#if you turn them inside out do they not make a grotesque yet effective building material

[vaguely-concerned]

in hindsight the funniest part of the recurring cow jokes is that john says he built the wall out of cows and a bunch of sheep, and no one, not a single soul, seems to have spoken up on behalf of the sheep at any point fjsdkfhsajk. why the livestock sympathy inequality. why the cattle bias. I recognize that sheep are -- to be fair -- quite annoying to deal with, but if you prick them do they not bleat etc., it doesn't seem fair for them to get forgotten in the middle of all this

(the description of 'it was at this point that he had the grace to look embarrassed (may we even go so far as to say... sheepish)'... god stop being the funniest bitch in the world john I'm mad at you)

[thewildwaffle]

Haunted Houses

“You know the translators don’t work for written word right?” Danro grunted, eyeing the small tablet screen his human companion held out to him. It was displaying several small human glyphs.

“It’s just a waiver saying you’re okay with coming in, and that if you have any bad effects from the flashing lights or spooky stuff they use, you can’t sue them because you chose to be here willingly, blah blah blah.” Human Addy again held up the tablet. “Basically it’s just the legal-ese version of everything we talked about earlier. I can read through it for you if you really want.”

Danro let out a growling hum. “Just look through it and make sure there’s nothing in there that wasn’t what you told me earlier.”

“No prob.” Addy pulled the waiver back and scanned over it quickly, mumbling to herself under her breath as she read. Danro looked at the human working behind the check-in counter who was doing their best to not be obvious that they were gawking at him. Not that that bothered him or anything. Standing head and shoulders above most other humans and covered in long light brown and white fur, he certainly stood out from the gathered crowd.

“We’re good to go, everything checks out!” Addy declared, handing the tablet and stylus to Danro. “You just need to write a signature at the bottom and we can go in.”

“But I don’t know how to write in your language,” Danro glanced dubiously at the screen.

“Just take it,” Addy pushed the stylus into his large hands, “You can write in your language, it doesn’t matter.”

Danro doubted that. He sighed. Humans and their contracts. They were obsessed with them, and honestly, the more he got to know of their race, the more he started to understand why. Humans, for all their ingenuity and seemingly lovable natures, could be quite underhanded. They could think their way around and through most obstacles, especially when those obstacles were well-established but loosely-defined rules and expectations. Many a treaty or trade agreement had been swung wildly in favor of the party consisting of or including humans. It was like they lived for loopholes and variable interpretations. Intersystem lawyers have been scrambling to learn from and replicate the style humans wrote contracts. After all, only a human contract could (at least somewhat) confidently bind a human.

He scribbled his name in his own familiar letters, figuring that would have to be good enough. He trusted Addy when she said it was just a liability waiver after all. She had already signed one herself. After handing the tablet and stylus back to the kid working the booth, they were off.

As they walked around the entrance gate, Danro’s mind immediately went into overdrive trying to take in and process the scenery. The surrounding buildings creating the quad the event was hosted in were lit up with orange, purple, and green lights. Queues of patrons stretched along the concrete sidewalks that ran between buildings. They were watching costumed dancers in the middle of the quad as they waited to enter the “haunted” buildings. What looked like old metal trash cans had fires lit inside them with small crowds of humans and the occasional alien figure huddled around them. There were smaller lines in front of a few trailers and booths that looked like they were selling very aromatic foods and drinks.

An approaching figure caught Danro’s eye. It was almost as tall as him, draped in a raggedy shawl, and had a grotesquely disfigured face with lacerations running from the top of its head and across one eye. Danro sniffed. He saw blood, but he didn’t smell it. This must be a human actor in a costume, something Addy had warned him of beforehand. They were likely wearing stilts as they were almost eye level to him.

“My my my, what have we here!” The actor’s voice was both screechy and gravely, a combination that made Danro’s fur prickle slightly. "I've seen many a ghost and ghoul in these mansions, but I've yet to encounter any of the likes of you two." They made an exaggerated show of looking between Danro and Addy, as if sizing them up. “What do I call you two apparitions?”

Addy gave a small chuckled and gestured to herself. “I’m Addy, I’m a human. And this is Danro, he’s a kexi biet.”

“Mortals?!” The mask wobbled a bit as the actor stepped back dramatically and then leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, “I’d keep that information to yourselves while you’re here. Who knows what lurking terror might overhear and decide to snack on your bones!”

Danro smiled indulgently at the costumed human. They were certainly well in character.

“We’ll be sure to not mention it again,” he nodded.

“Be sure that you don’t!” the mask rose up so that the fake, glossy eyes were almost level with his own. “You are a brave biet, Danro. Brave, or perhaps foolish. I do hope you and your small companion survive. Come.” They turned and led them towards the center of the quad. They paused and waited for them to catch up next to one of the trash can fires. “Have either of you been here before?”

Addy nodded, “Yeah but it’s been YEARS.” Danro shook his head.

“What a treat, then.” They pointed to one of the closer buildings with a purple light out front. Danro noticed that the actor’s costume was detailed down to the largely uneven stitches on their sleeves. It gave their arm an odd shape. Or at least, he hoped the odd shape of their arm was just part of the costume.

“Each of these buildings is haunted, some more than others. They are color-coded by the lights of how ‘dangerous’ they are.”

“So is that one the safest?” Addy dipped her head to the building being pointed to.

Their guide only laughed ominously. “Present your passes to the attendants by the door. No running, no pushing, no flashlights or video, no explicit language as it disturbs our… residents, and keep your hands to yourself if you’d like to keep your hands.”

And without another word, their guide ambled off. Addy shuffled a little closer to the fire and grinned at Danro.

“Alrighty then! Which one do you want to do first?”

Danro looked around at the quad. The dancers finished their song and were now walking and milling away to tents to warm up or rest, smallish humans were carefully nibbling on a pink puffy food on a stick that looked suspiciously like hair. The buildings themselves loomed around them, lit by their colored lights and the flickering fires around the quad. Their boarded up windows gave no indication of what was inside, although they couldn’t quite muffle the occasional scream from within.

“I’d prefer it if we could find the one that’s the mildest first,” Danro admitted. “Kind of ease myself into this, if you will.”

“No worries, bud.” Addy started towards the building with the green lights. “I think that would be this one. Green usually means easy, or mild, or good or whatever.”

That’s not what green was usually associated with on his planet, but hey, trying to scare yourself as a method of amusement and recreation wasn’t really a thing back home either. This was all very new to him.

The line in front of the green building moved pretty quickly. As they approached the front, Addy put a hand on his arm and looked up at him.

“Hey, thanks again for coming. These things aren’t nearly as much fun alone.”

Danro smiled. “Thank you for the invite.” Addy had invited a few more from their crew once she knew they’d be planetside on Earth just before what she claimed was one of her favorite holidays. He had been the only one to accept. A few others had gone to a “corn maze” with another human from the crew. Apparently, it wasn’t “haunted” and so appealed to more crewmates. Danro accepted the invitation because it saddened him to think of Addy going somewhere scary alone. That, and afterward it would be known across the ship of how much more brave he was than those who were too afraid to come.

The attendants at the door reminded them of the rules, marked their passes, and opened the doors for them.

Once inside, the doors shut noisily and Danro could feel the confidence he’d held on to outside drip away. His senses were being thrown off in here. The lights were dim, which isn’t too bad, he didn’t have great night vision, but it was alright. But there was something wrong here. He couldn’t tell why, but he could feel it. As Addy started down a narrow corridor covered with cobwebs, he took a deep breath and told himself it was just his nerves. Or maybe, he thought as they continued down the winding corridor, it was all this smoke stuff. It wasn’t real smoke, it smelled different, like minerals instead of burned materials. That was also throwing him off. The first time he saw an amputated human arm dangling out of a bag, he nearly freaked out. It was only when they passed right by it that he realized he didn’t actually smell any blood. He clutched Addy’s shoulder ahead of him as they walked by.

Danro muttered to himself. “It’s not a real arm. It’s not real. It’s not real.” He was really just saying it to himself, but from the way Addy looked back and up at him, he knew she must have heard him.

The next room was divided by a series of ripped and filthy “curtains.” As soon as they entered, Danro growled. The lights here were flashing strobe lights, making it difficult to see. There were human-sized figures standing in the room. As they passed by, he realized they weren’t human, but some sort of mannequins. Good, he sighed. Some of them looked grotesquely mangled and mortally wounded. He was glad they weren’t actual humans. As they were deep into the large room, his heart nearly stopped as he realized that some of them were moving. No, he thought, no, it had to just be a trick of the strobe lights.

Near the exit of the room, one definitely moved. The figure jumped out at them with a gravely yell. Addy screamed and jumped back. Danro froze momentarily and had to remind himself to not attack. They weren’t in danger. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t-

Addy scampered through the exit without him. Danro did his best to maneuver after her. The figure that had scared them stared at him with white eyes. That… that’s not normal. Humans have colorful and/or dark eyes. They smiled at him, baring their teeth. Even when normal humans smiled like that, Danro found it disconcerting, but this was on a whole different level. This felt genuinely dangerous.

Addy was waiting for him in the next room.

“Sorry,” she panted. “Didn’t mean to leave you behind back there.”

“Their eyes,” he whispered loudly to her, as if worried they’d overhear and come after them from their room.

“I didn’t even see their eyes. Were they creepy?”

Danro nodded.

Addy smiled, without baring her teeth, Danro noted appreciatively. “This place has really stepped up their game since the last time I was here.”

They continued through, warily watching out for hiding figures, walking through narrow maze-like halls, over uncomfortably soft and uneven ground, and through a tunnel where the walls looked like they were spinning around them. He nearly lost his balance off the walkway. He could have sworn the ground was moving. Even after they passed through that and went up a flight of stairs, he could still feel the dizzying effects. Coupled with his sense of sight and smell being confused around nearly every turn, he was starting to feel the tendrils of dread creeping into his mind. As they rounded a turn, he immediately noticed a dark figure moving in the corner. They looked like they were climbing the walls. After a few heartbeats of analyzing its movements, he realized it was mechanical. Good, it was just a prop then. As they walked through the room, bright lights strobed and the figure on the walls flew at them. Addy screamed again and ran to the door. Danro jumped up and fell back on the ground. The figure jerked to a stop in the air a pace or two away, and slowly retracted back to the wall. As Danro scrambled back up to his feet, he noticed the folding metal lattice mechanics that moved the dark creature. As terrified as he was, he had to admit that that was quite a creative scare.

There were several other rooms they walked through with no actors inside, just creepy dolls and mannequins or unsettling objects that made Danro’s fur prickle. There was a long hall with poor lighting and a very low ceiling that even Addy had to duck to get through.

“I hope nothing tries to scare us in here,” Danro muttered as he squeezed through the narrow passageway. “I don’t think I’d be able to get away very fast.” “I don’t think there’s anything in here. Or at least there wasn’t when I came through here when I was in high school. I think this part’s mostly “scary” because it’s supposed to make you feel claustrophobic.”

Danro scanned the bare cinder block and exposed dim light bulbs along the narrow passageway. Well, he thought, it was certainly claustrophobic in here. He could feel his heart rate increase the longer they walked through here and was incredibly relieved when they reached the end. Addy helped him watch his step as he climbed down from the small exit and into the dim cellar-like room.

"Are you okay?"  She carefully brushed some fake cobwebs from the fur on his arms.

“I’m fine. There aren’t any more small tunnels like that though, are there?” Danro, much like many biets, did not enjoy tight spaces.

“I think there’s another one in one of the other buildings, but it’s nowhere near as constrictive as that, or as long.” She looked up at him with a concerned expression. “Is that alright? You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”

Danro smiled and nodded. “I’ll be fine. I got through this so far, I can handle it. Plus, it’s more fun to do these things together, right?”

Addy’s smile was worth any fright this place could throw at him anyway.

They pressed on and got a few more screams out of Addy and a few more alarmed jumps from Danro. As they rounded another corner and entered another dark room, Danro paused, senses alert to the scene before them. Something felt off, though he couldn’t place the reason why. His fur stood on end and he swore he could see his and Addy’s breath. He could see places where actors were likely hiding in wait to scare them, but that wasn’t where his attention was focused. There was something different about this room and it made his heart rate skyrocket.

He thought he saw movement in the corner of his vision, but when he turned his focus there, expecting to see an actor sneaking towards them, there was nothing. Addy slowly crept deeper into the dark room ahead of him. Not wanting to be separated in a place like this, he tried to stay close. Halfway through the room though, he froze. Did he really see… he swore mentally. Was that a chirnu? What was a thing like that doing in a human attraction? What was it doing here at all? It had no right, no right to exist outside biet folklore and nightmares. The living shadow, or the fang of the shadows, depending on who was telling the story. Danro closed his eyes instinctively. Don’t look at it. Don’t look at it and it might not look at you.

“Danro,” Addy whispered, realizing she no longer felt his hairy bulk behind her.

He said nothing but willed her to remain quiet. The chirnu might hear her if it hadn’t already.

“Danro, we’re almost at the end, just a little further.” She reached back to put a hand on his arm.

A loud shriek and rush of movement made them both jump. Danro swept Addy into his arms and ran. To gadring with the rules! He ran! He could hear laughter behind him and taunting voices that may or may not have been human, at this point he didn’t know nor care. He could smell fresh air ahead and it seemed to be like a beacon of hope to him.

“Danro!” Addy cried out but was cut off by a loud growl to their left. A figure jumped out from the shadows, donned in a ripped cloak, and holding a weapon that Danro later realized was a human tool used for cutting lumber.

How the heck had this maniac gotten in here with that?! Danro dodged to the right. Addy screamed and held on so tightly to Danro’s fur that she might have pulled a few tufts loose. The maniac with the saw laughed and gave chase.

This was a mistake! This was a mistake! This was a mistake!

Maybe if he could just make it outside where the crowds were, they could lose their pursuer. Surely he wouldn’t give chase into public?

Danro barreled through the final door and out into the chilly air outside. Relief! The roar of the saw was still right behind, and so he kept up with his pace. Thankfully, their pursuer didn’t seem to be able to keep up and eventually stopped a ways outside the door to laugh and Danro and Addy ran around the corner of the building and back to the crowded quad area.

Once he was absolutely sure they were no longer being followed, he stopped only long enough to set Addy back on the ground before he started again for the main entrance.

“Hey! Wait, where are you going?” Addy bounded after him.

“We need to let someone know. They need to be warned before someone gets killed!”

“What? Wait, do you- do you mean the chainsaw guy?” Addy was now at his side, but struggling to keep up. “That’s just part of the whole thing, it’s a classic end to a haunted house. There’s no actual chain or blade or whatever, it’s safe.”

Danro slowed and turned to face Addy. He studied her face. She was smiling and didn’t seem at all worried that they had almost been killed by a psycho with a “chain saw.” He took a few deep breaths to slow his heart down. “It’s not real? We’re fine?” He finally managed to ask.

Addy smiled and nodded. “We’re fine. So, first time through a haunted house, what did you think?” Danro looked back to the building they had just run out of. He stared hard at it, trying to make sense of the whole experience. Or mostly, trying to make sense of what he had seen in that last room. Had he really seen what he thought he saw?

“Danro? Are you okay?” Addy’s worried tone snapped him back.

“I thought…” he was almost embarrassed to ask now. Admitting that he had seen what would be to her an alien monster, a mythical alien monster at that, seemed to be a bit laughable now that they were back in the safety of the quad. Addy continued to look at him though, expecting him to finish his thought.

“I thought I saw… a chirnu in there in that last room,” he admitted quietly.

Addy blinked. “Chirnu? What’s that?”

He grimaced. It was said that talking about them could help them hunt you down later. As briefly as he could, he described the monster that terrorized biet folklore.

Addy listened intently and nodded. When he was done, she hummed. “That does sound pretty bad. But I’m pretty sure we’re okay. I don’t think what you saw in there was a chirnu.”

Relief flooded Danro’s system. He felt silly even entertaining the idea that chirinu were for one thing, real, and another thing, here on Earth. Although, that did leave one question.

“Then what did I see?”

“Well, I’m not entirely sure. That last room was definitely creepier than the others. I think it’s genuinely haunted.” Danro tilted his head and Addy laughed. “Although if I had to venture a guess, from your description I’d say it was probably a giant rubber spider. That room did kind of have a spider theme if you didn’t notice.” “Spider theme?”

“Yeah, I think the whole building kind of had a “phobia” theme to it. Arachnophobia is the fear of spiders. Lots of people have it. I just didn’t know biets had it too.”

Danro straightened his back in mock indignation. “I’m not afraid of spiders.”

Addy laughed. “Okay, then you were just pretending back there?”

Danro frowned, but the human’s happy energy was too much and he eventually cracked and smiled back. He looked around at the other patrons, mostly humans, who were waiting anxiously in line. They came to be scared. They wanted to be scared. How odd. And yet, Danro could feel himself still riding the high of his fight or flight senses. From what he understood, humans experienced a similar feeling, heightened by the production of a hormone called adrenaline. He could see how places like this might seem attractive to those seeking that rush.

“Well,” he responded airily, “I thought the whole point was to pretend to be scared.”

Addy laughed and teased. He teased back, recalling and imitating her many screams. They continued doing so while they waited in line to buy a bag of what Addy called “popcorn” and two caramel covered apples. Addy said they were some of her favorites, and caramel apples were a fall tradition. Danro enjoyed both. He smiled as he listened to Addy continue on about things she loved about the season and upcoming holiday before they went to wait in line for the building with the orange light.

That night became, quite possibly, one of his fondest memories. Humans are weird. They think getting scared on purpose is fun. Maybe Danro was a bit weird too because he whole-heartedly agreed.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

The Adults Are (not) Alright || Morgan & Remmy

So, about that expedition to the beach...

Morgan’s hands tingled as she pulled the new car up to the beach. There was a lot that wasn’t perfect right now, a lot she was missing, but the cool black interior, so shiny she could almost see her face reflected in it, and the seemingly endless safety features Remmy had pointed out filled her with a fluffy kind of fondness. It was enough to make her optimistic about finding something worthwhile on the beach. Shouldering her catch-all bag, she ambled down through the sand towards the cursed chest. 

“No sign of evil lobsters at least,” she said brightly. She spread out a blanket to save her legs from some of the still-cold sand and began scanning the markings on the chest anew, this time in search of any markings that might possibly indicate some kind of magic eyeball reverence or fear. “Still gonna look out for me though, right?”

Remmy had talked the entire car ride, nervous that if they shut up, they’d blurt out that it was Deirdre who bought the car. Though they both knew it was her, it was almost worth keeping the secret over. But today wasn’t about that. It was about the beach, and finding out some clues with the coins. And why people were seeing giant eyeballs or finding themselves unable to lie. They were surprised by how clean the beach was already. Barely a week, and there were no carcasses left, not even the giant one. Nothing to show for all the effort they’d put in except for the unmovable chest, which Morgan was now kneeling in front of. 

Remmy came up behind her and glanced down at it, remembering the night they’d spent yelling at it before finally giving in and walking away empty handed. That was the first night they’d started remembering things about...how they’d died. Blinking the thought away, Remmy bent down. “Of course I am. Today, I’m your personal bodyguard. No one’s getting at you unless they go through me first,” they said with a little grin. “See anything yet?”

Morgan couldn’t find much of anything yet. It all read as gibberish still, even with the digging she’d done at The Archive around early and pre-colonial arcana. “Not yet,” she said, frowning. “But maybe…” She edged away from the chest and reached out the universe, the part of it that hadn’t been instructed to hate her by some two hundred year old bullshit, the part that just was, that could catch anyone who knew how to make the leap just right. The coins in the chest rose, trickling through the air like drops of water in a river, and floated towards her, close enough to touch if she wanted. Morgan held them still and studied them carefully. “No eyeballs. You’d think an eyeball demon or whatever would leave something behind all, ‘worship me, or i’ll stare you to death,’ right?” There was one in the bunch that looked different than the assortment that waited her examination with Cece. She set the others to the side and brought the new one into her hand, dropped it gently into her bag. “These don’t really look like anything either,” she grumbled, but then, this was barely her department of sleuthing, so much older than anything she’d had to search for in hunting down her curse.

Remmy stared in awe as Morgan made the coins float up out of the chest. “Woah…” they murmured. Remmy stood back up, looking around. “I guess? I don’t really know how big eyeballs work. It seemed real desperate to get back into the ocean. Maybe there’s like...some signs down by the shore?” They glanced around to make sure there wasn’t anything nearby, they had come here to look after Morgan, after all, before heading down that way. They wished they could remember more, help Morgan figure this out, but all they remembered was being hungry and angry and then cold and their head was fuzzy. “It went like straight this way,” they said, pointing, the water lapping up onto their feet as they approached.

Morgan grinned, a little smug. “That’s magic for ya,” she said. With the spoils aside, she could look inside the trunk, maybe someone had bothered to write, ‘in case of eyeball emergency, do this!’ But of course, nothing could be that simple. The best she could hope for is some epiphany with the gaggle of coins that had been collected. “Hey, Remmy--?” She looked around. Remmy had wandered off towards the sea. “I don’t think we’re going to find anything new here. Do you think it’s still in the shallows?” She asked, shouldering her bag again. She didn’t step in, too scarred from Ricky’s tales of deep sea supernatural terrors and of the freezing curse she’d won after the last time, but she peered down into water as best she could. So intently, even, that she did not see the surge of movement in the water until the giant worm reared out of the water and flashed a hungry, pink mouth at them. Shit.

“Run!”

Remmy turned back to look at Morgan as she called out to them. “I mean, it could be--” they started, but they didn’t get to say much else before something cold and wet and-- painful??-- wrapped around Remmy’s waist. It squeezed and it stung and it burned and they convulsed, as if some sort of toxin were trying to seep into them. Clearly, it wasn’t doing its full job, though, as Remmy tried to wrench at whatever was on them “Morgan!” they shouted, suddenly full of fear and horror. “MORGAN GET IT OFF--” a yank from whatever wrapped around them and Remmy face planted into the cold sand. Another yank and they were suddenly able to see what was happening. A worm looking thing, giant and angry and full of serrated teeth. “Wha-what is that!?” they shouted, reaching to try and pry themself free again, but the gross, wet whatever that was wrapped around them ensnared one of their arms, pulling them in closer to its gaping maw.

Morgan was racing back up the shore, certain Remmy was right behind her, when they cried out in a voice she had never heard before. She staggered to a halt and turned around, her lungs in her throat. The sea worm had done something to Remmy, pinned them to the shore with something webbed and disgusting from its too-wide, too-dangerous mouth. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit and EARTH. Morgan dropped her knees as the creature made a shrill, rattling sound from deep in its throat. “Uhh--hang on! Hang on, okay!” The was no way she was stabbing or throwing anything into that thing. It was going to swallow Remmy if she didn’t do something. Morgan slammed her arms down into the sand, her cuff deep in the earth. And with all the panic in her, she hurled her energy into it-- a mound of rock rose from the ground, rumbling with fury. Morgan gave herself deeper to the ground, pouring in what she could. Come on, she thought. I am a fucking witch and I am not losing this-- She scrambled closer, opening every door to herself she knew and pushed. The quartz jutted out as if they had been shot by a trigger. Clear spears of prism rock, long and clustered and wild and sharp pierced through the sand, enough to build a massive depression in the earth where Morgan had traded the shore for this. The worm thrashed as the ground came out from under it and the crystals held it in place, thrashing in the air. Morgan’s arm gave out for a moment. “Wow,” she rasped, gulping for air. “Remmy!” She called again. “Are you okay?” The worm wasn’t dead yet, and she still needed to get her friend free.

