, either. Everybody in Lichmai just seems to know that drawing unnecessary attention to themselves wouldn’t be a good idea, although nobody is sure why that is.

On the rare occasion that a tourist ends up travelling through during the night, they seem to forget about the weird, never-dark nights the second they cross the town boundary on their way out. The people that lived there and managed to leave never forget, of course, but any relatives that come to stay but don’t actually live in Lichmai? They manage to forget every time they leave, and remember every time they return.

There’s actually a line around the edge of town, marked with small rocks every few metres, that denotes the boundary where those that forget, forget. Rumour has it that someone in the seventeenth century spent a month leading an outsider forward and backward over the Edge of Knowing and placing the stones… Shortly before setting fire to one of the town’s churches and disappearing into the night. Nothing happens if residents cross the line - nothing noticeable, anyway - but most people make a point of staying well within the town’s boundaries.

There are rumours that the stones move when nobody’s looking.

If the world Outside appeared to be anything more than vaguely aware of Lichmai’s existence, maybe more people would visit in an attempt to figure out why Lichmai had such a high rate of accidents and disappearances - or maybe they would come to see if the whispers about sightings of Tasmanian tigers, red wolves, or passenger pigeons held any truth. Maybe these people would disappear as well. There is something in the trees, pine and deciduous alike, that preys on the unwary.

This was the town that Patton Sanders was born into, one stormy morning in the middle of March, and this was the town that he was taught how to survive by his parents.

Larry had lived in Lichmai for his entire life, and his parents before that, and their parents before that - if someone had any reason to, they could trace the Sanders name right back to the twelve-hundreds, when it was believed that the town had been founded. The oldest plaque in the graveyard, dating back to what was believed to be 1287 (the letters were greatly worn with time), bore the name ‘Thomas Sanders’ - although graveyard may be the wrong word. No bodies lay there: the people of Lichmai had always burned their dead.

There was an urban legend - because there were always urban legends about these sorts of things - that somebody had tried burying somebody once. According to the story, every dairy product in town spoiled as soon as it was touched, every crop harvested was found blighted and inedible, and animals grew sick. People said they saw the body, too: standing silently near its home, watching, pulling away from any that drew close. After four weeks of this, the townsfolk had banded together and gone to burn the thing, and it had run. It had been chased long into the night (if night were the correct word; even then, the dark never fell) before collapsing suddenly into a pile of foetid, decaying mush and bones. Someone had covered the mess in lavender (although some said it had been mint, some said white poppies, some said all three) before putting a torch to it, and it had burned merrily for three days and three nights. When the flames finally died away, there was nothing left but a scar on the earth.

That scar is still there to this day, sitting just outside the Edge of Knowing.

The people of Lichmai burn their dead.

Dot Sanders - previously Dot Grange - was a newer addition to their community. She had moved to Lichmai with her mother when she was seven. If anybody asked Ellen Grange why she had chosen the land equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle as the best place for her and her young daughter, she said that she had heard it was a good place to go if you didn’t want to be found. People learned not to ask about Dot’s father.

She had met Larry - he was Laurence then, and she Dorothea - on her first day of school. They had swapped sandwiches: she didn’t like mustard, he didn’t like ham. The rest, as they say, is history.

Larry had taught her how to tie her laces in the way that seemed to deter the Things That Lurked In The Woods. Dot taught him to play blind-man’s-buff, and he showed her how to walk through the snow and return home without inviting any of the Things inside. She showed him how to make pear turnovers, and Larry showed her how to press mallow and oenothera and sprinkle them into her sock drawer for protection. When they were thirteen and somebody two grades above them never came home, they spent the hours before the bones were found stitching mistletoe berries into the linings of all the jackets in the house.

Dot was a quick study - but then, you had to be, if you wanted to survive more than a few years in Lichmai.

When she asked Larry out, it was with a beige ribbon around one wrist (for good fortune) and a bell around one ankle (because the Things That Devoured In The Woods loved new couples, and bells seemed to be the only thing that kept them away).

When they got married four years after they graduated, Larry wore a jacket with rice sewn into every pocket, and Dot carried yarrow flowers in her bouquet along with the more traditional blooms.

Dot taught at the highschool. Larry made the drive out of Lichmai to Olkin, the nearest city, every day, where he lectured at the university there.

And then Patton came along, and they sprinkled mallow and oenothera over all of his babygrows, glued a neat line of red sea glass (they had spent four days at the beach about a month before Patton had been born) to each windowsill in their home, and boiled three-leafed clovers into the paint they decorated the nursery with. The last one was tricky: it was sometimes difficult to tell whether a given clover really was a rare three-leafed one (good for keeping long-tongued bark sprites away from children) or just a four-leafed one that had been slightly tattered (completely useless).