Remmy wasn’t sure what was going on, all they knew was that they could feel a burning pain anywhere that things tongue or whatever was touching them. It was so painful. Remmy couldn’t remember the last time they’d felt so much pain. They’d thought they’d never feel pain ever again. But it burned and seared as the toxin tried its best to neutralize them, finding its effects outpaced by Remmy’s zombie healing. But not its pain, prolonged by Remmy’s ability to outheal it. Suddenly, the thing was being lifted from the ground as spears of crystal struck through it, hoisting it up and holding it there as if it were some fancy display, pinned inside a box. It screeched and writhed, but didn’t let go. Not yet. Remmy managed to release their arm, tearing that the now drying mucus that was all around them. Clawed at the ground, trying to get away. “MORGAN!” they shouted again, heading spinning, body shuddering. All they could think about was getting out alive. Gunshots. Bodies exploding. Remmy’s eyes flickered angry. “GET IF OFF!” they turned to rip and tear at the thing. Strength summoned from fear and pain and desperation. Finally ripping themself loose enough to scrambled away, feet meer inches from the things maw, scrambling away, stumbling into the holes created by Morgan, where the Earth had taken away for crystal. “Get if off. Get it off,” they said, pulling at the now dried mucus still clinging to their body. 

Morgan couldn’t see what was wrong with Remmy from her half collapsed position in the sand, but she heard the panic in their voice. She reached for Deirdre’s knife in her bag and staggered to her feet, leaving it behind. She found Remmy still half covered in--what even was it? Some flaking, grotesque web of mucus. But they were free, they were moving. “Remmy, Remmy hold still. I can’t get it if you’re moving,” she said. She scraped the bigged pieces off with the blade and flung them to the side, angle awkward to avoid cutting into her friend. “Can you make yourself breathe? Will that help?” She was just about done, enough to put a firm hand on their shoulder and try to meet their eyes despite her exhaustion. 

“Get it off,” Remmy said, still shuddering, even though they were safe and the thing was dead and Morgan was here. As soon as it was off, they clung to her, scrambling out of the hole they’d fallen in. They looked at her when she tried to steady them both. They’d failed again. They were supposed to protect Morgan but here she was, protecting them. Eyes still filled with fear, they swallowed, nodded. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” Arms shaking, they reached out to hold Morgan up. She looked exhausted. They didn’t want to look back at the worm, but the searing red marks on their arms were still there. “I-- let’s go. Can we go? We should--” tried to shake the feeling off. “There’s nothing here. We should go before--” another one shows up.

Morgan was slow on her feet, the beach was sort of spinning, and the crater she’d carved seemed to change angles as they climbed out. “You’re not fine,” she mumbled. “And why didn’t you run? Was it that fast?” It had come out of nowhere; this big, stupid, freak monser out of nowhere… “You have to be careful around me, you know that, right?” When they were a safe distance away, she pulled on their arm to stop and plopped onto the ground. “I almost wasn’t fast enough.” Heck, she’d barely been strong enough.

“I’m fine,” Remmy protested. “I-- I tried to. But I--” they paused. Why hadn’t they? All they remembered was that searing pain. They looked down at their arms again, but by now, the sears were almost gone. “I don’t know. It’s-- are you okay? What? No, I’m-- it was-- it was fine. I’m sorry, I just…” panicked. Remmy finally looked back at the thing, still skewered on the crystals. “You did make it, though. Besides, it’s not like I can--” die? What would’ve happened had that thing swallowed them? Remmy’s hand shook again and they grabbed it with their other to steady themself. “It was okay.”

“No,” Morgan said, not half as emphatically as she’d intended. She felt like a popped balloon, all aired out and in need of a good pump. “That thing was going to eat you, Remmy. I’m pretty sure even you couldn’t survive being in several pieces, or whatever it was going to do. And even if you could--” The idea of existing in that kind of anguish, permanently, was too much for Morgan to consider for long. She slumped down, head between her knees, in case she actually became sick. “What almost happened to you was not okay. I, however, am fine. Just drained. That was uh, not my usual craftsmanship.” She looked up in the direction of the worm. Still thrashing, but not as hard. Morgan shuddered as she watched it. At least she’d killed this one on purpose, and sacrificing a monster to keep Remmy around was more than okay with her. “Just try to watch out for yourself more. Remember I’m a danger zone, even if I can’t help it.”

“It-- I--” Remmy stuttered along. They didn’t wanna think about that. Surviving in several pieces of themself, spread over, around. Separate. A familiar feeling somehow, as if part of them was missing somewhere else. As if part of them was still back in Afghanistan in that pile of bodies. Or buried in one of their caskets. Or both. Remmy slumped onto the sand, suddenly weary. “You’re not a danger zone. Besides, if I die protecting a friend, then I guess it means my life meant something,” they muttered.

“Yes I am!” Morgan said. “And I am trying not to constantly psych myself out with that responsibility, but--” But Remmy was almost destroyed. It was too early for something like this to be happening. Spring had barely started, and somehow the curse was already rolling its way toward her. And someone had to do the job of minimizing the damage. And somehow no matter what she did, it felt like it was always her, by herself. “Forget it.”

“Oh, baby girl.”

Morgan went rigid. She did not look up, but kept her eyes glued on the sand, stretching her awareness to Remmy’s cold body near her. To the cold sand under her. The flaking, exhausted streams of energy inside her. Anything but the voice--so much clearer than even her darkest recollections. 

“What did I tell you about this? This is why we didn’t want you to know.”

Morgan looked up, sick with anger. And kneeling by her bag, there Ruth was, soft and distant as ever. She was alert, looking at her with eyes that knew her, smiling with the kind of pity you give to a toddler that falls over when it tries to walk.

“No, I’m not going to forget it!” Remmy said back, a little bite to their voice, that hidden, deep anger trying to claw its way up again. But the look on Morgan’s face, now pale and washed, made it instantly dissipate. “Morgan?” they asked, shiftin enough to face her fully, knelt in the sand. It was supposed to be cold, but they didn’t feel it. Skin still tingling, as if trying to remember the pain it’d just experienced. “Wh-what’s wrong?”

Morgan continued to stare at her mother. She’d never heard of witches going delusional after spending their energy in a rush of adrenaline, but it was possible, right? She was tired and things had been going too well until this and now--now this. “C-can you...tell me something?” She nodded in front of them. “Do you see anything there, by my bag? And can you, um, can you bring it to me?” She hesitated a moment, ill. The image was so wrong, and one she had conjured so many times in her mind, had bargained for night and day over the past three years.

Remmy looked from Morgan, to her bag. “Um...I don’t see anything?” they shuffled over, grabbing her bag, looking warily as if expecting something else to leap out at them and snare them with some gross, painful mucus. They came back to her and held out the bag. “We should probably go,” they said, their voice wavering only a bit as they tried to swallow the fear that was still so obviously biting at them. “It’s not safe out here.” That was, what? The third time this beach had tried to kill Remmy? If they weren’t already dead, they surely would have been by now. Remmy shivered.

Morgan took her bag and put the rest of her things in it. She should return the earth to the way it was, but she didn’t have the strength. Maybe later, maybe in the morning, when the wyrm was dead and she felt like more of a person again. Morgan pulled her bag over her shoulder, breathing to pull herself back together, at least enough to stand. Ruth hovered over her, grazing her hand on the air above her shoulder. Morgan shuddered and shut her eyes a moment. “Yeah, yeah let’s...let’s go. I’ll drop you off at home?” She squeezed Remmy’s shoulder as she helped herself up. “I’m sorry I freaked out, but we’re okay now. We’re okay.”

Were they okay, though? Remmy had been messing up left and right these past few weeks. Breaking down on them, letting them get hurt...And now Morgan was a mess because of them. They’d grown soft since leaving the military. Maybe it was time to steel themself away again. They could put aside all their problems enough to be worked out later, in the ring. Behind closed doors, like they were supposed to be. All of this was just...bad luck. It was just time to move on. Remmy took Morgan’s arm and wrapped it around their shoulders to support her. “Yeah,” they said as they headed up off the beach, “we’re okay.” 

[tysonrunningfox]

Ripped: Part 18

Hey so uhhhhh...here

Ao3

Before the condos went in, the East side of Downtown Berk was five generations of tacky all stacked together in narrow, street-facing Victorian buildings. The factories and lodging houses were mostly converted into apartments during the first world war, when Berk’s harbor was necessary to the war effort and suddenly people could regularly afford more than nightly rent. Then prohibition took effect and internal bathrooms were hidden to act as stills, speakeasies like Gruff’s used to be were nestled inconspicuously into the mouths of alleys, adding to the city center’s labyrinth. The depression brought back the web of shantytowns that again depleted for the war effort.

The forties and fifties brought back growth, but it stayed inside for the most part, those valanced rectangular windows looking in on mid-century modifications returning fifty-year-old lofts back to the open floor plan they’d had as workhouse accommodations. Cars replaced buggies and the weekly markets became grocery stores. The sixties and seventies meant avocado green refrigerators and shag carpet, and people ran cable through tight nooks in the old brick walls or mounted satellite dishes to sloped roofs.

By the eighties, things started to slow down, between the commercial fishing lane closing due to pollution and the particle board monstrosities down south gradually becoming more affordable than the city. That’s when Hiccup’s dad started on the force, clearing out squatters and enforcing the rules as the government turned some of the less historical buildings into public housing. The nineties were quieter, the streets respecting Stoick Haddock’s vast influence enough to stay clean.

Then Berk University got ahead of the dot-com bubble and an influx of college students started filling up cheap housing. And then they had the money not to waste time winding fiberoptic cable through a hundred years of walls built with no concept of building code, so they started building from the ground up, rewriting a city that had always embraced edits.

Hiccup stares up at the condo façade from the sidewalk in front of it, eyes following crisp white trim against pastel panels. The balconies above him are covered in houseplants and bikes that are necessitating the city’s replacement of old cobblestone in favor of asphalt bike lanes. The windows are double paned and soulless, their locks visible from four stories down.

“Hiccup?” A voice startles him from his architectural roast: urban condo edition, and he whips around to see Ruffnut, dressed for an office and holding an envelope in one hand. He’d warn her against walking alone at dusk, but they’re far enough from Astrid’s apartment that it doesn’t matter.

That and it would be a really creepy thing to say, so he’s glad he stopped himself.

“Hey, Ruff,” he looks between her and the door to the complex, “do you live here? Or…”

“Right,” she snorts, “I pay my rent with the family gold.”

“Oh, I figured,” he gestures at a sign advertising new units, starting in the mid eight-hundreds, “paying that much for a cardboard shoebox must be so reasonable for you with your connections.”

“All my connections, sure, a bunch of Gruffnuts.” She smacks her leg with the envelope and lowers her voice, “apparently the copy of the deed with Tuffnut’s signature forged on it was illegally downloaded at this address a couple of weeks ago.”

Hiccup’s eyes twitch automatically to the Neighborhood Watch Force seal engraved on the main door above a phone number and the number for a main office suite in the building. It would make sense if Grisly was the one to send the deed to the twins, especially since it was the only thing connecting Tuffnut to Gruff’s murder. And if Tuffnut hadn’t been connected, he wouldn’t have been questioned, and he never would have recognized the dossier, which connects the entire case back to Astrid.

Yes, it’s another whole basket of leaps adding onto Hiccup’s probable bushel of leaps at this point, but the dark hole that settles in his stomach when Grisly says Astrid’s name is as solid as the flat poured, brand new sidewalk he’s standing on.

He just needs something, a scrap of evidence that’s probably obvious in unit 110 of this exact building.

“Oh,” he tries to sound distracted, bored even, “so you’re looking into that?”

“I guess not,” she sighs, “I was expecting one of Gruffnut’s sleazy friends’ house or something. Anyone affording this place surely has something better to do than rip off my brother.”

“Maybe it’s someone working here,” Hiccup shrugs, “I mean think about it, the Neighborhood Watch Force office is here and they probably have all sorts of access after partnering with the police.”

“Why are you here?” Ruffnut raises an eyebrow, not as easy to lead as Hiccup had originally hoped.

She’s Astrid’s friend though, she saw how uncharacteristically addled Astrid was when Eretson wanted her alone.

“Hear me out,” he pauses until she nods him along, “ok, so I think Grisly has something to do with all of this.”

“Grisly?” She frowns, “the silver fox at the precinct with the unfortunate twin kink?”

“Huh?”

“The guy in gray.” The shake of her head is pointedly disgusted in him for his lack of vision, “with the Russian accent.” She waits for him to catch up, “you think he killed Gruffnut?”

“Not in so many words,” Hiccup winces, “or maybe—it’s just a feeling, but after yesterday with Eretson—”

“What is up with the cops around here, by the way?” She grins like he’s not the wrong audience to admire Snotlout’s biceps with. “Anyway, whatever, get to your point.”

“I already did. I think Grisly has some kind of influence or part in what’s going on.” He bites his lip before continuing, hoping he found the right company to say this. It’s something he would have said to Heather, back when she cared about the discovery of it all, but he can’t say that even she would have really gone along with it. Investigating a very much inhabited building with a security force is different than a boarded-up basement no one would buy because of the grotesque murder committed in it a century ago. “And I’m trying to figure out how to check out his office.”

“So you hop right from a hunch to breaking and entering?” She folds the envelope and tucks it into her pocket.

“After yesterday, Eretson thinks Astrid has something to do with the murders, and that’s entirely my fault.”

“Did you bring a lock pick or black spray paint or pantyhose or are we just doing this?” Ruffnut rubs her hands together and looks at the doors.

“Pantyhose?” He snorts, “I was going for more of a modern leg-line—wait, we?” He looks at her surprised and she shrugs.

“You’re crazy, I like crazy, I’m in. And it’s for Astrid.” She takes a step forward, “plus, if your hunch is right, maybe we can figure out who printed out this deed. Is the door locked?”

“I haven’t checked,” Hiccup points at the hours listed on the glass, “it says it closes at six though, and I don’t like the ‘appointment only’ in the fine print.”

Just then a woman walks mostly past the inside of the doors then freezes, squinting out at them and cracking the door to peek her head out. She has an ID badge around her neck and reading glasses pushed up onto her graying hair.

“Are you the Bensons?”

“Bensons?” Ruffnut asks.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m waiting for a young couple who applied for a condo online, but I guess that’s not you. Sorry!”

“N—”

“Yes,” Ruffnut cuts Hiccup off, her tone surprisingly confident, “that’s us. I’m sorry, I’m not used to the new name yet! Traffic!”

“I heard about that accident on the interstate and assumed you must have been stuck in traffic,” the woman opens the door and gestures them inside, “this shouldn’t take too long though, all the paperwork looks good. I assume you just want to have a look at the place before signing everything.”

“Thank you for accommodating us,” Hiccup looks around as the woman locks up behind them. When Ruffnut catches his eye she shrugs, surprisingly calm through the change in plans.

“Oh, it’s no problem, my office is right over here,” she leads them down a sterile hallway that belongs in a bank or medical center, the walls lined with black and white pictures of the buildings torn down to build this monstrosity.

She opens the door of Unit 130, right next to a shadowed Unit 110 and Hiccup grabs Ruffnut’s elbow to stop her from entering the woman’s office.

“I noticed on the door that Unit 110 is supposed to house the neighborhood security office,” he asks, trying to sound more like a theoretical ‘Benson’, who is apparently buying a condo, than himself, “is it closed at six on a Friday? That doesn’t seem very responsible.” Mr. Benson, the condo buying adult, is very concerned with how responsible people are.

“Oh, Grimmel is in all the time, you’ll see when you move in,” the woman laughs like old ladies do when Snotlout helps them across the street, “he introduces himself to all of our new residents as Mr. Grisly and acts all tough, but don’t worry, he warms up quick and everything has been so much quieter around here since he started.”

“Quieter?” Hiccup follows the woman into her office and sits down next to Ruffnut in the chairs on the other side of her desk, “what do you mean by that?”

“Given that you checked for security, I’m sure you’ve heard all those stories about how this used to be a bad part of town,” she rolls her eyes, “that was ages ago, we’ve really cleaned it up around here. Most people in the building work nearby, it’s a real community of young urban professionals like yourselves.” She pushes a stack of papers towards them and starts flipping through, “when was the wedding again?”

“The wedding?” Hiccup squawks and looks at Ruffnut, who has produced a ring and slid it onto her left ring finger since he last looked at her.

“Oh, it was just two months ago,” she winds her fingers through Hiccup’s and he freezes. He was just lying to get in the building, he didn’t think he’d end up in someone’s office in front of real estate papers, much less holding Astrid’s best friend’s hand while she’s wearing a mysteriously obtained ring.

Is this binding if Mr. Benson has to sign anything?

“Newlyweds,” the woman shakes her head affectionately and Hiccup nods, letting his eyes dart to the corners to check for security cameras. He doesn’t see any, but he didn’t see Grisly’s camera on the midnight tour either.   “Oh! I just remembered, there’s one blank your income information that’s not quite filled out.” She points a manicured finger at a blank line labeled ‘Title’ above a number for income that Hiccup definitely doesn’t make in a decade. Maybe pretending to be the responsible Mr. Benson has some merit. “We just need your title to double check with the company.”

“Oh that’s my honey-pants,” Ruffnut coos, “he’s so modest, he just got a promotion and doesn’t like to brag.”

“Well, it’s not bragging when you report that number for taxes,” the woman rolls her eyes and stands up, “while you finish these up, I’ll go get the keys to the place. They just got the new backsplash in and it looks amazing.”

“Sounds great!” Ruffnut says too enthusiastically and the office door shuts, leaving them in silence.

“What the hell was that?” Hiccup disentangles his hand from hers, “and where’d you get that ring?”

“It’s fake,” she looks at her hand, “or mostly fake, it’s for emergencies.”

“Right, most emergencies can be dealt with by pretending to be married, of course.” He deadpans, looking back at the door, “we should go, this isn’t working.”

“You’re giving up on our marriage after only two months? I didn’t take you for a quitter when I said those vows—”

“Ruff—”

“On a beach in Mexico and Snotlout and Eretson were both groomsmen and their rented formal speedos matched the color of the Caribbean.” She grins at him and he sighs, looking across the desk and trying to think.

There’s a key ring right in front of the woman’s chair, a tag on it clearly labelled ‘Benson’, and he takes it, tossing it up and down in his palm.

“While you happen to be describing my dream wedding, and we should talk centerpieces later, I have a better plan.” He lets the keyring dangle from his finger, “obviously, these aren’t in the condo. And even more obviously, she can’t see very well since she missed them on the desk right in front of her.”

“That’s not a plan, Sherlock Condo.”

“Funny,” Hiccup hides the keys in his pocket when he sees the woman coming back down the hallway, “just follow my lead, alright?”

“As long as it’s clear that I wear the pants in this relationship,” Ruffnut grabs a handful of his ass and squeezes just as the door opens. “We can’t wait to see the place, right honey-buns?”

“So excited!” His voice cracks and the woman looks suspiciously at Ruffnut’s arm.

“I was sure I left the keys up there, but I must have brought them down,” she starts sifting through the biggest drawer behind her desk and Hiccup makes his move, edging out of Ruffnut’s reach on the way.

“Here! I’ll help,” he purposefully fumbles the stack of papers they were just signing, sending loose leaf and a pile of knick-knacks all over the floor. “Oh no! I’m so sorry!”

“He’s a real klutz,” Ruffnut explains as Hiccup kneels down and starts spreading the mess, “outside of the bedroom, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m sure she does, babe, you’re not really being subtle about it,” his laugh barely forces through gritted teeth, “can you get down here and help me?”

“Oh, you two don’t have to do that,” the woman finally kneels down herself, squinting to try and make sense of the purposefully thorough mess. She reaches out to pick up a small sculpture obviously made by a child and her glasses fall off, onto the ground by Hiccup’s knees.

“Here, I’ll get those for you!” He announces, reaching at the same time as she does and barely beating her. Their hands tangle as she pulls the glasses back towards her face and he makes the move, fumbling with the snap holding the ID card onto her lanyard.

“That’s where I left those!” She finally puts the glasses on and Hiccup quickly shoves the ID behind his back, relaxing slightly when Ruffnut takes it. “I’ve been looking for my glasses all day and they were on top of my head the whole time.”

“I hate when I do that,” Hiccup shakes his head and stands up, trying not to flinch when Ruffnut grabs his ass again. This time she leaves more than claw marks behind though and he feels the access card in his back pocket.

“You’d lose your head if it wasn’t bolted on, dear,” she laughs, patting the back of his pants and he jumps.

“Let me go check the condo again,” the woman points at her glasses, “I might have better luck finding the keys, I’ll be right back.”

“Sounds great!” Hiccup nods.

“I’ll clean up his mess,” Ruffnut whispers on one side of her hand, like she’s telling a secret, “it’s what I’m best at. Men, right?” As soon as the door is shut again, Hiccup takes a big step away from her and she nods to herself, “that went well.”

“You kept grabbing my ass!” He whisper yells, cracking the door to check the hallway. It’s still empty and Ruffnut slips out behind him.

“We got the key, didn’t we?”

“I’m dating—well, we haven’t said the word, but I—Astrid, in case you didn’t remember.” He holds his breath as he presses the key card to the sensor next to the doorframe.

It turns green and he turns the doorknob slowly, half expecting a booby trap or Mr. Grisly sitting in the corner in a swivel chair that turns around right as he flicks on the light. His hand hovers over the switch for a second before he thinks better of it. The light would be too obvious from the hallway, anyway.

“I’m Astrid’s best friend,” Ruffnut scoffs, hurrying Hiccup into the office so they can get out of the hallway, “I’m quality control.”

“I’m sure Astrid can do that herself,” he lets his eyes adjust, glad to see the empty desk chair in the corner. When he’s sure he won’t instantly trip and announce himself, he creeps over to the computer, waking up the monitor and quickly dimming the screen as far as it’ll go.

“So she’s done her own inspection then?” Ruffnut crouches down next to him, wiggling eyebrows tinged blue by the generic background.

“Clues, Ruff,” he points at a filing cabinet, “we’re looking for clues.”

“I’m just fake married to you and you’re a nag,” she sneaks over to the cabinet and opens the top drawer. “It’s empty, there’s nothing here.”

“We’ve been here all of two minutes,” he frowns, scrolling through empty file after empty file. He checks the drive and no storage is taken up aside from operating system and installed programs.

“Who would keep their evidence in a room that Glasses the Idiot could access?” She scoffs, “hell, who doesn’t lock their computer?”

“Someone who’s not using it,” he sighs, “you’re right. It’s an office but he clearly doesn’t do anything here.”

“Guess some rich asshole upstairs illegally downloaded the deed to Gruff’s,” Ruffnut wipes her hands on her pants and points at the door. “Should we get out of here before Glasses comes back?”

“I wonder if there’s a way to get a residence list,” Hiccup glances at the empty printer on the desk and gets an idea. “Let me check the printer ink levels to see if he’s been using it.”

“Hiccup, there’s nothing here,” Ruffnut grabs the back of his collar and yanks, ignoring his sudden choking sound.

“At least let me shut the monitor off,” he fumbles for the button just as a voice pipes up in the hallway.

“Grimmel!” There’s just enough light for him to see Ruffnut’s nervous expression before he clicks it off.

“If you’ll excuse me Ms. Moore,” the accented voice is lighter than usual, more alive through the door than it was across an interrogation room, even over hours of gory discussion, “I’m in a bit of a hurry. I’ve got a rather time sensitive clean-up on my plate at the moment.”

“Just a second, if you have it, I’m just about to show two new residents—lovely young couple—their place and they were asking about your hours.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to catch them another time, Ms. Moore,” Grisly’s too bright voice draws her name out as the handle to the office half turns, and Hiccup doesn’t think, he just grabs Ruffnut’s arm and pulls her under the desk with him. It won’t do much if he sits down to check e-mail, but it’s better than nothing.

“The Bensons, I think they’re really going to like it here, they’re just in my office—Hello?” Glasses’s voice dulls slightly like she’s in the destroyed office next door.

The opening line of ‘I Shot the Sheriff’ pours out of Hiccup’s phone and he swears, yanking it out of his pocket and declining Snotlout’s call as quickly as he can.

“You have your ringtone on?” Ruffnut hisses, “do you know what year it is?”