Patton grew up learning every trick in the book, just like every other child in Lichmai that wanted to get to ten without being snatched away or devoured.

Well, most other children. In every generation, there are always a few that slip up and never quite find their way back home.

Patton was six when he watched light slip beneath the skin of Bonnie Notts, the girl that lived next door to him and was by extension his best friend, and burn her to nothing. They had been building small castles in the sandpit in his back garden when she had stood up, slipped, and landed face-first in the small tower Patton had been adding to his cake-shaped palace. Sand had gone everywhere, in their hair and their clothes, ears and noses and mouths and eyes, and Bonnie had started bawling loudly. After a second of surprise, Patton had joined in - but then stopped abruptly when something sparked in the corner of his vision.

Bonnie didn’t see it, but she certainly responded to the round, glowing figure when it spoke in a voice that sounded Dot’s - although Patton was sure that it sounded like Mrs’ Notts to his friend. “Little one,” it crooned, “little one, do not weep…”

Bonnie’s wails had calmed a little. She rubbed her sandy fists in her eyes and turned toward the source of the voice.

“There, there, little one…” The figure didn’t seem to have a face - or a body, for that matter. It was just a glowing, roughly human shaped… Thing. And it was reaching out toward them with one long, spindly… Arm. “Do not cry… Come here, little one…”

“Buh-” Patton cut himself off before he could give away his friend’s name - names are powerful, it’s one of the first things children get taught in Lichmai - and grabbed her arm. “Don’t, don’t, ‘s not-”

“That’s it, little one… Come here…” Bonnie was already reaching out toward the thing that was not her mother, and Patton suddenly realised that one of its ‘arms’ - and it had three or four of the things now - was moving toward him.

He dropped Bonnie’s arm and shoved both his pudgy hands into his pockets, fingers closing tight around the walnut in one and the small pebble in the other, and started chanting. He nudged his friend with his foot, trying to get her to do the same, but she didn’t seem to be listening to anything other than the crooning coming from the Thing in front of them.

“Come here, little one… Do not weep…”

“Mama, my eyes, m-my,” Bonnie whimpered, both hands reaching forward now.

“Good, little one, come here…”

“Srednas nottap, srednas nottap, srednas nottap, srednas-”

The arm that had been extending toward Patton jerked away as though it had brushed against a hot stovetop.

The two arms that had been reaching toward Bonnie met her outstretched fingertips, then curled up her forearms like vines, and Patton was screaming now, desperately wondering why their parents hadn’t come to help them. “Srednas nottap! Srednas nottap!”

“Good, little one, my little one…”

And then the tentacle-like arms reached her shoulders, coiled up her throat, and Bonnie still didn’t seem to think that there was anything wrong - not until they touched her sand-blinded eyes.

Then Bonnie screamed, too. Jagged lines of liquid light began to spread beneath her skin like cracks, covering first her face and then spreading down her neck, reaching her fingertips, her ankles, her bare toes.

There was a flash of light, a burst of white-hot energy, and then Bonnie Notts was gone and Patton was safe in his father’s arms, still crying, still repeating his name, backwards, over and over and over and over.

Watching their best friend be torn into a thousand threads of light is the kind of experience that stays with a person, and Patton Sanders was no exception - but in a town where these events are expected, nobody even batted an eye when he grew his hair long enough to braid the knots usually reserved for shoelaces into it, or when he started leaving little pouches of sugar and mistletoe berries in his desk, his locker, his schoolbags and his clothes. It was reassuring, his teachers said, that he was taking the tragic loss to heart and making sure that he was safe.

Bonnie was one of two deaths in their school that year, and there were three each in the Lichmai middle- and highschools, giving the year that Patton was six the highest incident rate in nearly twenty years. That was what they called it - ‘incident rate’. It had a nicer ring to it than ‘child loss due to general Lichmai weirdness’.

Not that these things happened often, of course. The previous year, there had been no deaths at all, and all of the children who disappeared in the years prior to that had been returned after days or weeks or months.

It was still worth being wary, though.

Lichmai didn’t have its own university, so the kids that did choose to seek higher education had to study elsewhere. A fair portion of them became day students at the Olkin university, taking the bus or driving over the Edge of Knowing every day - it was easier to stay somewhere they knew, when the rest of the world was so different.

(Of course the residents of Lichmai knew how different they were. People left town and came back again all the time; they had television, radio, the internet… And for some reason, even knowing how much safer the Outside was, people still never seemed to leave).

Patton was one of the others, one of the ones that spent ages pouring over prospectuses and visiting different campuses until he found one that he would be happy attending for three or four years. He planned on coming back: Patton would willingly admit that he couldn’t imagine himself living anywhere other than Lichmai, despite the horrors that occasionally befell those that didn’t double check which flowers they pressed and hid in the linings of their clothing.