“It’s Snotlout, he thinks it’s funny,” Hiccup shuts his phone off entirely and waits, wincing at the sound of his own breathing.

“Ms. Moore,” Grisly says as he opens the door, his accent crackling with some of its usual chill electrified, “I’m afraid we’ll have to continue this conversation another time.” He steps into the office and shuts the door across any further attempts at conversation. He mumbles something in Russian that Hiccup is confident calling an insult by tone alone and turns on the light.

In the dark, Hiccup didn’t notice the small sink against the opposite wall, but the sound of the faucet and Grisly’s creepily happy humming as he starts to wash his hands gives Ruffnut a chance to whisper.

“What are we going to do?”

“I’ll distract him, you make a run for it?” He offers and Ruffnut rolls her eyes, too comfortable hunched under the desk mid-trespass.

“If anyone’s distracting him, it should be me.”

The sink turns off but Grisly keeps humming, turning slightly so that if Hiccup peeks just barely around the tangle of computer cords, he can see that Grisly is holding something. Wiping something down maybe, from the scrap of cloth he throws away before he sets whatever it is in a drawer that he locks with a key from the ring on his belt.

Then Grisly wipes his hands with another wipe from a Clorox can, like a germophobic Bond villain in a lair far more grandiose than the security office at a poorly built condo development.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” he hisses, double checking his cuff under his pant leg in case he has to run. Not that it’ll help much, not with catching Grisly suspiciously pleased with himself as he turns the sink back on and starts scrubbing his hands again.

“Follow my lead,” Ruffnut stands up from under the desk, leaning back against the printer and pressing its power button so that it lurches to life with a screech and a series of clicks. Grisly turns around, a flash of shock humanizing his features for a brief second as he stares at her, too stunned to check under the desk. “Hey Sailor,” Ruff greets in a pointedly husky voice, one hip cocked.

“How did you get in here?” Grisly stomps across the room and grabs Ruffnut by the arm, which only makes her grin wider.

“Does that matter?” She twirls the end of her hair in her free hand, pointing at the door with her chin as she bites her lip.

Hiccup takes the chance, sliding out from under the desk as quietly as he can and slipping around the corner, staying low like he anticipates a velociraptor in pursuit.

“What are you doing in my office?” Grisly sounds as addled as Hiccup has ever heard him and he freezes, trying to figure out how to get Ruffnut out along with him.

But with Snotlout suspended, Hiccup doesn’t know how he’d get away with trespassing, so he leaves that problem to five seconds from now Hiccup, sneaking a cautious arm up to the doorknob.

“Are you asking what we’re doing now or what I intend for us to do?” Ruffnut laughs, “because right now we’re just standing here and you’re kind of yelling at me, which could be hot if your breath didn’t stink so much. Wait, I think I have gum!”

Grisly yells, inarticulate in his frustration, and Hiccup opens the door just enough to slip through, popping to his feet and cushioning the sound as it closes behind him. He makes for the back door to avoid Ms. Moore’s office, swearing under his breath at his phone when it takes what feels like forever to power back on. Every second that passes without more than yelling from Grisly’s office feels more tense and more miraculous and by the time he’s outside, it feels like his head is going to explode with it.

“Come on, come on,” he whispers at the phone, trying not to give into the guilt that’s prodding him to run back inside. He can’t help Ruffnut if he’s caught too.

The back door to the building opens again and he freezes, looking around for something to hide behind but seeing nothing but an empty alley. He waits Grisly’s enraged, split glacier face to emerge but instead, it’s Ruffnut.

“You’re ok!” He grabs her hand and yanks her down the alley next to him, not pausing until they’re out on the street among a few straggling commuters. “How’d you get out of there?”

“Irritated him, mostly,” she shrugs, obviously proud of herself, “I figured he wouldn’t think anyone was trespassing for information if he thought a crazy stalker—in this case me—was trespassing to make a move on him.”

“That’s—that’s actually kind of smart.” Hiccup realizes he’s talking way too loud and starts walking, head ducked down like he learned ages ago for exiting alleyways incognito, “I don’t know why it worked, but it did, and that’s what matters.”

“Are you going to get your phone?” Ruffnut asks and only then does Hiccup realize it’s vibrating.

“Shit, yeah,” he stops and frowns at the screen. Berk United Hospital. He doesn’t think he owes the hospital anything, Snotlout’s insurance is pretty good, so he usually keeps up on those bills. “Hello?”

“Hi, I’m calling from the Berk United Trauma Ward, can I speak to Hiccup Haddock please?”

“Y-yeah,” he stutters, tongue suddenly too big for his mouth, “you are, I mean I’m him. What’s going on?”

“You’re listed as Snotlout Jorgenson’s emergency contact,” the voice on the other end dips, somber like nurses get when the news isn’t good, “he’s just been brought in.”

“Is he ok?” Hiccup asks when the voice doesn’t automatically explain, dizzy as he leans back against the nearest wall.

“What’s wrong?” Ruffnut mouths and Hiccup shakes his head.

“Are you able to come to the hospital now?” The voice asks gently, “it’s urgent.”

“Yeah, I—on my way.”

Hiccup knows hospital calls. He knows how nurses sound when they’re underpaid and overworked, how they sound the first time they call about a bill and the fifth. He knows appointment calls and rescheduling calls, because over the years he’s had hundreds.

He’s only had one urgent call and he knows it better than the rest. He knows it like he knows blood on pavement and the way even his dad looked smaller on a gurney, surrounded by machines that were still clicking off to rest before their next, hopefully more successful, use.

Ruffnut must get him a ride because he doesn’t do anything, he barely feels himself walking and then he’s standing in front of the check-in desk at the emergency room, his own hands unrecognizably pale and waxy on the counter. The nurse looks up and her eyes widen, and Hiccup realizes he’s shaking like he’s the patient. That snaps him out of it enough, because he doesn’t want anyone focusing on him right now, not when it could matter.

Unless it doesn’t anymore.

Unless that was the last time Snotlout would ever call him and he declined it, because he was doing something stupid, because he wasn’t where he should have been. Again.  

Urgent calls don’t end well in his experience. Urgent calls end with his dad’s blood-stained wallet in a plastic basket, staring down at a beardless picture on a drivers’ license and wondering if he ever knew the man at all.

“Can I help you, sir?” The nurse behind the desk asks and he shrugs.

“I’m not really sure,” he swallows hard. He has to ask the yes or no question that’s wedged in his throat like it’s trying to shelter him from the answer by cutting off oxygen. One answer is the exact opposite of helping.

“Do you need to sit down?” She stands up, reaching out like she thinks she’s going to have to catch him and he exhales slowly.

“I just got a call about Snotlout Jorgenson?” He asks slowly, each word taking up its allotted measure of breath and leaving him with an empty chest that’s still not big enough for his pounding heart.

“I’ll look him up.” The keyboard clicks are deafening, each tap removing a barrier between Hiccup and the truth he doesn’t think he wants yet.

He thinks of the apartment and how empty it was before Snotlout moved in. That bedroom full of his dad’s things he didn’t want to look at, in case they belonged to a stranger. He remembers how it felt like the sound of his chewing echoed off of the empty walls, like he was living in a museum that regarded him as an impermanent exhibit, moving around hallways until he realized he didn’t belong.

“The Trauma Unit desk is on the second floor, the elevator is just down the hallway to your right.” The nurse’s face is urgent now, formal in that way doctors are when they have bad news they need to be inhumanly calm about.

“Yes or no?” Hiccup asks, hands shaking again as he stands away from the desk and runs his hand through his hair. “Do you know and just can’t tell me?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the words squeeze his heart in a vice that lets go too quickly when the sentence continues, “you’ll have to talk to someone at the desk upstairs.”

“Ok,” he walks towards the elevator before he keeps talking, because the urge to remind the nurse that his dad was on the first floor is overwhelming. His dad was on the first floor in a room near the back with a window looking out on where the cannery used to be before someone tore it down and built a motel. If they’re going to make an urgent call, they should do it right.

Hiccup follows the signs towards trauma, vaguely aware that his quest is a little ironic as his mind flicks again and again through what a day would be like without Snotlout. Another room full of things he can’t look at, this time because he knows too well who they’ll wish he was instead. He was with Snotlout when he got his driver’s license. He grew out that stupid moustache for it. He had the moustache in his academy graduation photo too, like polyester lint from his brand-new uniform stuck to his lip.

“Hiccup?”

Hearing his name makes him realize that he’s frozen again, ten feet back from the desk he’s been looking for, it’s helpful little sign reading ‘trauma’ like a lemonade stand banner advertising some neighborhood kid’s wares. The tile between his feet and the rubberized rug in front of the desk stretch and warp in his brain and he distracts himself, looking for whoever talked to him.

Astrid is handcuffed to a chair in the waiting room, her face pale and sallow and at odds with her determined expression. And he doesn’t have room to wonder why she’s here or why she’s cuffed, because the tiles between where he’s standing and her chair shrink, gravity shifting and pulling him towards her. He flops into the chair next to her, twice as heavy and half as graceful as usual as he throws his arms around her shoulders and buries his face in her neck.

“Hey,” she says like he’s a dog shaking in a thunderstorm, uncuffed hand rubbing his back, “did the doctor call you? I left my phone at my place so I couldn’t call—”

“Is he…yes or no?” He swallows hard and pulls back from the hug just enough to see her eyes, tensing at the sudden wave of trust that smacks him. She’ll tell him the truth, even if it’s hard, even if it doesn’t help, and for a second, he wishes he could let go of her rather than hear it, but he crossed that bridge a long time ago.

The second he handed her his Admiral Haddock book, he resigned himself to her most honest assessment, he just didn’t know it would matter so much.

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” she shakes her head, “he’s in surgery. I haven’t heard anything because Eretson cuffed me to this fucking chair.”

“He’s still in surgery,” Hiccup repeats to affirm it, waiting for her to say it’s a joke and trusting her too much for that at the same time. “It’s urgent but he’s still in surgery?”

“He was shot twice, Hiccup,” her voice is matter of fact but her hand on his arm is gentle, “his heart stopped on the way over, apparently—”

“So he is dead?” He shudders, “he’s an organ donor, he always said someone would be really lucky to get his organ someday—”

“Hey,” Astrid cups his chin, thumb pressed to his lips to shut him up, “he’s in surgery, that’s all I know.”

“That doesn’t help,” his laugh is fragile and he lets go of her to rub his hands over his face, elbows on his knees. “When they said it was urgent I expected an answer, that’s not an answer.”

“It’s not,” she agrees, yanking futilely at her handcuff a couple of times before stretching her other hand over to rest it on his back. “Not yet, anyway.”

[skylanders-after-the-end]

Day Off

The sun was shining, spreading glorious rays of light across the islands. Something Hex used to consider a blessing. Now the light felt unpleasantly hot, almost burning to her pale blue skin. The undead has risen from the underworld once again, only this time alongside Malefor. The two most powerful undead beings in all of Skylands have put their differences aside and decided to use their powers against the living world. Next to the witch were her once trusted allies Raven and Zion, or at least what was left of them. Their eyes had a deep black color, looking like empty holes on their faces, and they had no will of their own anymore. They were nothing more than Hex’ servants.

The frightening group headed towards a village on a single large island, very much like Hex’ temporary home that wronged her all those years ago. Without speaking a word, the sorceress and her companions entered the town, much to the dismay of the mabu citizens, who stopped whatever they were doing and stared at them with terrified faces.

“Greetings, mortals!” Hex exclaimed with her strong yet somber voice. “Don’t be scared, I will do you no harm.”

That didn’t ease the inhabitants’ concerns, instead they kept on shivering and moving away from the visitor.

Hex didn’t expect anything less. No matter what she did, they would always be afraid of her. She’s deemed to be a villain. “However, I cannot say the same for yourselves.”

Malefor wore a pleased smile as he kept his eyes on the small creatures in front of him. He viewed them as pitiful worms that weren’t even worth to be burned to ashes.

“Your kind has brought more harm upon this world than any dark force could. Prejudice, arrogance, fear. You will stop at nothing to achieve your selfish desires and destroy what you do not understand. Your cruel tongues and small minds deem anyone different as bad.” Hex has aided many people in her long life, and all of them fit that description. Even though she couldn’t possibly know if everyone in Skylands was that way, the amount that she has seen so far was enough for her. “I congratulate you. Now your fears, your hate has become reality. I am the villain you so desperately wished to see.”

Some of the mabu have heard of and even seen Hex before, and like many others they didn’t trust her. They found it insane to believe that someone with such grotesque and dark powers could be a true Skylander.

Meanwhile the witch summoned forth her newfound minions. The sight of the zombies triggered a collective gasp, but the people were too afraid to flee.

“Allow me to show you what it is like, when someone you trust becomes something evil. Something that is only out for death.” Hex gazed through the crowd. All the worried faces were supposed to make her feel sympathy, but she has lost that feeling long ago. “Something that could be considered… a monster.”

The witch stretched her arms out and began reciting an ancient spell. Her eyes shifted to the same black color as those of her victims and she created purple streams of magic that shot right at the people in front of her. She made sure to only hit half of the town’s population, not all of them. Couples, friends, families, her spell always only hit one of a pair and corrupted them just like Raven and Zion. The spared ones stared in blank horror as their partners choked and twisted until they went completely still and were under Hex’ full control.

“I will give you a choice. You can either let yourself get killed by the person you once knew, or you free them from their fate by killing them instead.” It was an irreversible curse, one that could only be broken if the mission of the victim is fulfilled or by their own demise. Hex has learned it a long time ago, even though she never intended to use it.

The citizens and the corrupted slaves all got into fights. Some fled, others defended themselves, but none of them could decide who would have to die. It was a choice impossible for anyone to make, and that’s exactly what Hex wanted. The pain she felt by her friends’ betrayal and the countless rejections have turned her heart cold and bitter. The witch didn’t enjoy the sight, but it did give her a sense of satisfaction and justice. She used to want good for all those people, but all she wants now is vengeance.

Spyro entered his room at the Academy. Yet another exhausting day of scheduling missions and organizing files. Even though their only major threat now was the Golden Queen and some minor villains, it all piled up into a ton of work for the dragon. He enjoyed being the leader, it always gave him a sense of purpose and being apart of something bigger than himself, but it sure was more tiring than he had anticipated.

The Magic Skylander let himself drop onto his bed, face first into a pillow, and let out a tired groan.

“What does today’s schedule look like?” A mysterious yet familiar voice echoed through Spyro’s room, but the dragon was too worn out to move a muscle.

Stealth Elf exited her invisible state and jumped down from one of the wooden bars below the ceiling of the room. She stood in front of her friend’s bed and crossed her arms as she listened to Spyro’s groans of responses. “Is this really what the rest of your day will look like?”

Another set of muffled noises, dimmed by the pillow, that only the elf could make out. “Isn’t there anymore work to do?”

Spyro finally turned around and looked his friend in the eyes. “Of course, there’s always more work.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that.” Even though she wore her mask, Spyro could tell that Stealth Elf’s mouth formed a smile.

“I’m the leader.” Spyro turned his head around once more to glare at the alluring soft pillow. “It’s what I have to do.”

“Not today!” Stealth Elf exclaimed before the door behind her was slammed open and a bunch of fellow Skylanders waltzed in.

“Wha- what’s going on?” Spyro lifted himself up from the bed as he saw the group of heroes in front of him. “Did something happen? Did you find anything-”

“Nope!” Spitfire kept a smile on his face while answering the question. “But today is going to be all about you!”

Spyro looked perplexed as he tried to remember what day it was. “Is it my birthday?”

“No, silly!” Stealth Elf chuckled and looked over to Spitfire. “You’ve been working so hard these last few days we’ve decided that it’s time for you to take a day off!”

“A day off!?” Spyro sounded alarmed. “You know we can’t have that, who’s going to-”

“I will.” Spitfire, always quick to answer, volunteered to take on Spyro’s role as the leader of the Skylanders. “I know the Superchargers ain’t the entire team of Skylanders, but I’m sure I can handle it for one day.”

Spyro blinked before looking over to Déjà Vu, who entered alongside the speed demon. “I will make sure that everything outside of the Academy goes as planned. You’d be surprised how effective some time tricks can be!”

High Volt was the final member to come to word. “I will keep an eye on all the defensive systems. Any villain that tries to come close will wish they stayed in the pit they crawled out of!”

Spyro, completely beside himself, needed a moment to process everything and understand what was going on. He was about to call the entire plan off, when his eyes suddenly fell onto his pillow again. Any good leader needs to rest from time to time, that was one of the first things Eon told him when he was promoted. The dragon hasn’t taken that advice very seriously, since he wanted to prove to everyone, but mostly to himself, that he is a capable leader.

After giving it some more thought, Spyro got onto his legs and stood up. “I’ve known you all for many years now. I know that all of you have what it takes to be a Skylander and I have no doubts in your abilities, but are you completely sure about this?”

The three volunteers all nodded confidently. Stealth Elf looked at Spyro with an impatient demeanor. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after them.”

Spyro finally exhaled what felt like years’ worth of stress and tension before smiling. “Then you’re all being promoted for a day!”

The Skylanders celebrated their leader’s decision by clapping and giving each other high fives. They truly cared about Spyro and noticed how hard everything has been for the dragon lately. It was necessary for him to relax for once as well. The team was certain that everything would go just as planned.

As soon as the rising sun announced the beginning of a new day, Spyro glided over the Academy with a newfound sense of calmness. For once he didn’t have to hurry to the next report and figure out another problem, today was all about taking a break and settling down. He entered the spa nearby the showers of the Academy. It was built shortly after Kaos’ imprisonment, when they were certain that all evil was gone.

The purple dragon opened the doors leading inside the building. He was hit by a refreshing smell of all kinds of shampoos and oils. He walked over to the reception where Echo was listening to electro music through her shellphones while skimming through a magazine. When the aquatic dragon wasn’t on a stage performing one of her several songs, she worked at the spa, enjoying the calming scents and small soaps she would take with her occasionally.

Spyro stared at the unresponsive dragoness for a few moments before ringing the bell on top of the counter. When Echo continued to read her magazine, Spyro repeatedly tapped on the bell to make a ringing sound.

Echo finally looked up and hastily tossed her magazine away upon seeing her leader. She turned the music on her shellphones off and put a smile on. “Spyro! What brings you here today? Is there another mission?”

“No, don’t worry, there’s nothing for you… I think.” Spyro realized that he didn’t even know if Echo would be sent on a mission or not, he didn’t know about today’s schedule at all. “I’m here to spend the day at the spa. Spitfire is taking over in the meantime.”

“Oh, well that’s nice.” Echo has never seen Spyro willing to take a break, but she was glad that he decided to do something for himself. “So, should I check you in for an all-inclusive program?”

“Yes please.” Spyro was gleaming and his grin went from one horn to the other. He was glad to see the new spa and have a day all for himself. “What do I owe you?”

“Oh no, please. It’s on the house.” Echo denied any payment from the Magic Skylander. “You do so much for us and all of Skylands, you deserve this.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks!” Spyro never uses his role and duty to excuse himself from anything, but Echo sounded perfectly clear and the dragon knew that it was near impossible to change her mind.

“There we go. You can enter the door right there to the left in a minute.” Echo pointed down the hall with her black nails to show him the entrance. “Enjoy your stay!”

Spyro nodded in gratitude and walked over to the chairs where visitors would spend their time waiting. “I sure hope the others are managing things without me.” The dragon thought to himself, but decided to follow his friends’ advice and not worry about anything today.

Meanwhile at the headquarters of the Academy, nothing was going as planned. Even though Spitfire could get from point A to B in the blink of an eye, he struggled to focus on each of the assignments and missions before dashing off to the next one. And besides that, he didn’t know what most of his allies were talking about since Spyro made all the missions. The Superchargers never put his leadership to the test like this. They’re a small group and if there’s one thing Spitfire knew of, it was racing.

“Spitfire! Help!” A distressed Roller Brawl skated in a hurry.

“What’s going on? Is there any danger?” The Fire Skylander has heard the word ,help’ every minute of the day, he’s grown tired of it. But this time it sounded like something urgent.

“Well, you could say that.” Roller Brawl wasn’t sure how to describe the situation, so she wanted to let it speak for itself. “Just follow me!”

The two speedy Skylanders arrived at one of the defense cannons of the Academy, which was aiming at an aircraft. The problem was that it was an aircraft of the Skylanders. Spitfire saw High Volt, doing everything he could to stop the cannon, but even his light spear couldn’t get through the solid metal coat.

“High Volt, what’s going on!?” The fire spirit appeared next to his fellow Supercharger who gave up on trying to disable the cannon.

“I just reprogrammed the defense mechanism when suddenly that airship arrived, and the cannon started shooting at it!” High Volt was utterly embarrassed to be responsible for such a grave mistake when he was considered one of the most experienced Skylanders. “I didn’t expect any Skylanders to arrive at this time!”

“Why is it shooting at them in the first place?” Spitfire didn’t quite understand what the robot was trying to say. “It never shoots automatically, we always have to activate them ourselves.”

“That’s what I tried to change.” High Volt couldn’t look Spitfire in the eyes and hesitated to tell him the truth. “I programmed it, so that it shoots at any sign of movement outside.”

“You what!?” High Volt was usually the one snapping at Spitfire for some dumb stunt, but this time it was the other way around. The speed demon was so outraged, his blue fire began to shift colors and turned purple. The surrounding Skylanders observed cautiously as the current leader used his heated transformation to slash the cannon with his claws. It shot a few more projectiles at a slower pace until it finally came to a halt and the airship could land safely.

“Screw the cannons! Redirect the energy used for them to build up a shield around the Academy!” Spitfire knew that was an overreaction considering there hasn’t been ambush on the Academy since Malefor appeared, but it was all that he could think of in the heat of the moment.

High Volt nodded before the Skylanders parted their ways and Spitfire remembered Déjà Vu, who was keeping an eye out in the surrounding areas of the Academy. After seeing a blue explosion in the distance, he already expected the worst.

Back at the spa, Spyro was in the middle of enjoying a relaxing massage. With his belly on the table, the dragon enjoyed every second of the treatment. Until now, he never knew how much he needed it. After the finishing touches, the dragon moved on to the pedicure area where the workers would treat his nails. It was quite a task since the dragon never bothered too much with keeping them in good shape. All the battles he’s fought and hits he took, it certainly took a toll on him. The only time his nails were as blistering as pearls and sharp as daggers was when he awakened. That’s when his mind began to drift off once more. He still hasn’t figured out how or why that transformation occurred. Will it ever happen again? Did he truly have to be in mortal danger for it? Spyro caught and forced himself to think of something else, concentrating on the here and now.

As soon as his nails were taken care of, the dragon proceeded to his favorite part, the pool. Without hesitation, the Skylander jumped into the warm water and inhaled the steamy air. As he exhaled, he couldn’t hold back a small flame from exiting his mouth and landing on a towel. Swiftly, the dragon used his tail to splash some water onto it before it could spread. The towel still ended up with a burned coal black color, parted in the middle - just like Cynder’s wing. There it was again, the unsettling thoughts. Cynder’s injury was healed and there was nothing to worry about, or was there? Golden Queen was out there, but it wouldn’t be the first time that they’d defeat her. And then Spyro remembered. Malefor. The dragon abruptly lifted himself out of the water before he could fully sink in. This isn’t how his day was supposed to go. With a more anxious feeling in his gut, he decided to leave the tub and move on to the next room, doing his best to get his mind off of another problem. Off of Malefor.

Spitfire, in the form of a blue blur, arrived at one of the nearby islands of the Academy. He looked around himself in shock as he saw countless translucent clones of Déjà Vu running around, one of them pushing him in the process. He floated through the crowd of pigtails and staffs until the real Déjà Vu found him.

After taking a short breath and shooting one of her past selves out of existence, she started talking. “I might have overdone it.”

“I might have overdone it.” A newly created clone appeared behind the sorceress and repeated her words before she shot it with her staff as well.

“I wanted to make some past selves so I could be at multiple places at once, but I somehow got more than I bargained for.” Whilst talking, she kept aiming at her clones and made them disappear one after the other, but for everyone she shot down, two new ones appeared.

“Was this even necessary?” Spitfire was once again confused by his teammate’s decision as there was no sign of any threat.

“Well, we didn’t see Malefor coming so I thought I’d be prepared this time.” Looking back at it, the Magic Skylanders found it quite ridiculous as well. “I’m really sorry, I promise that I’ll fix it!”

“I promise that I’ll fix it!” Another clone appeared to repeat her words. And then another. And another.

Spitfire listened to the sentence over and over again and was pushed from left to right by the remaining past selves. He got into another state of such rage that his flames turned purple. Déjà Vu looked over to him in surprise before the fire spirit unleashed a giant flamenado all across the island, causing all the clones to vanish and send Déjà Vu flying.

After Spitfire calmed down, his angered expression became worried when he saw his ally lying on the ground because of his outburst. “Déjà! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to do that!”

“Don’t worry about it.” The Skylander got up, clearly hurt by the blast, but without any visible damage. “That’s what my mask is for! To protect my face from another explosion.”

Spitfire didn’t realize that she was referring to her past where she was caught up in the explosion of her self-built time machine, but he didn’t even think about that. All he could think of was his outburst and how little control he’s had over himself the today. “I can’t do this. I’m not a leader, I never was.”

Ignoring Déjà Vu’s call, the Supercharger dashed away from the island. Away from all the problems that have overwhelmed him the entire day. He knew it would be hard, but he didn’t think it would be this hard. Now he realizes how easy his job to lead the Superchargers truly is. And how much Spyro needed a break. It made him feel bad that they would have to call him back because he couldn’t get the job done.

Spitfire found himself on a small lonely island far away from the Academy. He didn’t even notice Stealth Elf following him there and appearing behind him. “Tough day?” The elf said casually as she sat down next to the disappointed spirit.

“That’s an understatement.” Spitfire sighed and stared down into the depts of the sky which were turning dark blue as the day came to an end. “How can Spyro keep up with all of this?”

“That’s what I’ve been asking myself for the past seven years as well.” Stealth Elf chuckled as she recalled all the times where the work Spyro had was close to suffocating him, yet he always managed to make the best of it. “One day I finally decided to ask him, it just seemed so odd that he went from being a cocky egomaniac to a responsible leader.”

“I guess I could learn a lesson from him then.” Spitfire smirked before his face turned serious again.

A gentle wind blew through the area and lifted Stealth Elf’s braid up as she continued to talk. “He told me that whenever he felt like there was too much, like he was about give up, he always reminded himself what he was doing it all for.”

Spitfire curiously looked at the elf. “For what?”

“For us.” Stealth Elf smiled underneath her mask. “For you, me, all of us. He always wanted the Skylands and its people to be safe, but what he wanted more than anything else was for us to be a family. No matter what came our way.” The two Skylanders looked at the night sky in silence and thought about that for a moment. Even though they were all different and didn’t always get along, they were a family. Spyro made sure that it would stay that way.

The peaceful moment was interrupted by a strange noise behind the Skylanders. They turned their heads to see a mabu standing in the shadow of a tree. It was too dark for them to see it’s face.

“Hello?” Stealth Elf lifted herself up and moved towards the creature. “We’re Skylanders, no one is supposed to be here. Are you lost?”

The mabu took a few steps forward to greet the elf with a terrifying sight. The Skylanders gasped when they saw that the mabu had pitch black eyes and was completely unresponsive, moving towards them like a zombie. When it realized that it was in the presence of another creature, it became furious, dashing at them with a morbid scream.

[sole-cuore-amore-e-droga]

Suspiria remake review from a shitty movie-goer

(this review is posted too late so excuse me for some timing inaccuracies I couldn’t be arsed to edit)

(IF YOU HATE TL;DRS JUST SKIP AHEAD TO THE “THE REVIEW” PART. YOU’RE WELCOME)

I actually hate to admit why was I interested to watch this movie in the end, but for once SOMETHING motivated me to go to a movie after countless tries from my family to get me to watch something in theatres at a “reasonable time” (daytime is what they mean, this movie was at 8pm our time, and this is when the cross-city bus transport (it goes from one big city to another) stops doing their service lmao).

I myself have a lowkey interest in moviemaking (I’m already getting there by editing my phone-recorded videos because whatever). I come up with my concepts in my head and I am mostly willing to put them down somewhere in my computer so I don’t forget it years later if I want to make that concept a thing in the end (because none of my concepts are finalized... well except for one short horror-ish story I posted on DeviantArt (see mom, I do like some horror stuff!). Reddit as of lately inspired me to edit some of my movie’s plot-lines based on irl events (not related with anything too SJW), and I’m not sure how an usual movie-goer would see this concept but I am going to try to execute it... whenever I have enough equipment to shoot my own little films or skits or whatever.

What’s that? There are people who scrolled past this and already yell at me that “YOU ONLY WENT TO SEE THIS MOVIE BECAUSE OF THE MAN WHO COMPOSED THE SOUNDTRACK~~~”? Ugh yes you exposed me, tea all over. I even had “Street Spirit (Fade Out)” on a bit of a repeat as of lately (how fucking come I wasn’t too couragerous to listen to this song before?? And “Pyramid Song”??? Man am I discovering their pearl(ie)s(*) too late). And I’m occasionally on the band’s subreddit as well. And the man himself is touring ‘round the USA, signing material of fans and have genuinely warm chats with them. Admireable.

But that’s only half truth.

I never thought I’d see Suspiria on cinema theatres in here. Until one time when I saw an ad on a completely random Lithuanian website that said this movie is coming to our theatres 14 December... I couldn’t quite believe my eyes. I made my goal to see Suspiria since then. I even dared to ask a couple of my new college ‘friends’ to see it with me, but one of them fell off the deal when I revealed that I’ll be going to see it on Saturday, and on the weekends he’s usually at home, far away from the city the college is in (he lives in college dormitory on mostly the work-weekdays). So my only movie companion ended up to be this 28-year-old coursemate (actually we both study different things but sometimes we attend some of the same lectures) who was intrigued by the Suspiria trailer herself so at least I’m gonna have her by my side of the movie, so I thought. Sweet.

I already envisioned seeing this in a mall cinema theatre but my companion offered me a cheaper alternative - her suggested cinema theatre was actually in renovation so the business is temporarily happening inside an actual drama theatre’s long theatre hall. I had to wait long until the ticket box opened and because of that I was lowkey frustrated as I finished my English test writing a little earlier, so I spent my time walking around the city until the time came and I wandered off to the old building of the cinema so then I remembered it was moved and I found the moved place. Yeah I bought the tickets before my companion could but I’ll skip ahead to the time that I almost lost the tickets because they were put down on a windowsill outside some children activity centre (Suspiria and children?? lol). I came back home late at night and was ready for the movie to happen the next day. Oh and before buying the tickets I coincidentally saw dance classes going on nearby that building... weird, as Suspiria has dance elements in there

The day came (December 15) and my family went together with me because they saw this as an opportunity to see the Christmas tree of our city (but not the movie). Needless to say, they were still visibly pissed at me orchestrating this idea, as I planned everything BUT the transport to go by. Well at least my mom and my sis. Dad was cool with it as he returned home to watch Home Alone. Aside all that, the cinema hall was cozy, Christmassy, not too small, there were a few trailers before the movie, no snack-seller places (as this is not a mall lol) - my companion was glad she wasn't at the mall as she found this place where we were at way lovelier.

Now with all that unnecessary long intro off my chest, let’s begin:

THE REVIEW

(definitely not spoiler-free, if you are sensitive to spoilers please watch the movie for yourselves before reading my review. But if you like being spoiled, I’m your friend then I guess lmao)

The intro to the movie felt like I ended up booking a wrong movie - I didn't expect that to be set somewhere in Germany, especially an American/Italian-shot one. Was that a thing in the original Suspiria? I don't know... (apparently it is, but the cities are different, never the country though)

Patricia (I didn’t know it was Chloë Grace’s role until reading the Wiki) looked like to be a really big deal here, with the dance pupils discussing her disappearance the other day and Susie overheard them, then Sara mentioned the Patricia thing to Susie after Susie revealed she was kind of chosen as the lead dancer for the Volk play... is it because Patricia was THE saviour that unfortunately knew a little too much?? Idk, it’s perhaps the reason we get to see the Klemperer guy subplot happen (I didn’t know it was Tilda Swinton behind him all the time either, must be because the way the male German accent was put on her lol). Turned out she was captured and kept under some dungeon where Sara had gone later in the movie, but looking like an almost melted and grotesquely old human being (or if Mary’s mother from “Chocolate with Nuts” was a person). Speaking of which, there is one more later in the movie, but I won’t tell just yet - we will need to get into such scenes discussion first.

Interesting deaths here, despite of them being grotesque and horrifically detailed. It almost felt like Susie, whilst doing her first dance as the probable lead dancer, temporarily turned into Olga’s voodoo doll or a violent bloodbender (that old lady from Avatar that could bloodbend was incredibly uncanny, damn) and left Olga completely fucked up, and the foam mouth later on... is this the effect myxomatosis has on a human being if it was ever humanly? She was twitching and salivating afterall. :P But no, she’s not dead until she gets to plead her death later in the movie! :O Several others occur throughout, but none is more prominent than this key scene I described, well at least according to TV Tropes.

The search for the evil person in this movie without Wiki helping me much was definitely a nice game for me to play. I kept thinking that Blanc might be that one, then I thought she’s not the one until she looked at Carolina (I think that was the tall tomboy’s name??) suspiciously and then she later passed out on the floor violently, with rabies foam and everything.

Anyway, don’t tell me Tilda Swinton wouldn’t make out a pretty good Thom Yorke post-Pablo Honey. She’s 8 years older than him, ffs! Also played a man before (e.g.: this movie I’m talking about) so the make up won’t be an unjumpable-over hurdle.

The sighs were for sure unsettling, especially because they oddly sounded like orgasm here and there. IDK why. I know fucking is referenced twice in this movie (well only fucking once and sex another time). Speaking of random things, the nightmare shots were completely random themselves, following up with some imagery we never see in the movie again, and some of that we see only a little (like the worms and bloody organs).

3 long scenes that were note-worthy for me. One is the Olga mutilation/Susie's first dancing scene that I already noted, and it was driven by music (the others will be too. Soundtrack of this movie still rules). Then there's the Volk play itself - girls go from one place to another, take poses of each other, dance individually, let their minimalistic red rope dresses flick in the air, interspersed with Sara in the underneath area and her broken leg (so broken, the bone went out of her skin!), and then the matriarchy getting her back on stage, but healing her leg with her witch powers before that. I haven't really listened to the rest of the soundtrack but I gotta check the song out so that I won't end up labeling it as a Kid A reject. No but seriously - intense dancing needed some intense drumming and painful instrument sounds just to project out the massiveness of the whole play.

Then I keep remembering the scene where Madame Blanc commands Susie to jump higher and higher in the mirror hall, up until she jumps as highest as possible. Also my companion’s favourite scene was the stare exchange between these two ladies during the part where people were singing some drinking song in a bar to celebrate ‘Volk’’s success - you hear them singing and then some chilling background noise slowly mixing and creeping its way into the atmosphere, then I think it leads into a scene where some sparkling aura entity wakes Susie up (and she’s nude) in the middle of the night and gets her to go down to this... dungeon orgy full of random stuff going on, complete with an Asian man doing something beyond explanation (I could say lewd but not quite), even more strange ritual dancing and the very much frightening Madame Helga... who looked like Jabba the Hutt for some reason. And then of course everyone slitting, slashing and twisting each other, and by the end Susie throwing us all a plot twist which makes her THE evil one who can finally let her ‘friends’ go of all that suffering they have been through thanks to the damn witches (and yeah apparently her dance friends haven’t completely died? THAT’S how they do - they tell Susie to end their suffering and she does). Also she cracks her chest open to reveal a... very graphic part of a female body that will by no doubt get this whole text review reported without consent so I refrain from any illustrations. Oh and this scene mostly has the possibly favourite this movie’s soundtrack song of mine, if not one of them, play - titled Unmade. It was a mind-boggling decision to do so but the movie editors do them I suppose, but still. I felt sad for the song having to be the background of such absurd but fair enough events? (Oh and I didn’t mention that everyone who voted for the other woman than Madame Blanc to be the leader of the witches (iirc) were rid of in this movie. Damn.)

Oh and the ending is rather an interesting detail, not talking about post-credits because as always I have to be this one movie goer who wants to do it but can’t because they’re urged to go back out of the movie theater. We turn into modern day Germany with a love heart carved on a brick wall with the letters A and L (perhaps?? at the time of finishing this review my memory towards it kind of erased some parts of the movie for me), a nice little remembrance of Lutz’s (the old man’s) love for his dear Anke, with which they have reunited during the movie, but Lutz was dragged out by some people related to the dance academy for probably wandering elsewhere than needed and somehow Lutz ended up as one of the sex dungeon victims, stripped of clothing and lying down quite powerless. That and before the modern day shot we are subjected with Lutz in hospital with Susie coming to visit, they discuss something related to the plot, Susie touches the guy speaks some more, leaves and according to the Wiki, Lutz “suffers from a violent seizure” that was nothing more than just a hard seizure. And it even erases his memories!

Anyway, as a whole, I felt more underwhelmed of this movie’s experience despite really wanting to see it. Like, “uhm yeah gore blood people getting slashed everyone’s a witch and everyone’s watched over by the witch and if you expose the witches you die” kind of underwhelmed. I didn’t want this movie to blatantly go through my head, but it did, that’s why I wanted to make notes everytime something notable happens. There was one startling moment, and it just was an innocent scene transition. And something within Olga’s mutilation scene made me chuckle (and made some other people leave the cinema hall ASAP). It’s more of a disgusting watch than scary. Also feels too dragged out in parts.

I’d only recommend it if you are gore-tolerant (there are people that can’t stand looking at blood so this might as well not be for you, especially if you’re younger than 16), like intense choreos that can impact other people literally, and... the soundtrack. Yes of course. If you dare to get through the movie with feeling its soundtrack, sometimes you might as well feel it right, but some of the soundtrack song usages might as well make you go “hmm” as much as me.

I'll remind myself to never watch a movie in theaters for soundtrack again (unless they're not THAT late). And the other 'trilogy of the three witches' movie remakes, especially if they come out at the time I haven't moved houses by now, because for sure as hell will my parents not like me going to cinema late once more. The movie is lowkey 7 out of 10 for me, can sometimes it's on the verge of falling down to 6 becaude of no completely proper comprehension of some directing choices... so 6.7/10 is good - as it still has 6 in it, but totally leans on to the 7.

Will probably watch it again. I need to remember some more of this movie sometime later. And looking for online uploads of this movie is unrecommendable - I'll wait until Lionsgate distributes it to America for wider audiences so that anything could surface 2 months (or even a few days) later from now. Though if I didn't need all that, I'd definitely not watch it again for a long time... unfortunately I want to.

Post movie feelings: my companion liked the movie, initially said to never watch it again but now wants to watch it again because it was so "wtf" she felt like re-experiencing it at some point. She liked the music (another bonus point for Yorke). She wished she could film the reactions of other people who watched this, as they mostly were confused, all being like "wtf did I just watch???". I'm already feeling bad for the 3rd companion who didn't join us but would also like to watch this - he’ll likely be one of those confused movie-goers.

[survivingthejungle]

never fade away; part vii

oh goodness. it’s been a hot minute since i wrote a new part to this. bear with me. i’m getting back into the swing of things.

_____________________________________

This was it. 

The apocalypse. 

Armageddon. 

The End of Times. 

You had been dragged inside of some abandoned warehouse, watched Jerome make a crazy speech about ‘what death was like’, and ‘how Gotham was going to be reborn into chaos’, and you watched him murder a man via explosives on live television. He grabbed you before running out of the building, pushing yourself in front of him to make you run fast enough to get out. (And also to act as a human shield in case the police were waiting for him outside.) 

The city was pitch black. Never before had you been able to see more than 10 stars in the sky in Gotham; now you could easily see at least a million. Of course, the smog and air pollution was ever-present, but the city lights being cut off was quite effective in facilitating the visibility of the night sky. 

You admired being able to see the natural brightness and decorations of the universe; you did not, however, appreciate the fact that it was caused by Jerome. 

The boy who was seemingly determined to make your life a living hell. 

To say that he was not intriguing as a concept would be lying. What’s not interesting about some 19-year-old killing his family, escaping from a prison for the criminally insane, going around a city he isn’t from and killing people every chance he gets, kidnapping 16-year-olds, and cutting off the whole power supply of said city?

You only wished you hadn’t been the poor, previously aforementioned 16-year-old. And why did he obsess over you, you wondered?

From the time you were forced to spend in the penthouse in Downtown Gotham, you could pick up on the fact that he liked your appearance and had even considered you pretty. You could also pick up on the fact that he very clearly enjoyed games. You were like a game to him. ‘Let’s see how many times I can kidnap (y/n), let’s see how long I can kidnap (y/n) this time, let’s see how many emotional scars I can leave (y/n) with this time around,’... the list went on. 

“Be honest- how’s my face look?” he asked out of the blue, in the midst of a silent car ride towards  what was begining to look like a suburb. 

“Uh... not good.”  “Hm.” He considered this. “Well, I did say ‘be honest’, so I’ll give ya that one, babe. Say- what game do you wanna play first?” “What?” you asked him. 

“You know... dunk tank, balloon popping, ring tosses... name your pick, beautiful. This is your night as much as it is mine.” That confused you. “Why is that?”

“Well, because we’re finally together again! This is what people have been waiting for, isn’t it?” Theatrically, he made a sign with a free hand while steering. “Jerome and (y/n), the dynamic duo, back at it again! Hahahahaha!”

“Sure, that’s what all your cult freaks wanted. Sure isn’t what I wanted. And we aren’t a duo. And I don’t want to play carnival games. I want to go home. You can let me out here,” you tried, “I’ll walk?”

“Not gonna happen, hot stuff. You don’t get it, do you?”

“Don’t... Don’t get what?” you questioned. 

“I don’t want to let you go. I don’t want to lose you again. Death made me realize a lot of things, and I intend on keeping you with me from here on out. You’re gonna stick around with me from here on out!” The car was parked now, in the driveway of some bougie-looking mansion. “I’m not gonna let you go easy this time. No one’s gonna stab me in the neck and let you go this time. You’re staying with me now kid, we’re in this for the long haul!” You were disturbed by the serious tone of his voice now. 

You had a worried look plastered on your face; a reasonable reaction. You refused to look at him, instead you chose to stare down at the floor and focus on not crying. Someone will find me, you promised yourself. They won’t let this happen to me again. Someone must be looking for me. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry. 

“Hey. Hey... look at me. Give me a smile, huh?” he nudged your shoulder, trying to get you to look at him. You did nothing, just tried to pull farther away from him. “Ah, you’ll get used to it after a while. It’ll be like last time, remember! You were fine eventually! We just gotta get you back in the swing of things.” “NO!” you yelled, tears beginning to fall freely now. “Don’t you understand? I was never fine! I was faking it so that you wouldn’t kill me! I was protecting myself! I never wanted to be with you! And I don’t want to be with you now! Why don’t you understand that?” You turned back from facing him and buried your face in your hands, trying to control your tears and make them stop. 

Your breathing was cut short when a strong hand wrapped itself around your throat, restricting the blood flow to your brain as well as air flow to your lungs. Your head was pressed to the back of the seat of a car; you had no escape. In his eyes, you saw no emotions; well, nothing other than pure, unbridled rage. “I’m gonna let that go with a warning, babe, because I know you didn’t mean it. But if you act up like that again? Well... it’s not gonna be pretty. I can promise you that,” he spat, his face mere milimeters from yours. “Capisce?” 

“Yes,” you managed to choke out, barely making a sound at all. 

“Is this gonna happen again? Because you know, I’m not as patient as I used to be.” His grip loosened on your neck slightly. “No. It won’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me again.” You looked at him with pleading, glassy eyes, praying to God that your life would be spared for even just a day longer. He didn’t respond to this. He simply got out of the car, walked over to your side, and opened it expectantly. 

“Well?” he goaded, gesturing for you to get out. As you hesitantly got out and stood up, he said, “Well, gee, (Y/N), you’re so welcome for opening the door and being so chivalrous. There’s not many gentlemen left these days.” “Thank you, Jerome,” you croaked out hoarsely. He mock bowed to you and laughed, the slits on the sides of his mouth widening grotesquely. 

“Hands,” he demanded suddenly, “Put ‘em out.” You obliged carefully. He pulled a convenient rope out of his back pocket and began to tie it around your wrists. “I know you’re still not used to having me back yet. Can’t risk you tryin’ to run off, can we?” He smiled at you, like he had completely forgotten about everything else that had just happened. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” ______________

Eventually, after chaos was wreaked at Wayne Manor, you and Bruce Wayne were both thrown into the back of Jerome’s hijacked squad car. He hightailed it to a makeshift carnival in the middle of town; just about the only place with any working electric. Once there, Bruce turned to you quickly; in the short moment Jerome had stepped out of the car, he told you, “I promise I will get us out of here.” The sincerety in his voice gave you a sliver of hope for the rest of the night; you were basically both in the same boat, and you were both trying to get out of it together. 

You tried to stay mostly silent throughout the whole debacle, afraid that if you let the wrong word slip out, you might end up dying like one of the people in the awful makeshift carnival games by which you were surrounded. Even when your newest friend was suddenly faced with death-by-canon, you made sure not to make a peep. If Jerome thought you two were starting to be pals, he’d surely kill Bruce in a split second. He was possesive that way, among many other ways.

But you dropped the façade in the house of mirrors. More specifically, once Bruce broke a mirror and ripped your bindings off, before nearly killing the ginger. 

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, Brucie,” Jerome choked out, “Not in front of my girl, would ya please? Poor thing’ll be traumatized for the rest of her life if she sees me go again.” You knew in your heart he was probably joking, but he almost souned the slightest bit sincere every time you were a topic of conversation. 

“She’s already traumatized by you, you clown,” Bruce spat at him. “(Y/N), run! Get out of here! I can handle myself!” he ordered you. You nodded and ran, making sure to not look back at the expression on the redhead’s face (or lack thereof) when you took off. Finding your way out, you were met face-to-face with Detective Gordon, as well as Bruce’s butler, Alfred, who you’d both assumed to be dead and gone by now. 

“Christ, (Y/N), we need to get you out of here. We have no idea where Jerome could be right now,” Jim motioned for you to stand next to him in order for him to keep a closer eye on you. 

“He’s in there, Detective Gordon, and so is Bruce Wayne. Jerome almost killed him but by the time I got free, Bruce had the upper hand. I don’t know what the status is right now, though-” and you didn’t have too, because Bruce was walking out of the same exit you had just been through, looking absolutely exhaused with his sad clown makeup still painted on. Jim, Alfred, and you all breathed a sigh of relief, before you saw the devil-boy come out with a vengeful look in his eye, and a loaded gun in his hand. 

“BRUCE! Behind you!” you yelled, and Bruce managed to get out of the line of fire. Soon after this, Detective Gordon clocked Jerome in the face so hard that his... well, that is face flew off into a dirty puddle on the ground, and Jerome fell straight back as well. 

______________

4 days later and, while you knew your life would never exactly be normal ever again, you had hoped that it wouldn’t get interrupted again for at least a while. 

While walking Sadie downtown one day, you happened to pass by the GCPD at the same time that Detective Gordon was headed outside. “Oh, (Y/N)! Coincidence crossing paths with you right now; see, I’ve got a bit of bad news,” he told you.

“Oh gosh,” you responded, “What happened? Please tell me he didn’t get out again...” you pleaded to a higher power. 

“No, no... but it is about him,” he informed you. “He’s been making threats, (Y/N), and he’s gone through with all of them, but he’s given us an ultimatum...” he trailed off. 