Patton spent four years studying psychology in a city where it got dark at night, and where people trod carelessly on cracks in the pavement or over gutters, where it was considered strange to wear a necklace comprised of the tabs from soda cans and round pebbles with natural holes in the middles and for his baby teeth to be braided into his keychain (he had learned very quickly to hide that keychain from people).

The Patton that came home at the end of his first year seemed more tired than the Patton that had left the previous August. He had cut his hair, the blond curls that had once hung to nearly his shoulder blades now formed a neat nest that occasionally flopped over into his eyes. He spent almost the entire summer sleeping in his room, or on one of his friends’ couches when he was invited over to hang out and found that he didn’t have the energy to hike through the hills. (The hills near Lichmai were slightly safer than the woods - safe enough to walk through and occasionally camp, if you were canny with your precautions).

The Patton that came home at the end of his second year didn’t speak much, and cried a lot when he thought that nobody was watching him. Dot and Larry tried to get him to open up to them, but he brushed their concern away, saying that he was fine.

The Patton that came home at the end of his third year seemed to have no energy to do any of the things he used to enjoy, whether that be walking through the safer parts of the woods or the hills, or dancing in Lichmai’s strangely frequent dances, or watching films with his neighbours - he didn’t have many proper friends any more, having gone silent on them for several years now.

Then he came home for good, and he got a job as a therapist in the small practice near the centre of Lichmai.

The Patton that came home at the end of his degree and got a job was much closer to the Patton that had left at the start of his first year: he was bouncy and bubbly again, hurling himself into dances and baking with wild abandon, throwing himself after every animal he came across even when they gave him hives or left him sneezing for hours afterward.

But that isn’t to say that the Patton who came home wasn’t different.

He was.

There were already two therapists working at the only clinic in town when Patton arrived: one of them, a tall chinese woman named Juliette who had been several years ahead of him in school and had accepted one of the I-promise-I'll-be-a-good-colleague cupcakes he had made with a warm smile, was there when he showed up early on his first day. She had reassured him that their coworker would be there soon, and that he was very enthusiastic about most things, and Patton had cheerfully looked forward to meeting the man with a poster of Appa on his door.

He had not been disappointed. Emile had startled him with an exaggerated drum roll while he had been setting up his desk, and it had taken about two minutes for the two of them to get onto the subject of cartoons - initially Avatar, but quickly evolving into Steven Universe (Emile’s favourite) and Kipo (Patton’s first choice). He had never met Emile before that day - the man had moved into town in early December, while Patton had been in his final year - but there was something in his friendly, comforting nature that quickly gave him the feeling that they had known one another for years.

Patton had been working there for about six months when the coffee shop across the road shut down. Nobody was really sure what had happened - not officially, anyway. The woman that had owned it never arrived to open up one morning, and when one of the part-timers (Jacob Hollis, a guy in his second year of highschool) went over to her home to check on her and collect the key for the shop, he found a heat haze shimmering over the empty home, door hanging open, windows staring vacantly across the street. A small smudge of blood was found on the back door, and was quickly confirmed to be Sofyah’s; all the evidence pointed toward her scraping herself on the gate and accidentally opening her home to one of the Things That Came From The Woods with the droplets of blood.

Of course, ‘general Lichmai weirdness’ wasn’t something that could be put on a police report or death certificate - especially if there was no body, and no proof of Sofyah’s death - so she was merely marked as a missing person.

Nobody really mourned the death of Lichmai’s One-Stop Coffee Shop. Patton, whose tastes had changed somewhat since he had been a child and now found most hot drinks distasteful, had taken one mouthful of the latte he had bought there and almost spat it out at the weirdly gritty texture. Emile frequently mourned the fact that all of their sugary drinks (the man had a sweet tooth the size of the moon) tasted as though they had been mixed with a spade and were all concerningly cruncy. Juliette, who sometimes had coffee and sometimes had tea and sometimes even went for one of the sugary monstrosities that Emile seemed to enjoy so much, had reported that their tea was either much too weak, or had been left brewing for much too long.

When, a month later, they arrived at work to find that the sign above the coffee shop had been painted and replaced almost overnight, all Juliette had said was that she hoped the new owner of what was now the Eyes-Wide Café knew how to make a decent cup of tea.

Patton was in charge of their first coffee run - they took it in turns to get the drinks - and had joined the small queue of people with some apprehension. Sure, Sofyah’s coffee might have left a lot to be desired, but at least he had known what to expect… When the leather jacketed barista had peered at him through their sunglasses, eyes catching on the alice-band keeping his blond curls from his eyes, the expression that crossed their face suggested that they wanted to say something other than, “Welcome to the Eyes-Wide Café, doll! Let me guess, you look like a coffee person? Black, no sugar?”