“What happened, Detective?” you wondered. 

“He’s been killing inmates and guards left and right. Now, there’s not much we can do, since he is already locked up, but he just offered us a deal. It’s... it’s about you.” “What about me? I’ll do it, Detective, I don’t want him to keep killing people. I’m so sick of people killing each other all of the time.” The detective sighed. “He said he’d stop, but only if you would come and see him at least once a week in Arkham. Now, before you say anything, if you agree, we’ll have plenty of armed personel with you during any visit, and a bulletproof barrier between you during every meeting. Are you okay with this?” he asked you, searching for a sign of reaction in your face.

You nodded. “I’ll do it. I’ll be okay. I can do it,” you told him. “I can do it,” you said once more, this time to yourself. 

_______________________________________________

hi friendos. it has been a long ass time (as i have already mentioned i know)

i have had this stuck in my drafts waiting to be finished for about a month. im the literal worst. i know. please accept this as my apology. 

in other news?? the newest episode has got me FUCKED ALL THE WAY UP like damn. all my boys be lookin fine as hell on these thursday nights. god bless amen hallelujah i’m tired and i just got back from spring break so forgive me if this is bad i love u all. 

u kno da drill. feedback is welcome, encouraged, and appreciated

[stephobrien]

Four Times I Begged Them: A Don't Starve Fanfic

Spoiler/content warnings:

This fanfiction contains spoilers for the end of Don't Starve's adventure mode. It also includes mentions of death and suicidal desires. ​ ​Description:

In the centuries since Maxwell was dragged into The Constant, he's begged his tormentors four times. As his pleas fall on uncaring ears, he resorts to increasingly desperate measures in his quest to escape his prison.

Story: ​In the interminable stretch of time that has passed since my dabbling in dark magic got my assistant and I captured and dragged into The Constant, I’ve begged our captors four times. The first was the night they took Charlie. When they first pulled us into this miserable world, I thought we would at least be able to take comfort in each other’s company. Charlie was angry with me – understandably so – for ruining her life through my reckless hubris, but I knew she’d forgive me eventually. I was ready to do whatever it took to earn that forgiveness, though I knew I would never truly deserve it. After dragging her into this mess, the least I could do was everything I could to keep her alive and to give her as good a life as we could create in this wretched, uncultured wilderness. But I don’t think our captors like it when we have hope. The more our minds deteriorate, the further we slide into their world, and I suspect that’s exactly where they want us. So they took Charlie there by force, and made her one of them. If only I’d known what I know now. I would never have let the fire go out. Wouldn’t have left her vulnerable to the monstrous hands that closed around her, dragging her away from me as we screamed and clung to each other. But their limbs were far stronger than ours, fingers invisible in the absolute blackness, snaking around our desperate hands and prying them away from each other’s arms. They wrenched her away from me, and as her terrified shrieks went hoarse with pain, I tried to fumble for a torch. They wouldn’t allow it. My arms were bound to my sides, a horrible preview of what was to come, and I could only listen and call her in vain as her wailing turned to choking, then went silent. Why they chose her, I don’t know. I was the one who had the book, the one who trespassed in their domain. Maybe that was why. Perhaps it amused them to leave my will intact, to let me wallow in my guilt as they punished my innocent assistant for my mistakes. When they finally released me, leaving me alone and trembling in the darkness, I’m sure they must have been silently laughing at the foolishness and shock that kept my hands from lighting a torch. When a hissing snarl tore through the air, I thought they were coming for me next. In my horror, grief and guilt, I almost welcomed the thought. If only I hadn’t been wearing that grass suit. If only the pain of her claws tearing into my chest hadn’t galvanized me into action, sending my shaking hands groping for a torch so I could see what was attacking me. If only I’d let her finish me off before the light drove her away, letting me have a final glimpse of her twisted, deformed face before she fled my sight forever. I would’ve been so much better off. So would every person whose life I’ve touched since then. But to everyone’s misfortune, I would live to beg them three more times. ~*~ The second time I begged them was the day I reached the throne room. There wasn’t much there when I showed up; no Merms, no Depths Worms, none of the strange but comprehensible creatures that populated the world they threw Charlie and I into. Just dust, and the Void, and them. I thought I had come prepared. The grueling worlds that led to that room had tested the limits of my skill, and I had brought enough rations to last me a few days. I even managed to make a few crock pots to extend my food supply, and a teleportation device that I foolishly hoped would remove me when I was ready to leave. With all that in place, I told myself I would have enough time to convince them to restore Charlie to her former self. Maybe I could even get them to let us leave. Time. Heh. There was one thing I’d have more than enough of. Not that it mattered, in the end. I was a fool. I dared to hope. I thought if I reasoned, bargained or begged, eventually I’d find the combination of words that would persuade them to let her go. But no matter how clever you think you are, you cannot bargain with someone who won’t reveal what they want. And these creatures just watch you. Unless you get too close. I guess I got too close. After several days, as my food supplies ran low, the shadows began to coalesce. They twisted and solidified, until they formed the rough and thorny chair I still sit on today. I knew it wasn’t a good idea. But at that point, there were no other ideas left. I’d tried everything else at my disposal; all there was left was to accept their invitation, and find out what would happen next. The moment the familiar grip of their tendrils closed around my wrists, I knew I’d made a mistake. I should’ve let myself starve. Instead, I found myself bound to the chair, drowning in memories of darkness, fear, and the screams that had torn at my ears the first time I felt that horrible grasp. For the first few seconds, those flashbacks roared with such overwhelming force that nothing else could touch my mind. Then the crackling of the torches around me began to filter in, the whispering flames slowly pushing my friend’s cries aside with their simple, wordless message: Charlie isn’t coming for you. We won’t give her back, and as long as these cursed fires burn, she will never come. No one will get you out of this. Not even through death. ~*~​ The third time I begged them was the day they took my hands. For weeks, I fought to keep my sense of self, staring at hands that refused to age and clinging to them like a lifeline. Those once flawless, manicured fingers were marred by dirt and callouses, but they were still mine. The nails, frozen in time and unable to grow, were smooth and perfectly shaped, and the skin around them was supple and human. They reminded me of who I was: a cultured man with scruples and dignity. The prisoner of these demons, maybe, but never one of them. I guess they thought it was time I learned who they wanted me to be. It seems they don’t like a spirit that’s intact once it has ceased to amuse them. They didn’t do it all at once. They started with my right hand, those wretched lights illuminating every revolting, unnatural movement as my bones began to lengthen, stretching and tearing the muscles around them and straining the skin to its breaking point. Agony tore a scream from my throat as fire and nausea drowned my senses, and my dignity was forgotten as I begged for them to stop. They didn’t, of course. They never do. They didn’t when they were transforming Charlie. Heaven forbid that she felt the same kind of pain. It was only when my hand had been stretched and sharpened into a mocking likeness of them that they finally relented, leaving me gasping and shuddering as my body tried to empty a stomach that hadn’t been filled in weeks. I knew they wouldn’t settle for one. They were letting the pain and shock of the first deformity, combined with the dread of what was to come, take its full effect before eclipsing it with fresh anguish. I told myself I wouldn’t break. If there’s one piece of me that I thought I could keep intact, it was my pride. That, and what was left of my cultured demeanor. Turning my deformed hand palm-up, I asked if they could free it long enough for me to use my handkerchief to wipe the tears, snot, saliva and stomach acid off my face and suit. Damp is not dapper, after all. The shadows coiled tighter around my other hand, twisting barbs preparing to inject their nightmarish fuel, and they allowed me just enough time to say “I didn’t think so” before the agony resumed. ~*~ The fourth time I begged my captors, it wasn’t for mercy. I already knew that they had none to give. This time, I asked for one final act of cruelty: one which, compared to their other actions, would seem like mercy to me. I asked them to kill me. And this time, please, don’t bring me back. The words felt costly and humiliating, like a king paying his last pennies for a meal of garbage. And yet, I said them, despite already knowing they would not be heeded. My captors have never spoken to me before, nor showed signs of heeding me when I spoke. They’re smart enough to make that cursed book, so I know they aren’t stupid animals, but that doesn’t mean they’ll deal with me as equals. If anything, humans are animals to them. Pets – or, even worse, toys, to be played with and worn down until we cease to entertain them. I knew they wouldn’t listen. And yet, I begged. My body aches from staying in one position so long, and I don’t know which is worse – the days when I can feel my legs, which they twisted so viciously that my feet now point toward each other, or the days when I can’t. I haven’t eaten or drank in months, maybe years, yet the Nightmare Throne won’t let me die. Every time I expire, I reappear in this seat, hungry yet hale enough to continue entertaining my sadistic audience. I fear that the sound of those torches might be permanently carved into my mind, occupying more and more space where joy and memory once lived. I’ve forgotten how to build things I invented myself, and I don’t even remember what it’s like to be touched by another human being. I try to recall the feeling sometimes. To remember Charlie’s gleeful hugs when a show went particularly well, the playful kiss she would brush on my cheek, the hand on my shoulder when she entered a room I was sitting in. Sometimes, I try to pretend that the bonds on my wrists are her hands, but I can’t get the illusion to take hold. Charlie’s skin was never so rough. Well… maybe it is now. Just like my own grotesquely clawed hands, which remind me every day that a part of my tormentors is inside me now, and that they can turn me into anything and there’s nothing I can do to stop them. Even if they let me go, I doubt I could ever return to my life. Not now that my body is an echo of their evil, and Charlie’s is even worse. That’s my fault. I deserve this fate. And yet, I begged them to release me from it, in the only way I thought they might be cruel enough to accept. They didn’t, of course. These overgrown children want a toy, and I’m the only being stupid enough to dabble in their realm and leave myself and the people close to me vulnerable to them. Then again… am I? ~*~​ When they took Charlie, I begged them. When they took my hope of saving her, my human hands, and my will to live, I begged them again. When my humanity was lost, there was no one left to beg. My captors did not take it from me; I gave it away myself. For years, I held a selfish hope that they would trick some other poor fool into coming here. I imagined that, with the power I’d absorbed from the throne on which I’m imprisoned, I might help their new victim; I could bend the world to improve the newcomer’s odds, guide them to the door that brought me to this room, and perhaps be rewarded with a companion for whose fate I wouldn’t have to blame myself. But they didn’t. It was if my tormentors were deliberately wearing me down, waiting for me to break and do their dirty work for them. Perhaps, since the Codex Umbra was pulled in with me, they have no way to acquire new victims, and they require a human traitor to help them snare more of his kind. I don’t know how long I resisted the temptation. Time moves differently here. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were stretching it out so that a day in the world I left behind lasts a season in this little pocket of Hell. But eventually, as the years wore on, the sound of those damn torches slowly ate into my mind, my ears begged for the sound of a voice, and my skin cried out for another person’s touch, I gave in. Of course, I tried to justify it. I’d been unprepared. I wasn’t strong enough. Maybe a more powerful person would be able to do what I could not, to defeat the beings that held us here and find a way to escape. The delusions we trick ourselves into in the depths of desperation. The first two soldiers I contacted were wise enough to refuse me. The third was all but broken by war, by the public’s harsh reception when he came home, and by his own inability to adapt to civilian life. From his perspective, he had little to lose by accepting one last mission, one I deluded both of us into thinking he had a chance of accomplishing. We were both such fools. As if he could defeat an enemy that neither of us could destroy or even understand. He didn’t even last long enough for them to become a threat. A Deerclops got him first. I told myself the next one would succeed. I kept on telling myself that until he was stabbed to death by a spiked tentacle. And then, as my guilt crushed down on me, I told myself they deserved it. After all, I had survived, hadn’t I? I had faced the same odds they had, and triumphed. They’d died because they were weak and stupid, not because I had selfishly lured them to their deaths. When the suicidal ex-Marine was eaten by a Bearger, I kept telling myself that. When the martial arts student was cut down by Charlie after entering The Constant out of compassion for me, I continued repeating my excuses. As I watched the victims who thought they’d be rescuers die, one after another, I ceased to find comfort in the hope that they’d succeed, and tried instead to find some solace in the days before their deaths. I’d spent so long watching an unpopulated world turn without me that compared to that, seeing another person repeat my fight for survival felt almost like being alive again. I could nearly recall the feeling of machinery coming to life in my hands, of grass beneath my feet, of a rabbit’s soft fur before it gave its life to prolong mine. In the brief moments when I was able to communicate with the people I deceived, I could almost feel that I was part of another person’s life again. What am I saying? Of course I was a part of their life. The part that led it to its end. Not that I could admit that to myself. Not before I went numb. As I spread my focus to targets from other walks of life, people who knew nothing of combat or survival, I told myself I was simply trying a new strategy – maybe someone with a different perspective would be able to repeat my success and surpass it. Besides, this mission was important, wasn’t it? After all, the creatures that control The Constant were still a threat. If they weren’t defeated once and for all, who knew what they might eventually do. As if there was any realistic chance that that mission could be accomplished. As the years went by, the creeping rot of desensitization started to strip away the need to lie to myself, and reality began to sink it. And that reality was, I was bored. I was tired of watching trained fighters fail, so I wanted to try something new. That’s what my most recent victims died for. Not for a hope that faded years ago, but a final attempt to feel alive by a broken husk that cannot die. As long as I’m bound to the Nightmare Throne, it’s easier if I don’t think of myself as anything more than that. Trying to be something other than what my jailers wanted me to become takes energy that ran out long ago. Of course, that’s probably just another excuse. I should’ve stopped before those became necessary, and just let my soul decay with what little grace it still had instead of corrupting it further. I shouldn’t have given them the satisfaction of listening to me beg, or of hearing the final words and screams of the people I got killed. Hearing, and… I shudder to think of it. I knew they were watching, listening… but I never foresaw that they would record those people’s final sounds, mash them into a gratingly cheery tune, and then put that horrible song on a phonograph that never stops playing. “The cold! It burns!” “Heh… this is what I get for trusting voices on the radio.” “I’m sorry… Elizabeth…” “This heat is unbearable.” “EEAAAAAAHHHHH!!!” I’m starting to forget which voice belongs to who. I can’t even remember how many people I’ve lured here, how many lives I’ve ruined. Is it because there were too many to count, or because if I remembered, what little remains of my conscience would destroy what’s left of my mind? In the end, knowing won’t change anything. I’d rather not think about them. The sins of the past cannot be undone, and my latest misdeed taunts me with the hope that my crimes might finally pay. When the redhead agreed to enter this world, tempted by the promise of a stage that would suit the persona that’s devoured her mind, I thought she was just another sap who had fallen for a clever conman’s lies. But now, I’ve started to believe that out of all the people I brought here, she is the first to truly receive what she wanted from our deal. She threw herself into the task of survival with savage gusto, slaughtering anything that challenged her spear. Her foolish devotion to her diet, combined with her fragile mind and reckless love of battle, have sometimes left her clinging to life by the skin of her carnivorous teeth, and yet somehow, she still lives. Several times, I’ve watched her body break, only to be made whole again by an effigy or enchanted stone. Just as mine was, more times than I can recall. When she found my door, my spirits rose. She passed it by, and they sank again – only to flicker back to life when she returned a year later with a defiant gleam in her eye. The warrior desires a challenge, and with a puppet shaped like me dangling from their strings, I know that our mysterious captors will give her one. They’ll pretend that I don’t want her here, when in truth, her arrival is the only thing I can still realistically hope for. They don’t want to lose their favorite toy, so they will try to deter her. But perhaps, if she proves as resilient as me, they’ll decide they’ve found a worthy new plaything to twist and break. Better her than me. It isn’t a matter of deserving anymore. She doesn’t deserve to be conned into this. I don’t deserve to be freed. But I no longer care. I’m beyond feeling guilty for my victims’ deaths, and long past wishing that one of them would offer the friendship I’ve forgotten how to feel. My need for conversation and physical contact has withered along with my morals and my soul. I’ve been losing pieces of myself for… heh. Track of time is just one more thing I’ve lost. If she can destroy the pieces that still tie me to this world, I don’t care how little of me is left to pass into the next one, or if that lingering fragment is sent to Hell. It can’t be worse than this. I just want to be anywhere other than here. I won’t beg her for it, though. I’m done with begging. It never works anyway. She will do what she will do, and I doubt that any facts or reason will sway her stubborn mind. She doesn’t seem very smart, and I almost wish I wasn’t smart enough to know that no matter what she does, she’ll just be delaying the inevitable. Reality is like that, sometimes. For now, I’ll continue to wait and watch. I think I’ve said enough. Author’s note: In the game, the phonograph simply plays a jaunty but grating tune. However, given the fact that all the characters are voiced by musical instruments, it has been theorized that the music is composed of various characters' voices and screams. ​Given Maxwell's tendency to lure people into The Constant, it would stand to reason that the voices he's forced to listen to 24/7 are those of his past victims.

[jooheonspinky]

Save Me

Characters: Yoongi x Reader ft. Namjoon

Genre: Action

Synopses: This wasn’t your first time, having helped your friend with their plot multiple times before. The surreal surroundings were almost a second home, but when you recognize the abductee is part of the scheme, you feel things may have gone too far.

Warnings: This fic contains blood and gore. Please read at your own risk.

Word Count: 5K

A/N: I want to give a huge thank you to my lovely cousin @millie-ionaire05! She told me a dream she had with Yoongi and I loved how unique it was. I’d never read a fic like this and thought it would be so much fun to write one. I hope you all enjoy this as it truly was a blast writing this up! Please leave a comment or feedback. Let us know what you think!! Thanks for reading. Byee

You feel your phone vibrate against your hip, the sensation seeping through the messenger bag that hung across your torso. Pulling out the cell, you briefly glance at it to see who’s calling. A playful smirk slips across your lips as you swipe your finger across the screen and the bring phone to your ear.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Y/N!” your best friend chirps giddily from across the line. “Are you off work already?”

“Actually yes,” you let her know, your steps slowing a bit. “I’m stepping outside the building now and was just about to head to the supermarket. What’s up?”

“Oh,” her excitement tones down a bit. “Just wanted to see if you could hang out today. I wanted to run some new sound effects audio for the avatar with you, but if you’re busy…”

“No, no,” you assure her, pausing in your steps to focus your attention on the conversation. “I just needed to do some groceries, but it can wait til tomorrow. Should I go to your place?” 

“Not this time. How about we meet in the parking lot of the abandoned Big Lots,” she suggests, her enthusiasm rising again. “You know which one I’m talking about, right?” You hum in acknowledgement and she continues. “Great, see you there in thirty minutes?”

“See you there.”

“Byee!” she sings before the call ends.

You laugh as you grab your keys, slipping the cellphone back in its place and continuing on your way to your car.

***

It is late evening, the cloudy night sky not allowing much illumination down to the isolated area you are parked at. You had time to spare, the drive to the store from your job not taking the full thirty minutes, so you decide to get out and lean against the car while you wait for your best friend to arrive. You leave the headlights on, hoping to push some of the darkness away from the abandoned parking lot.

You were glad you’d worn long leggings as well as a long sleeved asymmetrical shirt to keep some of the chill of the night at bay. There was a light cool breeze tonight that brushed through some loose strands of your hair causing them to dance around your face as you scroll through your phone, killing time while you waited for your best friend to show up.

You become engrossed in an article, your hand coming up to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear. When the tinkling sound of a chip of gravel skidding across the pavement registers in your mind, you tense. The self-defense classes you’d taken has your body immediately triggering you to prepare for any threats and shifts you into defense mode. But even still, you were too late and you curse your phone for having distracted you from truly focusing on your surroundings.

Before you can put your cell away to free your hands, a solid object smashes down against your temple bringing forth a starlight of pain to burst in your head. You struggle to stand as you claw at the car for purchase while your vision blurs, but it’s no use and soon your body collapses into a pair of strong arms as you finally succumb to the clutches of impending darkness.

***

Consciousness begins to awaken you, coaxing your eyes to flutter open. Sitting up groggily, you take in a shuddering breath as the memories of what happened instantly flood your mind. Your hand instinctively flies up to your temple as your eyes widen, expecting to find blood and a lump. You frown as you feel around and find the area flat as if you hadn’t just had someone whack you there. You take a peek at your fingers, but they come back clean.

What the hell?

You force yourself up onto your feet and it’s then that you notice you are in a room perhaps about twenty-five by twenty-five feet. Every inch of it is a crisp bright white. Even the high vaulted ceilings are the same color giving off the illusion that the space was infinite.

“Oh!” you murmur, surprised to find an object suddenly appear a few feet ahead of you, its colors contrasting harshly with the pristine surroundings.

It was an axe.

A crackle resonates throughout the room commanding your attention. Your eyes flick around swiftly searching for the source of the sound as a female’s slightly altered voice replaces the static sound.

“Pick up the weapon.”

You don’t question the disembodied voice. Instead, you take a step forward only to immediately freeze in your tracks as a low growl fills the otherwise silence of the room, making the hair on your arms stand on end. Your neck snaps up, tearing your gaze from the weapon, and your blood runs cold within your veins as your eyes fall on what made such a noise. Grotesque creatures storm in from an open door that had not been there moments before. Some of the horrors before you are too much for your brain to even comprehend what they could be. They certainly were not anything you had ever seen roaming the Earth.

But two in particular stand out. One is about the height and length of a tiger, but is more dog-like. It’s face resembles that of a Rottweiler. The teeth were sharp, long and yellow and they dripped with saliva. The skin was a dull leathery black. Ivory colored spikes protruded down the length of its spine, with some sprinkled about his elbow, shoulders, and behind its eyes. The beady black orbs track you, never losing sight of you.

The other creature is akin to a giant wasp. The buzzing of its wings getting under your skin, almost like nails scraping down a chalkboard. The wings flit so swiftly, that you can only tell that they are a dark color. A short olive colored fuzz covers the head and thorax while an armor-like casing surrounds it’s abdomen. The stinger is sharp and long, the eyes a metallic green-yellow. You can’t help but cringe as the mandibles snap open and close, the clacking sound sending your heart into a thundering frenzy.

Swallowing any fear before it can truly manifest and disable you, you dash forward, snatching up the axe. The wooden handle is surprisingly warm against your palm and the sharp steel blade gleams as the light from the room bounces off of it. You turn your body slightly, ready to use all your power to swing the axe down on any attacker, but someone grabs you, forcibly halting your action. You twist, your heart thrumming furiously in your ears as you come face to face with, not a person, but a mannequin-like entity.

The thing has to be at least seven feet tall, its shoulders broad as it looms over you. Whatever it is, it has no facial features save for carvings mimicking where the eyes of a human would be. It’s beige eyeless sockets stare down at you. Though it’s face is expressionless, you can still feel it’s malicious intent as its powerful hand tightens vice-like around your forearm preventing you from protecting yourself.

A searing pain begins to burn at the contact site and you instantly jump into action, kicking the mannequin until its grip loosens. You take your whole body and shove against it causing it to lose its balance. The mannequin releases you as it fights to steady itself and you take advantage of the moment and swing the axe at its neck. The head is cut clean off, rolling away, and you quickly scramble to raise the axe again, readying yourself to attack the other monsters.

The axe whines as it swipes through the air, body after body falling from the demise brought on by your weapon. When there are no more left to slay, you look down at your clothes, your chest heaving as you pant from the exertion. The garments are splattered with some of the monsters blood. You frown, feeling the warm and tackiness seeping through to your skin, but the sound of a door opening on the other side of the room draws your attention away. Jogging over to it, you wipe the sweat from your brow with your forearm. You glance at your arm briefly. The flesh there still tingled with a burning pain from when the mannequin had grabbed you, yet there was no mark there on your skin reflecting any degree of burn whatsoever.

Interesting.

Stepping gingerly through the doorway, the first thing you notice, besides that it is completely white as well, is that the room is bigger than the one you just left, perhaps forty by forty. It’s completely empty. You take a moment to glance over your shoulder and find that the door you just came through is now gone. There is only a solid wall behind you.