Patton had nodded, running a hand self-consciously through his hair. “Good guess, ...Remy.” There was a name-badge pinned to his jacket. “One of those, and one…” He scanned the board behind the counter. “One raspberry-cream frappé, and one hibiscus tea, please.”

“Buying for the rest of the office, I see. Am I to expect you to become a permanent fixture?”

“Depends on how good the coffee is,” Patton grinned at him - he had a feeling that they both knew that he would be back no matter how the coffee was. The three of them had been patrons of Lichmai’s One-Stop Coffee Shop for half a year despite the awful drinks served there, after all.

“Babe, you’re gonna find that I make the best drinks this side of Italy. Tell you what, I’m gonna add a little twist to your coffee - no extra charge, and nothing dodgy, don’t panic, daddy-o,” Remy added, catching Patton’s raised eyebrow and correctly interpreting it as concern. “I’ll save the cocktails for later.”

Patton hesitated a moment longer before nodding, and Remy whooped, sliding Emile’s frappé and Juliette’s tea onto the counter. Patton’s black coffee followed it a moment later, and when Patton picked it up, he caught a whiff of coffee granules and something else - chilli, maybe?

Most food and drink just smelled a little off to him these days. This coffee, however? It smelled… Good. Really good. Remy must be some sort of wizard.

When he made it back to the clinic and delivered the drinks to his colleagues, Patton found that the drink tasted as good as its aroma suggested it would.

When Juliette came back from getting drinks the following day, she was clutching a cup of something green that somehow bore the scent of springtime. She said it was the best cup of tea she had ever tasted.

When Emile arrived back at their office the day after, he was frowning faintly, but clutching something that looked like the illegitimate child of a sugar factory and a confectioner’s shop. It was bright pink, covered in rainbow sprinkles and more cream than any one person could realistically eat in their lifetime, let alone one morning, and just looking at it made Patton’s teeth hurt.

Those drinks became their regular order: one coffee, house special; one ginger, jasmine, and spice tea (the spices seemed to change from day to day, and Juliette never had a bad word to say about them); one rainbow frappé (Patton was one hundred percent certain that the rainbow frappé was another house special - he had never seen another person with one, and didn’t want to, either). Some days, when he had part-timers in, Remy would come to drop the drinks off themself, and hang around in the waiting room for a while.

It took approximately three months for Patton to work out that Remy wasn’t hanging around for his own fascinating quips and puns, but because he was trying to strike up a conversation with Emile. The discovery had been made when Patton went into the shop to get coffee one morning, and Remy had leaned over the desk with an unusually serious expression on their face.

“Say, Pat, you wouldn’t happen to know if Picani’s dating anybody?”

It wasn’t the bluntness that took Patton by surprise - Remy rarely went for tact when they spoke - but more the upfrontness. “Ah, so that’s why you’ve been hanging around our office so much!”

Remy didn’t blush, but his eyes slid away from Patton and toward the drink he was making, even though they both knew he could mix it with his eyes closed. “I just want to know if I have a chance, babe. No need to make a big deal out of it.”

“It’s a huge deal!” Patton countered, grabbing one of the sugar sachets from the pot on the counter and spilling it across the surface, then etching a good-luck knot into it. “The ice-cold Remy - how do I not know your surname? Anyway - with a crush on my colleague!”

Remy shook their head, pushing Patton’s order toward him. “Chill, babe. Nothing’s gonna come of it - he barely looks at me. I was just curious.”

Chuckling, Patton patted - ha, Patton patted, he should remember that - Remy’s hand and picked up the cardboard carrier containing their drinks. “Sure. I’ll keep quiet. And he’s single - any time you need me and Juliette to clear out of the office for you to make your move, just send a message by putting sugar in my coffee. I’ll know you have something sweet planned!”

He had ignored Remy’s indignant protests that he wasn’t actually going to do anything, given that Emile barely seemed to pay any attention to him, and kept a careful eye on his colleague over the next few days, and then the next few weeks. Six months passed before Patton came to the conclusion that Remy really wasn’t about to do anything to further their dreams of dating the other therapist.

It was a shame, really. Patton had a feeling that Remy’s down-to-earth presence would be grounding - grounding, like coffee grounds? Anyway - for Emile, who could be flighty and sometimes seemed as though he had so many ideas that he was liable to take off like a cartoon-powered spaceship; he thought that Emile’s enthusiasm and general desire to see the good in things and people would probably balance out some of Remy’s overwhelming appetite for cynicism and sarcastic quips. They’d be really cute together.

Plus, he knew that Emile wasn’t dating anybody: he might have talked Juliette through not one but two breakups since Patton had known them, he might have enthusiastically egged on Patton’s crush on the downstairs receptionist - at least until the guy had turned out to be straight - but when asked about his own private life, he had always maintained that whilst he wasn’t opposed to the idea of a relationship, he hadn’t found anyone he liked enough (romantically, at least) to attempt to pursue one.