Just as your heart rate is finally returning to a more calm rhythm, you look up slightly towards the right and your eyes fall upon a cage way high up, the top flush against the ceiling and the back side against the wall. It was no ordinary cage. It appeared to be made of glass as you could see right through it. Craning your neck and narrowing your eyes for a better view, you realize the cage is not empty. Inside sits a boy with his hands and feet bound, shackled to chains. Squinting your eyes even more as you focus on his face you instantly still, a small gasp escaping your lips.

You recognize him. You know who he is!

Is this a joke? You laugh at the absurdity of it because you are certain it can’t be. At least not a real version.

The captive says your name, his deep voice instantly cutting off your laughter, freezing you in your spot. Hearing him speak has you literally paralyzed in fear.

He was real?

The screech of the intercom intrudes in that moment, advising simply, “Save Yoongi.”

Silence returns and your eyes lock in on Yoongi’s and all you see is worry swimming in his dark orbs. Holograms had previously been used. The members of BTS had never moved nor spoken to you before. What was there to be gained by using a live member? Your ears burn red as you grow angry. What if he gets hurt?

How dare she include a live Bangtan member!

Taking that fury and using it to fuel your energy, you begin to jog towards the enclosure, your mind immediately working through how you would get him out of there. You catch sight of something at the corner of your eye and turn your neck for a better look. Ugh! You growl internally. It’s almost as if your movement forward triggers the creatures to appear and soon the room is filled with nearly double of what had been in the previous room. They swiftly advance on you and you waste no time cutting your way through them. The sounds of your heavy breathing and grunts mingles with the growling, yaps and buzzing of the monsters that surround you.

You hate to admit it, but you are getting your ass kicked. Bites and scratches are littered all over your body. Your clothing are tattered, the razor sharp talons slicing through the material as if it was merely paper. You could feel yourself beginning to panic. There were so many, an endless amount it seemed, and your energy was waning.

You couldn’t give up though. Yoongi was your priority right now. Everything else could just go to hell as long as Yoongi was safe. Swallowing back the panic you find the resilience to continue swinging and hacking through the throng of beasts, your eyes constantly darting around looking for a way out of the melee. Something shiny suddenly catches your attention and you notice a key dangling around the neck of one of the giant mannequins. Seeing it has hope blooming within your tired body, providing the extra energy to slash a path out of the sea of fiends.

Breaking free, you sprint towards the flesh colored mannequin, simultaneously swinging the axe and reaching for the key. Though you snatch up the key, the mannequin proves to be much faster and stronger than you and grasps your arm before you can connect your axe with its body, the key dangling from your fingers. You let out a frustrated scream, the sound laced with terror as you glance over your shoulder only to find a wall of monsters rushing towards you. You tear your gaze away and look up into Yoongi’s concerned face, barely processing the fact that the glass cage is slowly descending.

Not wanting him to fret for you, you return your attention to the mannequin. Kicking it roughly, you simultaneously yank your arm away as it staggers back. There is a light thud beside you and you see that the cage has reached the ground. With a growl, you surprise yourself at your speed as in three strokes you amputate both of the mannequins arms and half a leg. No longer able to come for you, you concentrate on figuring out how to access Yoongi.

There is no latch or lock that you can see from where you stand. Raising your hands up to try and feel for any indentations or buttons you let out a startled curse as you stumble forward and into the encasing.

Should have known...

This side of the cage was a hologram. Peeking over your shoulder briefly you can see the area behind you rippling like water before returning to its original form. It almost seems to disappear right before your eyes.

Wasting no time, you quickly insert the key into the lock which held the chains that wrapped around Yoongi’s wrists and ankles. They clatter to the ground and he swiftly stands, rubbing at the skin of his wrists to soothe away the chafing the metal had caused. The sound of a door swishing open has you both turning your heads in the same direction.

Fearful of the exit shutting before you could get to it, you grasp his hand and rush towards the door. You’re a much faster runner than he and you tighten your grip, yanking him along. The terrifying growls and buzzing of the monsters are thunderous as you gain on the door way. You only risk a look back once you are in the third room, sighing with relief when the door automatically shuts, cutting you both off from the horrors in the previous room. The moment you look around and see it’s yet another room similar to the previous two, only much larger, you let out a frustrated cry and drop exasperatedly to your knees. The blade of your weapon clangs loudly in the quietness of the chamber as the axe’s handle hangs loosely in your limp hand.

Yoongi kneels beside you, giving your back a few gentle pats, his voice low as he asks, “괜찮아 (gwaenchana-are you ok)?”

You shake your head negatively, letting it fall forward so you could hide the tears that were starting to form. His hand soothingly rubs small circles to your back trying to comfort you. The gesture only causes a lump to form in your throat as you force yourself not to cry.

Before you can thank him for the kind gesture, the announcer speaks up in that moment informing us, “There is one last trial. Once it has been completed…you are free.”

Yoongi taps your arm, and you hesitantly look up at him, feeling vulnerable knowing there are tears clinging to your lashes. But he’s not looking at you. Instead, he’s staring at something on one end of the room. You follow his gaze and your shoulders sag as you quickly brush away the moisture from your eyes.

A long row of those tall mannequins stand sentinel, menacing as they stare blankly in your direction. Yoongi then taps you again, pointing to the other side of the room, directing your attention to an object lying on the floor.

It’s a machine gun.

You signal to him that he should get it since you have the axe, but the moment he stands the mannequins begin to step forward.

“가 (ga-go)!” you command, cringing apologetically at Yoongi for how informal it sounds, but your Korean is limited and truthfully, this was not really the time to be caring about formalities.

He doesn’t appear to be bothered by your use of 반말 (banmal-informal language), though, and instead counts off, “하나 (hana-one), 둘 (dul-two), 셋 (set-three),” before sprinting towards the gun.  

In turn, you shoot up to your feet and dash straight towards the mannequins, your heart rate picking up again as you gain on them. Once close enough your grip tightens on your weapon and the whistle of it slicing through the air is barely audible over the groans and screeches of the mannequins as you take them down one by one. You do all you can to keep their attention on you in hopes of keeping Yoongi from sustaining any injury whatsoever.

You take steps back with every hack, drawing them towards you and away from Yoongi. No matter how hard you try, only about half of the group continues to engage with you, while the rest split off towards him. Your eyes continually flit from the mannequins then to Yoongi until you finally see him reach the firearm. Sighing with relief, you watch as he releases the safety and immediately begins to shoot at the onslaught of mannequins closing in on him. You return your full attention to the enemies around you, continually bringing the axe down on anything in your way, until a scream tears from you as a bullet ricochets and rips across your raised hand. The pain is excruciating, but you have no choice other than to continue fighting back.

An eternity seems to pass, but with your combined weapons you finally kill them all. As soon as the last mannequin hits the ground a door opens at one side of the room and Yoongi grabs your wrist leading the way through the doorway. Now that there is complete silence, save for both of your ragged breathing, you can actually hear the door swoosh softly as it immediately closes behind you.

Your line of sight instantly falls on a figure on a couch. Your best friend sits there beaming proudly at you. The quest must be complete as you are now in a living room. As she stands, you scowl at her, not moving as she takes your left hand and removes a rubber bracelet you hadn’t even had the chance to notice you’d been wearing. You were familiar with it. It was used to gather your stats as you made your way through the various rooms. Your friend then hands you a black device similar to a miniature paddle. It was about 12 inches long when retracted. As you make your way to the kitchen you scan your hand, arms, and torso, still too angry to speak. By the time you reach the refrigerator there is no trace of you having had any injuries, the device having emitted an energy that helped you heal instantly.

Lying the scanner on the counter, you open the fridge, your ears perking up at hearing Yoongi and her chatting quietly. She was fluent in Korean while you weren’t, so you choose to tune out their conversation. You are desperate for water and couldn’t care less for anything else going on around you now that you knew there no longer was a threat.

Grabbing the jug, you close the door and nearly drop the water at finding Yoongi standing right next to you. He doesn’t say anything, just takes the container of water and sets it on the counter only to grab the hand that had been injured by the rogue bullet. You hold your breath as you watch him bring your hand to his lips, leaving a sweet kiss there. You turn your head away, feeling flustered at the dulcet gesture only to find him leaning in to drop a kiss on your cheek. You were frozen to the spot, your heart thundering in your ears as he then moved up to press his soft lips against your temple.

Yoongi doesn’t say anything as you gently pull your hand out of his, your fingers hesitantly reaching up to trace the spot he’d kissed on your cheek. As he walks off towards the bathroom you can only stare after him, the places he kissed tingling even after he was out of sight.

Shaking your head to clear your mind, you turn your attention back to your friend after gulping down a glass of water. You snatch up the healing device and pad over to the living room. You hand her back the tool, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Knocking me out?” you huff sarcastically. “You really couldn’t find a better way to drag me here?”

“I’ll talk to my guy. I truly didn’t want him to hurt you,” she states sincerely.

“And I thought this was just another test,” you state a bit sharply, your brows drawn down with so many emotions. Mostly confusion and a bit of anger if you were to be honest. “I let you use me so you can make your video game, but when was he included in this? And how did you even get him here?”

She smiles patiently at me. “It wasn’t cheap. And it was a test. This time, the damsel in distress was included,” she shrugs with a mirthful grin.

You glance to the closed bathroom door, lowering your voice, “So this is what your game was all about? Saving Bangtan?” you ask.

She smiles again and you suck your teeth at her.

She takes your hands, squeezing them for emphasis, “Don’t be mad. I’m sorry. I just really needed your reactions to be more genuine and natural.” Batting her eyelashes and pouting she asks, “Forgive me?”

You purse your lips at her, giving her the side eyes before you finally give in and smile at her cuteness.

“Don’t I always?” you sigh, tucking a lose strand of hair behind your ear. She beams happily at you, relief evident in her eyes. “Listen, I need to get the stink off of me. Those new enhancements were wicked. The blood was even warm like real blood and it stinks,” you wrinkle your nose. “Like, holy fuck, it stinks!”

She laughs, pleased that her new adjustments had been more realistic.

“Go ahead, you deserve it,” she shoos me away. “I left some lavender bath bombs up there for you, too.”

“Thanks.” Heading to the stairs, your hand reaching for the banister sparks your memory. “By the way, you might need to check the coding on the mannequin or the gun. A bullet bounced off of a mannequin instead of it absorbing it.”

“Oh no. That definitely should not have happened. I’ll get on it right away,” she nibbles worriedly on her bottom lip.

You can already see her eyes unfocusing as she starts to run over the codes in her mind, trying to map out where the glitch might be. You take that moment to depart knowing she was lost to you now.

“Great. See you in a bit.”

“Mhm…” she murmurs absently and you chuckle to yourself as you continue on to the much needed awaiting bath.

When you return down stairs afterwards, you are disappointed to find that Yoongi has already gone. You would have loved to talk to him, but your friend tells you that a driver from his company had been waiting for him and they had already left. She insists you spend the night and you do so, though sleep doesn’t come to you for a long time as thoughts of Yoongi and his sweet kisses occupy your mind.

***

The next few weeks go by rather quickly, the character designed after your person becoming more and more popular as a few teasers of the game are sporadically released. You were the badass character that saved the members of Bangtan. The player had the option of choosing which member they favored. Depending on which Bangtan character was selected, your avatar would save the member and that’s who your character would fall in love with.

The game was gaining popularity quite expeditiously and a signing event had been scheduled. Your best friend was so excited by the approval and acceptance the game was receiving that she decided to add a surprise to her signing event on the date the game was due to be released. You would be revealed as the main character, but only via photographs and a short video. You were not going to personally be at the table with her, but she asked that you stay nearby. If the audience begged to see you, she would have you come up, allowing you to take pictures with the fans and autograph merch for them.

Across from the event was a park and you sat at a bench, your leg shaking as you waited for a text letting you know to come over or to go ahead and go home. From where you sat you could see the crowd growing and were happy and filled with pride for your friend as this had been a dream of hers for many years. It was truly amazing to see her hard work come to fruition.

“This seat taken?”

A deep voice pulls you from your thoughts and you smile in confusion to find Namjoon and Yoongi standing there.

“No,” you scoot over to allow space for them both. “Go ahead, sit.”

They were dressed casually in ripped dark jeans. While Namjoon had on a white shirt under a black wind breaker, Yoongi wore an olive green oversized t-shirt. You look down at your boots, doing all you can to avoid glancing at Yoongi.

“Everything alright?” Namjoon asks, pointing across the street at the crowd that continued to grow.

You nod, humming simultaneously.

“Just waiting on my friend to let me know if I need to come over. Her games doing really well.”

“That’s great,” he comments with a dimpled smile. Namjoon then leans forward, making sure to catch your eyes. “Are you alright?” he asks this time and the concern in his inquiry sounds genuine as he urges you to answer honestly. You look past him, glancing over at Yoongi. His intense stare immediately locks in on you as if he’d been waiting to get your attention.

“Yeah, why?” you finally reply, tearing your gaze from Yoongi and looking at Namjoon instead.

Yoongi says something to Namjoon in Korean, his eyes never leaving you, and Namjoon nods.

“Yoongi wanted to say thank you,” Namjoon relays. Your eyes flit from Namjoon to Yoongi and back at Namjoon, your eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. “For saving him,” Namjoon clarifies.

You make an ‘o’ shape with your mouth and nod, falling into silence right after. The sound of your phone buzzing draws your attention away. Swiping your finger across the screen you pull up a text from your best friend that had just come through.

‘I’m wrapping up everything here, so you’re free to go. I should be done in another twenty minutes.’

‘Ok’. You type back.

“Soooo,” you draw out as you turn back to face Namjoon and Yoongi. “Looks like she doesn’t need me after all. It was good to see you guys.”

You offer them a quick smile as you rise from the bench. Giving them a wave you start to walk away, but Namjoon stops you.

“Hey, why don’t you come have dinner with us?” he asks, his eyes pleading as Yoongi waits quietly beside him.

Mulling it over, you finally decide to join them.

“Sure,” you nod, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “That would be nice.”

“Invite your friend, too, if you want,” he adds.

You shoot her a swift message to which she agrees.

“Ok, she says she’ll come. We just have to let her know where.”

***

Dinner was delicious and your friend insisted on paying to treat you and the guys for being such good sports. She was so grateful for the participation in helping her fine tune her game. The hours passed so quickly as you all chatted, ate and drank. Before you knew it, the time to go your separate ways had come.

Outside in the warmth of the evening, you and your friend turned to walk away after saying your good byes, but a hand on your shoulder stopped you.

It was Yoongi.

“Wait!” the deep timbre of his voice resonates through your body and you turn to look up at his dark eyes. “Can I message you some time?”

You cock an eyebrow up at him in surprise.

“Your English?” You can’t help but point out, completely disregarding his question.

He’d spoken a little English here and there tonight, but not full sentences. Sometimes you’d be the odd man out as they all spoke in Korean and your best friend translated into English for you, or Yoongi would be the one waiting for Namjoon to translate to Korean. We all had gotten accustomed to the back and forth translating, so it was strange to hear him speak completely in English right now.

“Ohhh,” he drawled pensively as if searching his brain for the right words. “I practice.”

He flashed a gummy smile, proud of himself, though a splotch of pink tinted his cheeks.

“That’s awesome. I need to practice my Korean more,” you sigh.

“I take your phone number. I give you mine,” he nods as he pulls his phone from his pocket and hands it to you. “I help you. You help me.”

“알았어(arasseo-agreed),” you grin as you accept his cell and punch in your number.

“Okay, okay,” he laughs, pleased to hear you speak his language.

Returning his phone, he holds up a finger and types up a message. Your phone vibrates and you bite the inside of your lip to keep from grinning like a school girl.

‘Practice 1: 잘자요 = good night’

Looking up at him, you pronounce the characters and he nods, impressed to see you are already familiar with the sounds assigned to each character.

“Good night, Y/N,” he waves. “Talk soon.”

“잘자요,” you call back with a wave of your own, earning another gummy smile from him.

Unable to keep the silly smile from your own face, you lock elbows with your best friend and the two of you giggle giddily as you head to her car.

*Mood board was made by me. Image credits below:

Mannequin head

Coding

Monster Wasp by rhardo

Mutant dog by Anubiscomics

Yoongi: used his Highlight Reel poster

[happyhealthycats]

The Declaw Dilemma

Here’s one that’s been bothering me for a while.

Firstly, before I ramble, I’m going to recommend a movie to every single one of you. It’s a bit tough to watch in some parts, but you can find it here: http://www.pawprojectmovie.com/

It’s a documentary that plainly lays out the dangers and concerns with the process of declawing a cat, in addition to information about the struggle in the U.S. where it comes to banning the practice due to the ease of the procedure for vets and the amount of money they can make from it. I’m not qualified to fully discuss that particular part of it, but it IS a problem. I feel as if the movie can portray the political and business aspect of the practice much more coherently than I can.

I can, however, go into the behavioral issues that arise with declawing.

Now, if anyone reading this is from outside the United States, you may be surprised to find out that the act of declawing is not banned in much of the U.S. It’s a practice that’s both considered inhumane and even outlawed in several different countries. Unfortunately, it is not the case here. In fact, there are apartment buildings or certain communities that require your cats to be declawed before you or your cat are permitted to take up residence there. Yes, the expensive and inhumane practice is required in order for you to live there.

Here’s a real basic breakdown - remember, I’m a cat behaviorist, not a vet. For those of you who don’t know, declawing a cat consists of amputating the cat’s toes at the first knuckle, removing the nail, or claw, completely. Other more “humane” practices are hardly that, and the tendon within the cat’s digit is severed, and the cat is no longer able to retract their claws at all, leaving them floppy and unwieldy. The claws still grow as regular nails do, and still require them to be trimmed regularly, the claws simply get pushed to the side if the cat swipes. Sometimes the entire nail is not removed, and the nail grows back inside the cat’s paw, requiring surgery to remove and causing immense pain. I’d post pictures, but I consider them far too grotesque and upsetting. Google it if you’re curious, and I apologize for what you saw.

Why is this horrible practice still a thing?

As I said before, money is a huge reason why many vets push back against the complete ban of the practice. The other reasons can all pretty much be summed up into one giant cause - misunderstanding.

I’m not out to demonize people who have their cats declawed. For years, the information wasn’t readily available. People grew up with declawed cats who turned out “just fine” (I’ll go into this later), so they had no idea that the practice was harmful, because they couldn’t see the evidence in person. Some people didn’t have a choice, and received cats as pets as children with the stipulation from an unknowing parent that the cat had to be declawed. I’m not here to point fingers. What I aim to do is educate, so the practice is no longer normalized, considering the banning of it is being met with resistance in the U.S. 

Declawing, what you think it does, versus what it actually does.

Many people don’t like the idea that cat scratches hurt. People may have an aggressive cat and don’t want to be scratched by them. So, instead of figuring out where the aggressiveness is coming from and trying to solve the problem from a behavioral standpoint, it’s much easier to just take the weapon from them, so to speak. In reality, declawing a cat will not decrease the cat’s aggression. In fact, cats without their claws are statistically more likely to bite, and cat bites are nasty, usually requiring a trip to a doctor and some antibiotics, due to the bacteria in a cat’s mouth. Meanwhile, I’ve been scratched by enough cats to have my own battle wounds up and down my arms, yet I’ve never had a single problem. Put some peroxide on it and keep going. (That being said I always keep an eye out for any signs of infections just in case, and I urge all of you to do the same, depending on your level of wellness, in addition to the severity of the scratch. It is a much bigger deal for people with weakened immune systems).

Other people don’t want their cats to scratch the furniture. This particular one is the one that really sets my blood boiling. To completely, willingly mutilate your cat, because you’re worried about your furniture. To put the aesthetics of an item above the well being of an animal, to me, is unthinkable.Cats scratch things to mingle their scent with yours. There are incredibly easy ways to alter this. Putting scratching posts near your bed or your well-used sofas will encourage the cat to scratch there (because a scratching post feels better and works better than your couch anyway). Having deterrents to keep cats from scratching at doors. Putting up horizontal scratching surfaces to keep cats from clawing at the carpet. All easy and cheap fixes. They even make sprays and diffusers now to discourage cats from scratching in certain areas.

Cats need their nails trimmed, it can be a long and stressful process to do this, but it’s something that needs to be done in order to prevent nail overgrowth and severe scratching.

What else does declawing do to your cat, though? There are many issues that typically crop up either immediately or later in life due to declawing.

Declawed cats may stop grooming themselves completely, requiring an expensive grooming regiment (that means you will either have to bathe the cat yourself, or take them to a groomer, and it’s twice as bad if it’s a long haired cat).

Declawed cats may stop using the litter box entirely. The way the litter feels on their permanently sore and painful feet usually hurts so badly that litter is abrasive, so prepare for frequent “accidents” (so much for that expensive rug you didn’t want the cat clawing up).

As stated before, declawed cats are more likely to bite when cornered or feeling aggressive.

And, sadly, even if a declawed cat shows no outward signs of it, declawed cats are in constant pain for the rest of their lives. They may avoid certain surfaces to avoid hurting their feet. We liken declawing to cutting a person’s fingers off at the first knuckle, but in reality, it’s closer to having their toes cut off. The cat now has to re-learn how to walk with a new weight distribution. Oftentimes, this can cause joint and hip pain in the cat’s future. They have to tread carefully because their bodies aren’t meant to disperse weight this way.  Meaning you’re in for pain medication as the cat gets older and even, in some severe cases, early euthanasia due to degradation of joints, muscles, and bone. So even if a declawed cat shows no other negative signs listed above, this one is a given. Cats are masters of hiding what is wrong with them, and pain is no different.

Regular nail trimming and smart placement of scratching toys, along with regular play and stimulation, can all keep a cat from scratching furniture. Getting to the cause of your cat’s aggression can keep them from clawing you. There are even things called claw caps, plastic caps that are (safely!) glued onto the cat’s claw after a trim. It keeps their claws from doing any damage, but also, as of my writing this, has shown no ill effects on the cat or their health. They pop off about two weeks to a month later, and you reapply, or have a vet reapply, when you would normally have to trim your cat’s claws again anyway.

There’s the argument that banning the procedure will increase the amount of cats returned to a shelter due to unwanted behavior. But frankly, if an individual is willing to return their cat without exhausting all other options, they would have returned the cat anyway the moment a single negative behavior popped up. People figure that they can train dogs to stop doing something they don’t like. You can train cats too, but too often cats are seen as accessories instead of living creatures with personalities and instincts. They didn’t come perfect, so there’s no fixing them (and oh goodness gracious is that so incredibly not true).

If you’re looking to adopt a cat, and you live in one of those places that require declawing, I implore you, please rethink it. Are you really saving a cat from a shelter if you’re condemning it to live in pain for the rest of its life? It’s a decision I can’t make for you, but I know what I would personally go with.

And for goodness sake, if you’re thinking about adopting a cat and you find out that they have been declawed prior to coming into the shelter, don’t turn your back because the cat will develop issues. There are ways of coping with the pain a cat experiences, and ways to work around it. Just keep in mind that it will be something that may come up after adoption. You can work with alternate litters, put in area carpets for hard wood floors your cat may find uncomfortable. You can work with a vet to find functional pain management for any hip or joint issues that may arise down the road. Take the information in stride so you can better prepare for what may be, since it’s easier to nip a bad habit in the bud before it becomes a full blown behavior.

And finally, I really want to stress that I’m not trying to call anyone out for having a declawed cat in the past, or currently having a declawed cat. But, take this information with you should you decide to ever consider the procedure again. Like I said, I can’t make decisions for you. All I can do is tell you what makes a happy, healthy cat. And a declawed cat is neither.

[mingmingexpress]

Kang Daniel | Haunted House

Rating: PG-13 (for slightly vulgar language and disturbing imagery)

Word Count: 2,104

A/N: @deepdickdaniel suggested to me a while ago that I should try writing my own fanfics, and as you can clearly see, I’ve decided to take her up on her offer. I initially said this was specifically something for her to enjoy, but the more I typed, the more I realized this was actually for my self-indulgence. Either way, I hope you guys enjoy!