This was the quandary that Patton had been deliberating as he had made his way through the woods that afternoon: how to discreetly push Emile and Remy into such a position that they realised that they were perfect for one another without giving away Remy’s crush or his own involvement. Or, more accurately, how to get Emile to realise that Remy was quite obviously his soulmate, and Remy to realise that he shouldn’t just give up on the object of his affections without trying to find out if they were interested.

Of course, Patton wasn’t particularly good at romance. Of right and wrong, he considered himself a master. He had had more than enough practice at most emotions - even if some of his methods weren’t exactly ones he’d recommend in a professional capacity (this came back to his expert grasp of right and wrong). He was pretty much unbeatable when it came to hugs, and whilst his cooking left something to be desired, his baking was usually spectacular (when he paid attention to the recipe, that was). He knew every single thing about avoiding misfortune in Lichmai, and he knew how to survive the world Outside, too.

So how hard could it be? He’d need something beige, and beige seemed to be Emile’s preferred base colour. It shouldn’t be too difficult to persuade him to wear a ribbon of the same shade. Getting one or both of them fixed up with a bell would be a little harder, but if he picked one of the town dances as the stage to his matchmaking then most people would be wearing bells. White carnations, whilst known to be attractive to some of the Things That Hid In The Trees, were also perfect first-date flowers - he’d just have to make sure he sprinkled in plenty of false indigo to counteract their more negative effects.

The false indigo was one of his reasons for wandering through the forest on one of his days off, actually. He usually stayed away from this side of the river and the cave system that fed it, knowing what kind of Things liked to sleep in the mines, but he knew there were usually more flowers where the Things That Lay In Wait lay in wait.

It hadn’t taken him too long to find a small clearing full of blooms, and once he had matched one of the purple flowers to the picture he had saved on his phone he had turned around to find a good place to eat lunch.

That was when the first of the afternoon’s strange encounters took place. Patton was just walking slowly, studying the trees around him and looking out for mushroom rings or twigs and stones forming specific shapes (one always had to be on their guard in the woods, after all!) when he became aware of the snapping of twigs behind him.

It couldn’t have been one of the Things That Silently Stalked, largely because most of those things lived up to their name and were silent until it was too late to get away - unless they were deliberately trying to scare him to make a hunt more interesting. That seemed unlikely, though. Patton’s clothing had mistletoe berries sewn into every hem, and he was wearing his ring-pull and stone necklace. He knew every trick in the book.

It couldn’t have been an animal, either - unless one of the elk had managed to get themselves seriously injured and was staggering through the trees. Even then, most animals would be quieter than this.

Patton had turned on the spot to stare in the direction of the noise, which he had suddenly realised was getting closer to him, but stayed silent. He was almost holding his breath by the time somebody burst out of the foliage, panting hard. They were wearing… What were they wearing?

It looked like a band shirt - one that was ripped almost in two down the front, ruining whatever logo had been below the words that now read ‘Black V’ and ‘rides’ - underneath what had once been a denim jacket that was now a few scraps of denim held together by threads. The rips on their jeans looked deliberate, at least, but Patton found his eyes drawn to the fluffy mess on one foot (the other was bare). What the heck?

Then their head snapped up, and Patton was met with a pair of glowing eyes and hollow cheeks, tanned skin a nearly ashen colour. Drool was dripping down their chin, and he could see bloody scratches on their exposed chest; more blood had dried on their upper lip, as though from a nosebleed. Whoever this was, they obviously weren’t human - but they weren’t like most of the Things that Patton could think of.

Everyone Patton had met, every animal he had seen, all sported a faint glow around their heads, similar to a halo in an old drawing. Emile had one. Juliette had one. His parents, Remy, the dog on the street, the people he had had classes with at uni, the squirrels he had passed on his walk. It was faint, only really visible when he was looking for it, but it was still there.

This person didn’t have a light spreading around their head.

When Patton concentrated, he could see very faint wisps of light lingering around their chest.

He raised an eyebrow as they took a jerky step forward, and their eyes met for the first time.

The green-eyed not-person drew their lips back from their mouth, revealing a set of long, needle-like fangs, and hissed.

Then they darted past Patton in a blur of movement and vanished into the trees.

Patton gazed thoughtfully after them for several long seconds. He hadn’t seen someone with so little light before, or in such a strange place. Were they okay? Maybe the lack of light explained their feral nature - but what about the scratches, and the ripped clothing? Should he go after them?

There was no way he was going to catch up with them now.

Frowning faintly, Patton started walking again.

The second weird encounter wasn’t until after he had eaten, but somehow managed to be even stranger.

It hadn’t started off as an encounter. Patton had stumbled across a duffle bag lying next to a fallen tree, and stared at it for several long seconds. He didn’t recognise it, but that didn’t mean much. It wasn’t as though he made a point of deliberately going through people’s houses and taking inventory of their bags and rucksacks.

There was a chance that the thing had been left here by somebody hiking, but not a very large one. Residents of Lichmai typically avoided the forest unless it was absolutely essential for them to venture into it, and if that happened they would be very careful not to announce their presence by doing something as stupid as leaving their possessions lying around. Outsiders, be they personal guests or just people passing through, were usually encouraged to stay away from the woods with rumours of bears and hidden caves - and Patton didn’t see why they would just leave their possessions abandoned like this.

The bag had probably been stolen, either by someone who had dumped it here, or by one of the Things in a more mischievous mood. Either way, he should probably try to get it returned to whoever it belonged to - he could take it to the police station, check in with his uncle on the way out (his uncle Terri was the town’s finance officer and worked in the mayor’s office, which was in the same building as the station).

If there was anything in the bag bearing a name, though, he could just bring it back in person - that would probably make someone’s day! Bending down, he unzipped the top of the bag and reached inside, pulling out the first thing to meet his hand. It was a camera - and quite a nice one, by the looks of it. Not new: it was slightly worn around the edges, and the little icons beside some of the buttons had half rubbed away, but it was clean and looked to be in excellent condition. (Patton assumed so, anyway. He didn’t know much about cameras).

He was just turning it over when there was a very human sounding gasp from somewhere to his right. Straightening up, he glanced over his shoulder to see a skinny guy standing on the other side of the clearing. “That’s - that’s mine.”

It was such a surprise to see another person in the forest (two people in one day! Sort of…) that Patton just stared for a moment. This guy was tiny, and clearly an Outsider - nobody should have allowed him to just wander through the woods on his own. “What’re you doing here, kiddo?” He pushed the irritation out of his voice. The kid was probably staying at the motel, right? He’d have to have a word with the owners.

“Walking. What are you doing? Why are you poking through my stuff?” The words had a staccato, rapidfire effect to them, as though whoever this was was desperate to get the conversation over with as soon as possible. Sensible. It wasn’t safe to talk to strangers in the woods.

Patton made himself smile. He had probably just freaked this poor kid out completely. “Just checking it hadn’t been abandoned here!” He hesitated for a second, then kept going. “I was going to take it back into town if nobody showed up - can’t have littering around here!” Really - he wasn’t going to steal anything. The purple haired guy looked pretty nervous - did he think Patton was about to drop his camera? He lifted it a little to show that it was safe in his hands, then glanced at the display - he must have pressed the power button by mistake, because it had lit up. “This is a lovely camera, kiddo. Are you a professional? Haven’t seen you around here before.”

“No.” The answer was short, almost rough, and when he took a step forward Patton flinched automatically. (The fight or flight instinct was hard to repress sometimes).

There was a blinding flash, and Patton cried out automatically: “Srednas nottap!” The protective phrase was almost always on his lips, ready to spill over at a split-second’s notice. In a town like Lichmai, a second’s hesitation when faced with danger could be the difference between life and painful, horrible… Something. Death wasn’t always the worst thing out there.

Then he realised that he must have hit the trigger on the camera by mistake, and glanced sheepishly over it at the kid again. “Kiddo?” It looked as though they were going to throw up - were they ill? “Are you alright? You’ve gone grey - do you need to sit down?” He was careful to keep his voice calm, trying not to let too much concern bleed into his words, trying not to sound too indifferent.

The guy didn’t seem to hear him. “Give - Give his camera back.” Was he shaking? His voice was shaking. “My camera. Give it back.”

He really thought that Patton was going to break the camera. It looked like a prized possession. Maybe he shouldn’t have just picked it up. Glancing back down at the device in his hands, Patton found himself greeted with the gallery (had he accidentally navigated there? He should put this thing down before he deleted a photo by mistake). “Sure, sorry. It’s not damaged, though - you can relax, kiddo.” The picture he was looking at was clearly the one he had just taken: the stranger was standing against a backdrop of trees, staring nervously at the camera. The image wasn’t blurry in the slightest, which counted as a good picture in Patton’s book! “This is actually a really good picture of you, you know? You’ll probably want to delete it, but...”

He trailed off, frowning again. The other guy’s shoulders had hunched and he seemed to be curling in on himself, not listening to anything Patton was saying. Was… Was he hyperventilating?

Oh. Oh, damn. Damn, heck, rats, snap - putting the camera carefully back into the bag, Patton took several steps forward. “Hey. I’m sorry, I didn’t think… I’ve put the camera down. Can you take a deep breath for me?”

It didn’t look as though the kid could hear him, and Patton’s heart ached for the poor guy. It looked as though he were slipping into a full-blown panic attack. Was this his fault? Could he have avoided it if he had just put the camera down in the first place? Guilt twisted Patton’s stomach for a brief second before vanishing. Okay. He could deal with this - he was a therapist, for heaven’s sake!