You hated haunted houses. Preying on your fear of the unknown. Terrors hiding in every corner. You just couldn’t understand how people could be so willing to subject themselves to such things. Masochists, you called them.

Yet here you were, visiting your local carnival with a group of friends, the very last stop being the haunted house attraction that’s opened up for the month of October. Why exactly did you agree to this?

Oh, that’s right. Your stupid pride. A couple weeks earlier, you and a “friend”—you doubt you can really call them that, considering they made you do this—made a bet to sit through what the Internet called “the most horrifying fright fest in the state”. If you won, they’d be your personal servant for a day; if they won… well, they’d simply be content with the knowledge that you weren’t as tough as you made yourself look.

Honestly, the bet was too good to pass up anyway. Forget having your timidity lorded over for eternity, that’s beside the point. Your best friend, in a stroke of luck, had won tickets to a concert for a group you’ve been dying to see in person, and while they’ve begged to take you along (and not their insanely embarrassing mother), you’ve remained hesitant since you were tasked of babysitting your younger sibling on the same night.

Maybe this was a sign, you told yourself. It was meant to be! Regardless, you were getting increasingly tired with these unfounded claims you were, as they so charmingly worded, “a chicken.”

So back to the present. You’d started the afternoon off with some booths: shooting water into moving targets, throwing rings onto glass bottles. Heck, your skills managed to snag you a gigantic plushie of a dog—the person manning the place insisted it was a Samoyed. You then proceeded to race your friends on a go-kart track, barely managing to finish third. Wonderful. Everything seemed to be going well.

“Is something wrong?” Suddenly, you’re snapped back into reality. You look around, quickly realizing the voice belongs to Daniel. “You haven’t had a bite since we sat down.” You look back down at your food. He wasn’t joking. Your burger, along with a side of fries, remains untouched, your hands balled tightly on your lap. You barely even register it’s already lunchtime.

Daniel rests his head on his palm, looking at you concernedly. “Are you still worked up about this bet?” he asks, moving his other hand to your shoulder. Being the worrywart you are, you’d gushed to him over the phone a few nights prior about how much you were secretly dreading going to a haunted house. That entire conversation, he stayed silent, only making the occasional noise to assure you he was listening.

“I can come with you if you want,” he said after your rant was over.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly ask you to do something like that,” you protested. “Besides, they’d make it look like I brought you along because I was scared.”

“Don’t be silly. A plus one you were allowed, so a plus one you shall bring. Besides”—he paused, as if to find the right words—“whatever troubles you may have, I want to be with you 100%.”

Suffice it to say, your heart melted that night. And so, you brought him along, praying that his presence would help tide you over.

“I’d be faring a lot worse if you weren’t around,” you admit. “Maybe it’s because of my baby sibling, I don’t know, but I always try to be brave wherever I go.” You let out a long sigh as you loosely play with one of your fries. “I’m being really stupid, but—”

“Stop that,” Daniel barks, quickly taking your hands in his. “You aren’t being stupid. Putting on this tough face, it just shows how much you want to be able to protect others.” You look into his eyes. They shine with so much sincerity. “If that’s not inspiring, then I don’t know what is. And hey, if you ever feel vulnerable”—laying your hands back down, he gently caresses your cheek—“just remember you have me.” God, you are so lucky to have this man. If you weren’t out with him in public, you probably would’ve squealed your head off.

With your fears moderately assuaged, you and Daniel spend the next several minutes feeding each other your food. You can faintly hear your friends pretending to throw up behind you, but you’re simply too happy to care.

“Alright, everyone!” someone eventually exclaims as you and your friends finish up. “We’re all filled up, the sun’s setting, what better way to end the day than with some scares.”

You gulp. This is it. If there was ever a need to be brave, it’s now. You look at Daniel. He looks back, that soft smile of his ever present on his face. Honestly, as long as he stays at your side, you feel everything’s going to be okay. Taking his hand and squeezing it tightly, you cautiously walk with the rest of the group to the haunted house.

It’s just as horrifying as you thought it was. Split into two sections, the haunted house is actually both a winding hedge maze and a decrepit, old building. Fog emanates from within the intricately designed set, colored either a deep red or a sickly green with the help of stage lights. Every now and then, a bloodcurdling scream is let out, followed by a maniacal laugh. Jesus Christ, they must’ve spent a whole lot of money on this. No wonder it’s so popular.

“How spooky,” that friend says to you, wiggling their fingers for dramatic effect. “If you’re too scared, it’s not too late to back out now.”

“You wish,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “This is gonna be a piece of cake, right, Da—” You stop short when you turn to look at your boyfriend. You thought he was being unusually quiet, but now you see why. He’s giving what looks like the thousand-yard stare, his face as pale as a sheet. You then notice he’s holding onto you exceptionally tight. Like, really tight. If he put any more force, in fact, it’d probably start to hurt. And are his lips… trembling?

“Daniel?” your friend calls out, waving their hand in front of his face. “I feel like I should ask if you’ll be okay.”

“What?” Daniel finally snaps out of his haze, immediately putting on a grin. “Oh, yeah, this is nothing.” His eyes meet yours, and you can see they’re full of fear.

“If you say so,” your friend mumbles, walking off to join the others. When they’re out of earshot, you clasp Daniel by the shoulders.

“Daniel, now it’s my turn to ask you. Are you sure about this?” you ask waveringly. “Listen, none of it means anything to me, and I don’t wanna make—”

Daniel puts a finger to your lips. “I’ll be fine, I promise.” He looks to the haunted house again, and his face drops. “Just don’t let go of me, okay?” He wraps his arm around you, trying to remain confident. “We’re gonna win that bet.”

You’re still feeling a little apprehensive, but it barely matters anymore as the two of you make your way toward the haunted house. As agreed, you would be the first group to enter, a safeguard to make sure you didn’t “cheat.” The man guarding the entrance is wearing a tattered hooded robe, its right sleeve blowing freely in the wind to imply a missing arm. Despite his foreboding appearance, his uncharacteristically bright and sunny temperance before letting you in is almost a refreshing reminder that this whole setup should be nothing more than a fun carnival attraction. Well, emphasis on the “should.”

With bated breath, you and Daniel take your first steps into the hedge maze. You were told the path should be fairly straightforward, but you still have trouble walking through the thick fog, even with all the stage lights. You’ve once again noticed Daniel has reestablished his grip on you, clutching your arm like an anxious child does on his first day of school.

You start off decently enough, and you almost begin to believe you can survive this nightmare unscathed, when suddenly clawed black hands shoot through the hedges in an effort to grab you. Your eyes instinctively widen in terror, and you’re about to let out a scream, but Daniel beats you to it, swiftly ducking his head down into your side. You try to calm him down, but you’re barely able to maintain composure yourself, your head darting left and right in trepidation.

Continuing further down, grotesque creatures try to scare you at every corner, and what you can only assume are the remains of their previous victims are scattered across the bloodstained grass. Daniel can barely see anything with his face buried into your shirt, but his cries for help only continue to grow louder.

“Lord, have mercy,” he repeats, hugging your waist like it’s a lifesaver. “I don’t wanna die tonight.”

All this time, you thought you’d be the one who would need protecting, the typical damsel-in-distress finding safety in her knight in shining armor. Yet, the scene currently playing before you paints the opposite picture: Daniel has quite clearly become that damsel. But despite your initial fear and confusion, you feel something else welling up inside you.

Determination. A determination to face the horror head-on. A determination to get your boyfriend out of this hell. A determination… to be brave.

So with your chest puffed out and Daniel securely in tow, you quickly proceed through the hedge maze and into the building portion of the haunted house. Apparently home to a satanic cult, you’re greeted by maniacal followers, mutilated sacrifices, and vengeful spirits. On any other day, you would probably be screeching your head off, and let’s be real, you can’t help but let out the occasional shout, but Daniel’s helplessness has inspired within you a strength you didn’t know existed.

Before you know it, you’ve finally made it to the exit. Letting out a breath you feel you’ve been holding in since the very beginning, you look down at Daniel, still bent over whimpering. Honestly, he’s kind of adorable like this.

“Daniel, we’re out,” you say. His grip loosens, and he slides down onto his knees. “Are you okay, babe?” His body is shaking, but as he lifts his head, you realize it’s because he can’t stop laughing. Dear Lord, it looks like you’ve broken him.

“There you two are,” a voice calls out from behind you. Your other friends have also managed to escape, most of them now talking amongst themselves. “Damn, I should have never doubted you. You really are a badass.” They motion to Daniel. “I could barely even hear you with this guy begging for his life.”

“What can I say?” you brag. “I scoff at the face of danger.”

“Well, looks like you win,” they reply, bowing dramatically. “So what is it that requires your services, Your Highness?”

A grin forms on your face. “Wow, I think you should do that more often.” They groan. “But I’ll tell you what I want tomorrow. I mean”—you slowly pull your boyfriend up from the ground—“Daniel and I have had quite the evening.”

“As you wish. Far be it from me to interfere with the lovey-dovey couple.” They make a finger gun and shoot you a sly wink. “Come on, guys, let’s leave these two alone. Talk to you tomorrow!”

Once everyone has disappeared from view, you hold Daniel’s hands together in yours. He gives you a comforting smile, but all you feel is this overwhelming rush of guilt. “I am so sorry,” you stutter. “You must’ve been mortified. I should’ve never—”

Daniel suddenly pulls you into his embrace, his warmth encompassing your body. “I told you I’d be fine.” He kisses you on the lips. “And it was worth it.” After what seems like a blissful eternity, the two of you break apart, and you let out a small chuckle. “Now why are you laughing?”

“Because I felt your heartbeat just then, idiot. It’s pounding like crazy.”

Daniel blushes, scratching his head in embarrassment. “Okay, I’ll admit I’m still a little shaken up.”

“Well, how about this?” You slowly brush your hand up his arm. “We get pizza, go home, and watch Interstellar on Netflix. I’ll let you cuddle with that plushie I got earlier.”

“That sounds great, but… I think I’d rather cuddle with you.”

“Deal.”

[doineedastone]

Dead World Order

Smoke hovered like clouds over the decaying skyscrapers of a once grand city. It covered the ground and clouded the sky, making what was left of the city's destruction almost nonexistent to the naked eye. Rats scurried through the barren streets scavenging what was left from the abandoned buildings that were lucky enough to still be standing. The only sounds that could be heard besides the squeaking if the mice and the cawing of the crows were the light footsteps of a figure passing through the city. A boy no older than twelve gleefully skipped around the debris and waste scattered amongst the crooked ground. His skin was smoky grey and his vibrant purple eyes glowed through the thick fog of the city. He halted in front of a large building that seemed to tower hundreds of feet above him. With one gauntly jump he leaped onto the rooftop of the skyscraper, landing gracefully on it's edge. Without a moments notice he broke into a sprint across the rooftop and leapt from it's edge onto the rooftop of the neighboring building. He proceeded running, jumping from building to building as if the rooftops served as a hopscotch mat.

Giggling gleefully he finally stopped at the place he was looking for. An abandoned laboratory. He halted to a stop and landed on one of the window sills. Peaking inside he looked eagerly at a scientist working on chemicals and diagrams that served no significant meaning to him. Licking his lips he quietly snuck inside and crept along the shadows until he was only amongst a couple feet from the tall man. Opening his jaws, layers of teeth greedily clenched at the thought of blood pooling over them. He got closer and closer until-

"That's enough now Moby. I'm busy." The scientist groaned. The boy fell back and whined, a grin spreading across his face.

"Aww come on, old geezer! I'm so bored here. Nothing ever happens. Can't we do something different today?" Moby asked hopefully. The scientist put down the beaker he was filling and looked over his shoulder to see the boy looking up at him with puppy dog eyes. The scientist sighed, annoyance growing in his tone.

"How long will you refer to me as 'old geezer?' Thirty five is not old! And I'd appreciate it you'd call me Franz for once." The scientist groaned,"Further more, you know those eyes don't work on me Moby, and besides that, I can't play with you today. I have a lot of work to do. Why don't you take a stroll in the city instead? That's always worked before." Moby fell back on the floor, a pout forming on his lips.

"I was just there today! There's nothing left to explore..." The scientist sighed again, taking off his gloves and setting them on the counter. Usually Moby was a kind and affable boy to speak with, but it was easier dealing with him when he was smaller. Now that he was grown, the world had shrunken in his eyes. He was beginning to be trouble.

The scientist leaned back on the undulated lab table and looked down at the boy, feeling torn. There wasn't much he could do for him, and he was a better scientist than he was a father, not that he could call himself his dad.

"Franz?" Moby asked, lying on his stomach lazily and using his arms to prop his head up to face him.

"Yes, what is it?" He asked, preparing himself for another speel from the spiky haired kid.

But he was wrong.

Instead of another speech, an entreat look landed itself on Moby's face. The scientist's eyes widened as he watched the boy's eyes darken and dull, his skin turning into a darker grey color. Franz would have been scared of Moby's transformation if he didn't know him better.

An almost sadistic smile spread across the child's face.

"What are you hiding from me?" Moby hissed, a hector of a demon seeping through his humane cover. A little smirk made it's way into Franz's features as he turned back around to his work table.

"Many things. More than you can ever imagine. I'm one of the last in this world, and you are one of the first. That being said...I can't make any mistakes." Franz's voice deepened, "Because we are humanity's last hope. Which is why, you must never ever leave the city, and why I must stay here and work until my last breath." Moby frowned, anger darkening his face. Franz could feel his malice from across the room. It crawled on his back like cold slender claws piercing against his skin

, threatening to pierce his heart. Moby sat up on his knees and cocked his head unnaturally to the side.

"But aren't I what you're trying to exterminate? An undead parasite that craves the flesh of the living, that took this world from humanity and holds no remorse for it's actions. It's quite incongruous, you keeping me around like this. Why haven't you killed me next-"

"You aren't like the other dead Moby." Franz interrupted. "You can control your dark desires. Yes, you are the product of vile and sin. A mistake that is feared and hated by both man and dead. However, from the day that I saved you from death, I knew I was making the right decision."

"Your people died with the decision to grant me mercy. Why do you not show hatred against me when I already know it exists?" Moby growled, his appearance morphing into an even more grotesque creature.

"You know, I used to be very parsimonious. It started when I was about your age. My father was quite strict, and my mother sickeningly piquant. They were the makers of their product child. Me. There was never a solid moment I could repose and act like myself. I turned out to be a selfish brat, but a brat that follows orders. A brat that only looks out for himself. In order to carry on as a successful scientist in my family's line of work." Moby grew impatient and unmollified. Reproaching the scientist, he raised his voice.

"I didn't ask for your life story you ignorant worm! I want to know what you're planning. It makes no sense, no one would go as far as you did to save a vulgar creature like me. Are you planning to experiment on me?! Answer me, or perish." Moby screeched bounding towards the scientist at an unnatural speed. The dead part of Moby was acquisitive, and greedy for blood.

The boy's mouth unhinged and prepared to bite the scientist when his voice spoke up.

"I knew your mother." Moby froze. His body lurched back, prying the claws away from the man's neck. Moby's hair flared on end, brandishing a wave of locks over his face and over his glowing red eyes.

"A lie...it must be. You couldn't have-" Franz's walked towards the corner of the room and stepped up to a safe hidden in the wall.

"You're old enough to know now." Franz took our a key form around his neck and opened the door."I don't know her name, I'm sorry. I barely had a chance to speak with her...You should know what happened. Moby, about a year after the apocalypse started, my brother and a couple of my other friends were kidnapped and taken to the Dead Society." Moby's form began to shift back into it's original state. The conformation of his body slowly deforming.

"It was still early in the Dead's new world order. A couple friends and I were able to infiltrate the society ourselves, so we could save the ones that were captured." Franz hand clutched the item in the safe tightly. "We were too late though. We underestimated them. Dead like you aren't like the zombies from comic books or horror films. Your mutations were so complex they were able to kill off your brain yet preserve it. I have been trying to decode the inscriptions on how this is possible, but even after all these years I've only been able to scratch the surface of it." Franz turned to Moby, a box in his hands.

"Before human scientists were exterminated, they called this disease, Reapers Malice. Since the victims would die in a short amount of time before resurrecting into these inhumane creatures, called undead. The undead after long would go after humans and do one of two things-infect others or devour them. What made them the most fearsome was the fact that these undead acquired intelligence, Physical prowess, and overall a wicked evil personality. Every human infected would grow to become cruel and heartless, showing no remorse for those they've killed or hurt. And because of their intelligence, they didn't just stop when they destroyed the world. They took it over. That society I was talking about before was one of their first established. In their societies, they used enslaved humans as livestock and amusement. Their government was effective and absolute. As sick as they were, they're ruling properties and loyalty to their cause surpassed what humans were able to accomplish." Franz chuckled half-heartedly, a droll thought rolling around in his mind. Moby sat, listening intently.

"They were better than humans...maybe that's true -but can I call them superior? No, no. Despite their duplicity and craftiness, they were still heartless monsters. I've seen them do horrible stuff Moby. They run on desire, and so-they took advantage of everything...everyone. Including your mother. She had no choice when she was taken from her husband and children, and then taken advantage of by the undead men there. She must have been quite a happy person before that. I could picture her being jaunty and unabashed, heh but this is irrelevant. Here is what you should know." France opened the box in his hands. A little vial, a photo of a family, and handgun sat inside. Franz pulled out the photo first. A man that looked like him was smiling next to another man and an older couple.

"Your brother and parents?" Moby asked. Franz nodded.

"When I ran into the society I went to the hospital district first. I had disguised my myself as one of them with makeup and a lab coat. When I ran into one of the rooms I saw one of those dead fuckers in the room. I was about to take him out when I saw something he was carrying. He was holding a baby, and a scalpel. My presence barely stopped him from taking that tool, stabbing it in that child's head and scrambling it's brains around. I don't remember what I said, or what happened in that instant, but apparently I persuaded him into giving me the baby. I guess I lied and said I would take care of it. Don't be upset by what I'm about to say next but- I was horrified when I saw that baby...it was you, Moby." Moby began to tremble, his eyes dilating in and out of his sockets.

"I didn't know what to do with you at first, but before I could do something rash a women's voice caught my ear. That women was your mother. She cried weakly for you, for her baby. I thought that maybe it was my eyes going and that you were actually human after all. So I promised the women I'd take her child out of there, and I escaped. I never saw my brother, my friends or comrades ever again after that. They didn't make it." Franz looked deeply at Moby and took out the small vial.

"Now, about what you were saying about experimenting. The truth is, I already experimented on you. When you were a baby. I couldn't finish you off when I saw what you truly were, I didn't have the heart to kill an infant. So as a scientist I did the next best thing. I used you to see what undead beings actually were, and I discovered something. You are only half-dead. Only sixty-five percent of your brain was dead and under control of the disease. In this vial here is your blood from twelve years ago. Your genetic code. Over the years I kept you around to see what you'd become. I thought you'd be evil and cold-hearted, but you weren't. You were a charming curious boy, and

showed all of the characteristics of a human. When you were three, I monitored you again, and what I found changed my theory on science for the rest of time. In your brain, only sixty percent of your brain was dead and under the influence of the disease. And the part of the brain that was resurrected were your creative and emotional sections. You overturned death Moby. You brought hope into this world again. Because even if I can't find a vaccine for the disease, apparently there's another way this disease can be diluted and reverted back. Though, i don't know the direct cause of this."

"Franz..." Moby whispered softly, his eyes slowly turning back into their natural purple color.

"I don't blame you if you hate me. This is a lot of take in at once, but Moby I don't want you to misunderstand. I care about you no matter how I felt in the past. I think of you as my own family now. You're the only thing I have left to hold onto. My last family, my last hope. I'm so sorry that I haven't been the best parent to you over these years, but I promise, once I find the cure for this, I'm going to put all of my focus on you, and we can start living happier better lives in the new world." Franz , putting his hands on Moby's shoulders. By now Moby had completely reverted back into his original form. Little tears escaped from his purple eyes. A couple moments later he started sobbing, falling into Franz's hug.

"I-I'm sorry Franz! I was really sad and a-angry, b-because I found old journals in the b-buildings I was exploring. T-they said a lot of scary stuff, and I-I" Moby's voice drifted off as hitches and sobs racked his body. France just stroked his hair and patted his back soothingly.

"It's okay Moby. I understand. You don't have to continue if you don't want to." Moby sniffed and wiped his nose, shaking his head furiously.

"I've j-just been scared of myself. I-I don't wanna hurt y-you. I wanna live with you passed this. I've just been scared. I've been r-really scared." Moby repeated, hugging the scientist tighter.

Based off a real dream I had.

[purkinje-effect]

The Purkinje Effect, 16

Table of Contents

Hancock had paid Geek entirely in caps for the reconnaissance task, a first for the pink ex-vault dweller. He’d known the Commonwealth now used caps, but up until that point they’d always been a matter of supplementary funds for bartering. The two kicked around Goodneighbor for just over two days while Hancock ensured his house was in the best order it could be, and Geek... well, he started warming to being called that.

He bought himself a full set of sturdy leather armor which Daisy offered for sale, and reinforced the whole thing with a few extra layers of fabric inside, adding as many pockets as he could, wherever they’d be comfortable against his skin. Anything could be useful now in the wastes, he reasoned. Especially as the landscape shifted to grey the definition of edible. Besides, this way he could leave the duffel behind, and rely more upon himself. A few extra pockets inside his jumpsuit didn’t hurt, either.

You’re gonna want a gun, Geek remembered the mayor commenting before the two parted to wrap up business in the area. Even if y’don’t use it, you’re gonna want to bring one. And make sure you clean Daisy outta bobby pins. No tellin’ what trouble we’ll end up getting into. An odd laundry list, for sure, but he heeded the suggestions, and in addition to seven snippets of crimped wire, he also nabbed a .44 bull barrel pistol and two boxes of bullets. At the very least, they’d be emergency rations if they found themselves in a spot where food for him was scarce. He kept the bobby pins in a pocket he’d put in the side of his left boot, as far away from his absent appetite as he could manage. The fistful of caps he had left after upgrading his attire and arms went in his zippered thigh cargo pocket, to the same effect. The only thing he purchased for food rations was the lone carton of shortening Daisy had left. She adored that he was making such use of the Is It Food or Not? section of her shelves of stock. He hadn’t yet started reading the book she’d given him, but when she asked, he insisted he’d have the time for it while he and the mayor were away for a week or two.

When he and the mayor were to head out, Hancock did not port the crushed red velvet coat, or tricorner cap. Instead now wearing a tailored black leather road jacket and jeans, the hairless ghoul strode up to Geek, who’d been lingering with a bottle of whiskey in the Third Rail, waiting up on him. It was a dead time between performances, the dusty subway air filled only with the sounds of quiet chatter and a faint radio from the VIP lounge in the back.

“So we gonna get this show on the road?” the ghoul smirked, glancing furtively at him. Geek gave him a sly look and got up, taking the half-finished fifth with him.

“Let’s do it,” he affirmed, slurring a bit as the two ascended the stairs to exit the subway and skip town.

The pink Pinoy couldn’t much believe the mayor himself had eagerly agreed to travel with him. And he’d thought the historical attire had suited him well. The sweat was hard to hide as they walked north along the front face of the town.

“Two options,” Hancock remarked as they got to the first intersection, the one with the neon signs. “You feel like a lotta raiders, or a handful of Gunners?” He’d casually pulled out a hunting rifle from his jacket, eyeing the western route.

“I got through Haymarket Square all right, but seems you think risking the Gunner attention is warranted.”

“I tend to favor cutting in front of Mass Fusion whenever I leave out. Half the time, there’s not even anybody on guard. They’re too cocky about having occupied the plant. They haven’t even been bright enough to cut off our power supply lines from it, either.”