“Just focus on me, alright? I’m going to count, and it would be amazing if you could breathe with me. You’re safe. Ready? We’re going to breathe in now, for four. Ready? In, two, three-”

Then the kid started glowing.

Not just the light that hung around his head: his whole body started glowing. There was a growling sound, as though from a large beast - maybe the lions from The Lion King - and then a burst of white-hot light light exploded from the thin body in front of him.

“What the heck?!” His own pained exclamation was drowned out by the scream from the other guy.

Patton was about to start chanting, about to start throwing ground walnuts into the air around them in an attempt to dispel whatever malevolent Thing had come to attack, when the ground disappeared from under them, and they were falling.

There was darkness.

Nothing but darkness, for breath after breath, for assassin after assassin, for song after song, for speech after speech, for silence upon silence upon silence upon silence.

There was darkness.

And then there was light.

#WhatHappenedInLichmai #Lichmai Patton #Lichmai Remy #Lichmai Remus #Lichmai Emile #Lichmai Virgil

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neptunecreek · 5 years

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Mint: Late-Stage Adversarial Interoperability Demonstrates What We Had (And What We Lost)

from Deeplinks https://ift.tt/2DNYjQL

#Deeplinks

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star-nova · 5 years

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The Lives of the RiffRaff: Ellia Rambeau-The Sound of Secrets

We Are the RiffRaff Rickie Johnson-The Art of War Vera Sherwood-Little Sister Kali Muburu-Hair Tracy Kwan-Vergil Franz Fawke-Hecklers James Weaver-The Preacher Mamoru Hayagawa-Three Weddings Charmain Dekker-Frankfort Talia Santiago-Queen of the City Sophia Bolshevik-Elsie’s Boyfriend Elsie Bolshevik-Blood

The quiet solitude of our little town welcomed us back with open arms. Everything was exactly as we had left it, and there was no grand fanfare to celebrate our return. The town had been free to forget we existed in the two weeks we had been away, and now that we're back three days before our planned return, it could decide for itself whether or not it wanted to remember us again.

But there was our bretheren, the fellow RiffRaff. The first ones we passed were Aaron and Jager, who must've been on their break from work and were carrying wrapped sandwiches from the deli. They waved at us, and Aaron called out, “Hey! Hey, you're back!” Talia didn't stop for them, nor did she stop for Paige when she climbed up onto her fence to watch us pass by, nor did she even stop for her good friend Arthur when he darted off down the road after us, shouting, “He-ey, Talia! Talia's back! She's back, y'all!”

The hours-long drive back to Tanager was eerily silent. Even Talia, who normally never shut up, hardly spoke a word. She, and we, had too many secrets to lock up, and the sound of secrets is a dead, spooky silence. The city had changed us all in the worst possible way, and left us with these heavy new burdens that nobody asked for.

Talia pulled up into her driveway, where her birthday motorcycle dutifully waited for her, and said, “Show's over. Get out.” I didn't think I'd be too willing to take a trip with Talia again, which I'm sure was just fine with her. I opened Sophia's door for her, but she made it clear that she wanted to be the last one out of the van. We allowed her that.

Charmain said, “Thank you for taking us all out, Talia. Even on account of...” She stopped herself. “Well...I'd like to try to think of it all in terms of how much fun we all had before...”

“Fuck it, Char,” Talia said. “There's no other way to think about it, so we just won't think about it at all.” She held all of the bitterness that came with being prematurely forced out of your element. Talia owned the city. She was the city. She would have liked more time in her home, with her family, where she was the queen. Now, she was back in Tanager where she would be RiffRaff again. I never felt sorry for Talia Santiago until now.

“We'd better get going, then,” I said. “Home missed us.” I looked to Sophia, who was holding onto her suitcase like it was a shield. Now, everything had to be a shield. I motioned for her to follow us back to the rental house we both shared. It was at that moment that Arthur came vaulting over the fence. “There she is!” he cried out, flinging his arms around Talia. “Welcome back, you fucking queen, you! Welcome the hell back!”

She socked him in the gut. It meant she was glad to see him.

Our first night back in town, Ramona invited us over to McEvoy's to share our vacation stories. Sophia declined to go, as I expected her to. When we got there, we found a small party of RiffRaff there waiting for us, providing all of the welcome we didn't get from the Others. There was Ramona and Paige, Bex, Aaron, and Jager, Leon and Vera, Kali, Zatch, and Rickie, and Franz and Emery. My heart swelled with sudden warmth and love for our neighbors, and I realized just how much I'd missed them all while we were in the city.

The first thing Ramona asked us was, “Where's Sophia?”

“She isn't feeling well,” I told her.

“Aw, that sucks to hear,” Ramona said. “But how was your trip? Tell us everything!”

Oh, Ramona, we can't tell you everything. I looked at the others, who were all locked up inside themselves with everything to hide. Finally, Charmain was the first to speak: “Well, we met Talia's family.”

You could have heard a pin drop. I don't think any of them had even thought of Talia having a family. To be honest, they weren't at all what I had expected either. Vera asked, “What were they like?”

“I can talk about my own family, thank you, Charmain,” Talia spoke up. But instead of the truth, she said, “They rest seven feet beneath an old graveyard, deep in the heart of the city. On the night of a full moon, they come out when summoned by an incantation spoken by the bearer of a cursed artifact...”

“Oh, Talia.” Charmain rolled her eyes.

Talia shrugged. “They're a typical big-ass Portuguese family. There isn't much else to them.” She was holding back. There was nothing at all typical about the Santiago family, but I suspected she'd rather let the others' imaginations run wild.

Zatch asked, “Did you do anything awesome? See any cool sights?”

Charmain passed around her phone full of the pictures we'd taken in happier times. There was a picture of me, Sophia, and Elsie hanging upside-down from a jungle gym in the park. Our faces were red from the blood rushing to them, Elsie's tongue was hanging out, and Sophia had the goofiest grin on her face. I wondered if I'd ever see her smile like that again.

Out of nowhere, Paige asked us, “Did you pick up any guys?”

Some of the others chuckled. RiffRaff only picked up other RiffRaff. I wanted to tell them all about how the city broke that rule, how we'd been waved at by guys on the road and how guys at the club had asked for our numbers, and how Talia's brother Monty kept coming around the flat just to see Charmain, under the pretense of “checking up on us.” In Tanager we were RiffRaff and in the city we were beauties. But to bring any of it up would eventually lead to the monster Elsie found at the arcade...

“No,” Elsie told them, “we didn't.”

I washed down the secrets with my draft of ale.

By Monday, life settled back into place. Charmain returned to her flower shop, sending Melinda off with two weeks' pay in her pocket. I went back to work at the library, and that's where I discovered that Sophia had quit her job there.

I knew nothing would ever really be the same again.

That afternoon after work, I found Sophia sitting on the couch and staring into nothingness, as she tended to do these days. I sat down beside her. “So,” I said, “you quit your job?”

Sophia looked at me as if she was afraid I might be mad. I put my arm around her to reassure her. “What happened, Soph?”

She was silent for a good fifty seconds. Then finally, she said, “I j...I j...I j-just c-can't handle it right now.”

She just couldn't face the world, not anymore. The world was too sinister and uncertain and full of dark secrets. I gave her a hug. “It's okay, Soph,” I said. “Just do what you need to do, all right?” I patted her on the back. “We'll get by.” Secretly, I had no idea how we'd be able to keep up with the rent and bills with only my check. Elsie had her own apartment to worry about and I didn't want to burden her by asking her for help. But now was not the time to worry Sophia. I could worry about it all on my own. “We'll be okay,” I said, more to myself than to her.

“I'm...I'm so s-sorry,” Sophia said.

“I'll figure something out,” I assured her, squeezing her hand. “I just want you to focus on you right now.”

“Ellia?” Sophia looked at me like she had been concealing secrets all day, and none of them were any good. I nodded to her; after all that had happened and then finding out I'd have to keep a flat afloat on my own, I figured I could handle anything else. I was wrong.

“Elsie...us...we....we might h-have to...to go b-back to our parents...”

Crash. My entire world toppled like a giant game of Jenga that Sophia and I had both lost. That awful Kyle had moved the one block that would send the tower falling down. Too many thoughts spoke all at once: No! Not without Sophia! Sophia can't leave! I can't live here without Sophia! We had lived together since our college days, when we had been eachother's only friend. We'd graduated together, got jobs together, moved to Tanager together “just to see what it would be like,” became RiffRaff together, and now we had to carry eachother's pain. At the same time, I wanted to slap myself for being so damn selfish. My best friend in the world had been so violated and devastated that her entire world had to change, all in the space of one horrible moment, and I was only thinking about how I'd go on without her. In the space of that one horrible moment, everything that made her Sophia Bolshevik had been taken away from her. I thought about the big goofy grin on the jungle gym. I thought about jumping rope in the park and racing eachother across the community pool. I thought about her pretty caroling voice at Florence's Christmas party and our sparklers last 4th of July—would the 4th of July even be allowed to come this year? All of it was a thing of the past, and it was all because of that one awful, awful moment.

I didn't know what to say. There didn't seem to be a damn thing I had any right to say. I pushed aside the overwhelming sound of secrets in my head, secrets that the two of us now had to carry together. I wrapped my best friend up in my arms and I held her and held her and held her.

#Fiction by Me #The Lives of the RiffRaff #writing #work in progress

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