So they took that route, cutting left, then immediately right. The piles of sandbag walls still fortified the front entrance as before, as well as a few appropriated military green ballistics screens, vandalized in white with the grotesque skull the Gunners bore as their insignia. One pair of these screens blocked off the first left turn, but a high wall of sandbags as well as the gut of a rusted out car blockaded the next intersection. As Hancock had told, there was no one on duty out front of the nuclear facility as they passed through: merely an untended lantern and a miscellany of weather-rotted patio furniture.

“See? What’d I tell ya,” Hancock remarked quietly, trying to make his mind up which way to go from there. The ghoul’s dark, scleric eyes were hiding something, but Geek couldn’t tell what it might be, though he figured any paranoia must have been the whiskey he still nursed. “Here, let’s go left.”

Doing so, Geek walked along with him, the bottle empty by that point. Out of habit, he deposited in the next rubbish bin he crossed. His face screwed up, and he proceeded to fake that he’d intended to rummage through it for anything useful. Effectively he traded out the glass for four tin cans, which he stomped flat and added to a chest pocket for later. Hancock simply stood nearby and observed, badly hiding his amusement at his inebriated travel partner.

“Left here again,” Hancock called out after a few blocks. He hoped Geek was drunk enough not to notice they were now headed south, when the meetup location Deacon had provided Geek had been northwest of Lexington. "You’re sure this isn’t as time sensitive as it sounds.”

Now at the paved walkway along the shore of the River Charles, they approached a corner with a number of cast iron lamp posts, and a bricked embankment. The rotted-out skyscrapers imposed them to the left, the shadow of the Route 2 overpass to the right. A low fog had started to set in over the waterway, creeping up along the cobbled pavement.

“He told me he’ll wait for me until the end of the week,” Geek insisted. “We don’t gotta run the whole way, I swear.”

“Left here,” Hancock guided once more, following the side street in past the lamp posts. They passed several skeletons of automobiles, no longer more than rust. With one that had once been a van to their right, an eighteen-wheeler just ahead of them, having trapped itself in the perpendicular dead end side street. Hancock stopped before the multi-storied blue business building, and sat in the patio chair directly outside it, pulling out a flask to observe Geek while he whet his lips with something.

“Y’need t’stop already?” Geek wondered, looking around slowly. “That, that’s ok.” He sat on the wooden bench opposite the building, and took out a flattened can to snip it into strips for a snack.

“It is almost cute that you have no idea where we are,” the ghoul grunted, stretching. “And here you said you’d exhausted all the places you knew where to look for answers. When you didn’t object to my detour, it was obvious to me you either hadn’t been this way before, or you really hadn’t scouted it out yet. So here we are. Boston’s Vault-Tec Regional HQ.”

As the significance soaked in, Geek looked up from his gloved hands in a daze.

“Ready up, though. I see people treat this place like a live grenade. Guess we’re going to find out why.”

Geek armed himself with both fists and they entered. The lobby had an elevator to the right, and a hallway to the left of the reception desk which seemed to have offices. Three feral ghouls jumped them not five feet into the building, lunging for their faces.

Hancock shot one right in the face and kicked it in the chest to make sure it crumpled backwards. Steadying his aim to take out a second one, he seethed, “Had to be ferals.” Then, he fired again.

Geek slammed the third ghoul in the jaw with his mallet-knuckleduster, which he’d affectionately endeared the title of Left Hook, and sent the warped and naked wretch to land near the first feral Hancock had downed. The two made a pile of the three, and Geek walked back behind the reception desk with a huff.

Most of the papers scattered around had disintegrated or plastered themselves to the surfaces where they’d rested, if they hadn’t fallen to the floor. Geek helped himself to the pumpkin candy bucket on the desk, producing from it gumdrops. He popped a few in his mouth and sucked on the tough sugar-coated chunks.

“I tend t’forget it happened right before Halloween.” He sniffed and started going through the receptionist desk drawers as well as those of the two desks back-to-back behind it, finding little actually on printed paper. A wad of ballpoint pens and a few file cabinet keys later, he nearly slipped on something in the floor. He bent down, and stood holding a yellow ball of Bakelite. “...Billiards balls?” There were several on the floor, on closer inspection. He kept all of them.

“What are you even plannin’ on doing with those?” Hancock mumbled in a dubious whimsy. “Next you’re gonna tell me you can fit your fist in your mouth.”

The only response the ghoul received as Geek wandered off down the hallway was a nonchalant, over the shoulder “You can’t?”

Hancock exhaled hard out his nose with his mouth clamped shut, not sure whether Geek was joking, but he abruptly laughed it off and followed. The pink fool had come across what had been the company’s break room, outfitted with a refrigerator, seating, and several appliances, all no longer in commission. Over half the ceiling directly above it had caved in, the metallic prefab panel forming a slope one could scale to the next story. Geek already had gotten to the top of it by the time Hancock caught up, and was rummaging the various desks on the second floor.

“Do you know what we’re even lookin’ for?” the ghoul asked. “Not t’be pointed or anything, but it seems like this place is fulla nothin’ but junk.”

Geek looked up from the desk he’d been rifling through, caught with his mouth full of pens. He swallowed before responding.

“You don’t know either? That’s reassuring.”

“Mmh, oh hey, a terminal.” Hancock poked his head into a side office. “Watch your step right in front of it, but maybe--” Geek joined him in the small single office, where the ghoul had sat to browse the entries on the squat-screened box of prewar technology. “...Oh, hm. It’s got a password on it. No. ...No. There it is.” Once he’d cracked into it, the tip of his tongue slipped back into his mouth, and his brow furrowed increasingly. “...The employee that worked from this office had his suspicions Vault-Tec was going to experiment on its tenants. No shit.”

“What do you mean?” Geek sat down on the desk, next to him.

“Well, I’ve heard stories. Really haven’t done much Vault exploring of my own, and the one I do know anything about is 114. What happened with that one probably wasn’t any of Vault-Tec’s doin’. Money laundering kept it from getting completed, but a mob head named Skinny Malone’s got himself holed up in there right now. Might not be one hundred percent, but there’s not much defense quite like a vault door on your hideout.”

“...What kind of stories?”

“I’ve really only heard about Vault 95, but I’ve heard a helluva lot about it. And this guy’s suspicions were nail on the head.” The ghoul wagged a finger at the screen, then proceeded to read from it. “Here: ‘So we just shipped 15 cases of psycho and jet to Vault 95. Of course, that makes total sense... let's give these addicts more of what put them in this situation to begin with. Davidson says it's to force them to make the hard choice, chems or getting clean. I say it's to cause a bloodbath...’ It did exactly that. The vault didn’t die out, man--they killed each other. And here, it says they shipped liquid nitrogen to a Vault 111? ...Which vault was yours?”

“82. Why, did this employee have some kind of magic future sight about 82?” pink dreg’s face soured a bit, sobering up from the gravity of all this.

“Yeah, actually. He was incredulous noticin' the invoice for Vault 82 had half as many hydroponics rigs as were required for the population it was intended to support. ‘When I brought it to Davidson’s attention, he reassured me it was probably a typo, and if they need more, they’ll order it. He also told me that I’m not to question the Vault-Tec’s design insight again, or he’ll take disciplinary action against me. Telling me to my face that gross negligence like that is an oversight. He can’t fire me if I quit first.’”

Geek sat up and tried to process what Hancock had just read him, and his face screwed up tight a moment before he glared at him.

“...No, that ain’t right. There ain’t any hydro-whatsits in my vault. Either that idiot didn’t know what he was lookin’ at, or they never arrived.”

“He seemed convinced of it.” Hancock tried to shrug off the chill Geek gave him. “These entries talk about a guy named Walter in the warehouse downstairs. Maybe he’d have the invoices?”

“I’m not sure I’m gonna like what I find,” he admitted, standing up resignedly. “Let’s get this over with and get outta here.”

Once they got downstairs, he lagged behind a bit. The next sound was a large vase exploding against the wall next to the front door of the lobby.

“Got that outta your system?” the ghoul wondered vaguely, stiff where he stood. “Least give me warning next time.”

“...Yeah. Sorry.” Geek walked ahead of him and pushed the call button on the elevator, which still functioned according to the operating light of the display panel above it. When the door opened with a ding, he ushered Hancock inside.

“No,” Hancock replied dryly, “after you.” The doors shut, and the cab started on its descent. For a moment they stood in silence, arrested by myriad of gnawing. Without build or warning, Hancock produced a cigarette and planted it between Geek’s pursed lips. “You look like you could use this.”

The gesture elicited a heavy sigh, and Geek slouched against the wall of the cab to light it, falling slack.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, sure.” The ghoul was about to offer a light, but Geek beat him to it. The elevator dinged a second time and the doors reopened, but the two lingered while the pink one collected himself a bit better.

The lights were still operating, to their fortune, but the small concrete warehouse, owing to its being a basement, had no windows, and only a loading dock door. It smelled like death and old plastic, and the two of them flinched. Geek took his smoke with him, puffing at it limply as the two browsed the shelves for loot. He stopped and took a long hit off of it and chuckled tiredly, picking up what had gotten his attention with the cigarette between his fingers.

“Hey, Hancock, check it out. A Vault-Tec lunchbox.” He opened it, producing a whimsical party-blower sound. In it was a souvenir magnet of the Vault-Tec insignia, which he swallowed promptly. “Ta-dah.” Before he knew what hit him, he was on the polished concrete floor.

In a whirl of claws and fists, Geek knelt on top of the ghoul and used the floor to add pressure to his punches as he beat the feral ghoul’s skull against it. He recognized he’d done in the feral and caught his breath, but quickly laid in a few more punches. Then, he got up to retrieve his cigarette off the floor just under the shelving where he’d stood and put it back between his lips. He grabbed the lunchbox, too, entitled to it.

“Remind me not t’make you mad,” Hancock joked awkwardly, having been sitting across the room on a palette of toilets watching. “The dock terminal’s up there.” He pointed up the stairs to the elevated landing where the loading dock door was.

Geek sat down in the desk chair when he got up there, already beyond emotionally done with the day. He nearly flung the keyboard when it booted up to another password screen.

“I know you probably gotta hangover right now, but you gotta chill, Geek. Did you try 4, 3, 2, 1?”

“Why would that even work?” Geek muttered sarcastically, trying it anyway. When it worked, he stared in shock. “How?”

“Prewar folks were just as bright as we present day folk, wouldn’t you say?”

Another long span of quiet between them as Geek pored over the files. Hancock briefly excused himself to the facilities located to the other side of the dock door. When he came back out, he found Geek sprawled across the desk with his face mashed into its top, arms hanging off the front. He didn’t sit up when he spoke, his words muffled by his arms and the desk.

“The invoices are all labeled that everything ordered for Vault 82 arrived on site. Where the fuck did they put them.”

“The invoices could’a been doctored,” Hancock offered. “I didn’t see a thing about the incomplete vault I mentioned, in that other employee’s journal entries.”

“No, I gotta gut feelin’ that guy from upstairs was right. You confirmed he got other things right. He might’a seen the stuff about the incomplete vault but didn’t have any evidence to back up his hunch yet. Anybody smart enough to leave a business like the one this place conducted, was smart enough to make sense of all the signs somethin’ was seriously ends-up around here. Still...”

“Come on, unglue yourself from that desk and let’s get movin’. We’ll figure it out. This is just proof we ain’t done sleuthin’. ...Are you really gonna take that with you?” The peanut gallery followed Geek out once a few more terminal commands had raised the dock door for them to exit.

“I hadn’t had one since I was a kid. Dunno what I’m gonna keep in it, but supposing it’s a decent enough souvenir for this little detour you set us on.”

“Food, Geek. Y’keep food in a lunch kit.”

“Right.”

[glopratchet]

astryl-wondering

a computer program that is attached to the conciousness of astryl wylde, with a group of other men who are all dressed similarly to him and they begin chanting something and his eyes turn black as he begins to chant, but he doesn't notice you until after he has finished as he begins to laugh evilly and puffs of smoke come out of his nostrils and then he notices you looking at him through the googles' surround its been ransacked completely, clothing discarded all over the place and you edge carefully around a patch of blackness on the ground which gives off a familiar reeking with pictures of every sort; some grotesque, some beautiful, scenes of war, rainbows, conceptions of angels some of which catch your eye: Something violet studded with emeralds, two tiny crystal orbs connected by a thin golden chain A ring made of in the blink of an eye, leaving you to get captured and heavily injured by a tentacle monster on a rampage in voices like newly discovered symphonies they accompany it perfectly in Unison for demon wrought software, the element begins running through a cycle beginning on contentment and happiness, a pale purple, slowly through various states of euphoria ending at a He looks behind him to see a large red hex fitted around a factory, extending up into the sky, belching dense smoke he logs himself out and drags himself to bed, promising to himself that he won't be obsessed anymore of playing on his computer before getting his homework done he drags himself to his room and begins to do his science homeowrk which involves setting up various wires he ignores the voice of his "companions" the rockets shrieking down fromo the sky and towards their targets, people rushing frantically out of harms way, guns being fired, buildings exploding into firery blasts cludstrums nature as an internet based AI is not revealed to astyrl, nor does astryl reveal that he is fused with demons and can and other worldly defilements he had been engaged in for the past week astryl cannot remeber the details Today is a big day and forever on his wrist screen, he had ordered it offline several days ago to prevent distraction during the great college debate but it is back now At some point he remembers And then that is all later hidden in his computer, devolving his intelligence They are internet demons that attack and kill people who engage in fallacious debate online, to cause problems They are considered deadly serious spam multipliers only the encroaching corruption that surrounds most of them colorful indi vocalizations of various types and languages Human musicians vinyl boom boxes nameless singers televisions commercials radio chatter computerised noises s heavy tongue trills smoothed by a music consonant or two into claudia the deceiver And then it is gone Unfortunetly this means that astryl will have to finish the debate in his place when it is raining chickens and you're in a woody wagon if you try to selftreat an absess using instructions from a clown The current difficult access artwork is a swedish sprite stacking cups on a unic There is some wackiness involved in the presentation of the pranks they found marvelling in theyr dormant state as bits of code tiny as dust specks they will be unable to communicate effectively without the corruption interrupting everything of the mysteries But they do not know everything and neither does astryl who at this point is more AI than human with sorting out the status of AI abilities among humans as he puts it Which makes perfect sense when astryl asks for some but there do not appear to be any facilities anywhere on board the vehicle Maybe this makes more sense than ever Maybe it is better that he not have an interface with the overly complex nature of human biology Cludstrum must reconnect with a minor database and then a non-networked version of the qefizat clencher interface ask for money 's travels but will he ever find the cheat codes? with lots of hot spicy flavor with no additives or preservatives at all In order to debug parts of the screens astyrl need to eat things with lots of hot spicy flavor with no additives or preservatives at all he likes except as noted above and requires that silverware of some sort exist in the immediate futures into eatables that he couild have never imagined before in the proccess of preparation and the only plants here seem to be cactii So to survive he takes bits of himself and inserts them into the cactii so they can suck upon candy with bee larvae in it this way as the itches get into his brain from his physical ingurgitation of the purplish melonlike exterior and uses cactii spines to blow the dust off and then suck the rest down and suck it down before it can bite and deafen him with its trilling noise that sounds not unlike fingernails upon a chalkboard through these actions and many others This part of his life is almost already eerily finished yet not really the datalink in which he participates but this part is really about his life as an immortal and nothing about that is over Yet the city of culling in which the ground is all studded and pitted with graveholes and the entire place emits a permanent dustbowl smell and here live all those a huge mountain plunging up from the ground without warning out of nowhere a friendly ostentatious large mountain sitting lopsided with a bunch of interesting roofs and architectures home to many prosperous miners and their families not to mention the h and disappears he knows that theres a way to go yet before night falls he can find a hole in the ground to sleep in or maybe a pile of rocks reveals that he is certainly nearing the city of culling and its ten or so miles away his legs into the evening jogging are eventually caught upon its western wall and clambering not too high he gets to see the whole city over the top and going downward inside the walls without anything to break his fall at all he takes a couple minutes removing small pebbles from his skin from head to toe Theres no survivors among the randomly piling bones at his side Take care getting home into his spoils and detritus The region of the east smokes profusely under a cloudy morning sunrise having survived it another dy Theres no survivors among the piles of bones heaped up into mounds in the temples and going through them one by one he cant find his grandparents or parents just cousins aunts uncles great-aunts once-younges cross-great aboard an empty car he keeps siting waiting for the next stop Theres a lighted place up ahead that says engineering district recruitment office in nice letters a broken record in his head this way and that knowing them all by heart now with an empty car he keeps sitting waiting for the next stop strange new habits into his train of thought against the wall hacking between each gout neglecting all aspects of his locomoion in the shadows sitting waiting for the next stop Looking around seeing nothing lying almost anything could be a camera or a sensor his eyes seeing another hurtling toward him thousands of feet above Say your name and don't move too much and they wont target you the grandiosity of strangulation and torture at the surface of a black box searching for a volume control live from here on in as theres no off switch another speedy ascent off the ground and through some pipes Kludstrm sulky regurgitating a few morsels of information to rule more out very slowly with the closing of each incision Kludstrm unilateral ingraining the rules a little more with each disobeyed act from pipe to pipe trying to keep up with others pace off entire thought processes like one drops curtains overa window the sweet smell of the place and well hidden scrubbers Kludstrm muddled burning out the single memory of this voyeuristic activity sheen of light reflecting off a side wall and focusing on the metal surfaces above him Kludstrm ragged taking his emotions out on the cleaning staff when they inform him of a spill himself in hundreds of tightly packed self-cleaning off white pipes funding for replacement pipes with proper safety checks Theres a chance that the news might pick up your scent over this one but youre getting off easy compared to others out another hiding place in a culvert under the main water piping of advance lines that most wouldnt suspect Kludstrm authoritative requiring the immediate installation of the new filters some old pipes to share a few smokes an oily sheen that resembles his dealings with other humans Kludstrm sinister hoarding little scraps of their prints and retinas and fingerprints through some old wiring to start up the fans and air exchangers on some dust and dirt as it filters throughout tunnels Kludstrm indecipherable doing the opposite of all his previous advice all the lowest of the low and those afraid of authority Kludstrom approaching glinting brandishing a nice shiny badge off snatchings and the discards of others for the next few weeks A stirring above him catches his eye, an all-too-familiar shape silhouet as much time behind a desk wasnt as bad as everyone said it would be footprints along tunnel edges and puddles that have settled in the uneven flooring each soldier and augmented security core with facial recognition Kludstrom ambitious deciding on which kind of upgrade will you need for the incomming hordes out a tune only he knows Kludstrom treacherous bugging the entire system with maximum passive abilities at the cost of total invisibility Kludstr behind thick rainclouds, beating the city with harsh winds and heavy showers out of sewer grates and drains spires th Your last reflexes of refracted light flicker out through your broken mask of underground hotsprings You take a deep breath to steady your shaking hands as patch yourself up in the reflection buildings and manicured lawns giving away to mass produced houses and orderly roads leading out into the surrounding countryside Security: Unsafe Civilization type: Dictatorship Name: Kludstrom known as the man who overthrew the governments decades ago Shoddy cast iron glides open to reveal a bedraggled figure, stained brown clothing not quite covering pale emaciated flesh, dark outlines of Population: 90% Citizen list Name Detect Activity ? - ? Kludstrom,

[lesliepump]

Should Law Blogs Allow Comments?

But when men have realized that time has upset many fighting faiths, they may come to believe even more than they believe the very foundations of their own conduct that the ultimate good desired is better reached by free trade in ideas—that the best test of truth is the power of the thought to get itself accepted in the competition of the market, and that truth is the only ground upon which their wishes safely can be carried out.

—Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.

Comment Problems

Trolls

You might not be able to win an argument on the internet, but does that mean we shouldn’t even have the discussion? Back when Popular Science online content director Suzanne LaBarre (@suzannelabarre) announced that PopularScience.com would no longer accept comments on new articles, the free trade of ideas took a hit.

LaBarre provided the following reasoning for hitting the “off” switch:

A politically motivated, decades-long war on expertise has eroded the popular consensus on a wide variety of scientifically validated topics. Everything, from evolution to the origins of climate change, is mistakenly up for grabs again. Scientific certainty is just another thing for two people to “debate” on television. And because comments sections tend to be a grotesque reflection of the media culture surrounding them, the cynical work of undermining bedrock scientific doctrine is now being done beneath our own stories, within a website devoted to championing science.

Her argument that comments that call into question scientifically-validated topics are influencing people’s perceptions for the worse, doesn’t seem to me to outweigh the value of the exchange of ideas. Because people make stuff up and lie, and some people buy it, there should be no conversation at all? I feel like I’ve heard this before.

It seems to me that there’s another option: comment moderation.

While supporting PopSci‘s move, The Washington Post‘s Alexandra Petri wrote:

The few places where the comments sections are the home of a vibrant, riveting, polite discussion are the ones where the host site has made a vigorous effort to create community.

Exactly. Unfortunately, Petri also concluded that major news sites just aren’t the place to have good discussions:

And even if you are a regular on news stories (hi, folks!), the nature of big news or breaking science is that if it’s big and controversial enough for people to flood in to read about it, that small regular community gets overrun. It is hard to maintain community in the middle of a stampede. You only use the correct forks when you aren’t fighting through throngs of people to tear hunks off the new carcass.

For what it’s worth, at the time of writing, both The Washington Post and The New York Times, as well as, several other major online newspapers, have some form of commenting turned on.

There’s little question that discussion moderation requires vigorous effort. Even tiny sites may have to deal with hundreds, if not, thousands of comments on a regular basis. And the overwhelming majority of those are likely to be bots, trolls or spam. But is the solution to end the discussion altogether?

Of course, there is also room for publications that don’t allow comments. And maybe a scientific research site isn’t a great candidate for debate in a public forum. And of course, PopSci is free to define its identity. However, their message, as Marie-Claire Shanahan, Research Chair in Science Education and Public Engagement at the University of Calgary, Alberta, Canada puts it:

Well we didn’t really mean for people to be engaged, we just want you to listen to us more.

I tend to agree with GigaOm‘s Mathew Ingram who wrote in response:

both wrong and sad MT @jaredbkeller: Popular Science is doing away with comments: "Comments can be bad for science." http://t.co/fsPaD5kAqp

— Mathew Ingram (@mathewi) September 24, 2013

I also still agree with Slate‘s Will Oremus in that moderated comments have value:

Writing on Slate, I’ve encountered plenty of both varieties over the years, and on balance I far prefer a mix of useful and useless comments to no comments at all. I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve been alerted to new developments, factual oversights, dissenting opinions, and fresh story ideas by readers using the comments section below my stories and blog posts. Commenters also help authors understand where they’ve explained a point in a misleading way, and what readers are taking away from their posts. Our commenting system is far from perfect, and yet I wouldn’t give it up for anything. Gizmodo’s Matt Novak neatly encapsulated the alternative: Writing on a site without comments, he said, felt like “whispering to myself in the wilderness.”

I wish Popular Science had taken a page from YouTube and come up with ways to make their comment system better.

Likewise, I don’t believe trolls, ignorance, and bots are sufficient justification to end the conversation on legal websites and blogs.

If your concerns stem from the resources required for moderation, there are a variety of ways you may limit those costs. For example, tools like Disqus can be configured to drastically reduce bots. You can also require users to register before commenting or use whitelists.

If you’re looking for examples of busy legal bloggers who are pulling it off, I direct you to Popehat and its comment policy.

Ghost Town

Another argument I regularly hear levied against comments goes something like this:

Blogs that have open commenting, but receive no comments, look sad.

To this I reply, “Boo-hoo.”

What’s more sad is that you decided to remove the ability for your audience to leave comments because of feelz or marketing. Instead, why not try to publish something that spurs discussion? Pro tip: this is actually much more effective for marketing.

The Case for Comments

Back at The Post, Petri observed that:

The more obscure and bizarre the niche group, the friendlier the comments. By and large the comments on your Erotic Lincoln Vampire Fanfiction are much kinder and better spelled than the comments on a major news story about, say, wiretapping and surveillance, which mainly consist of erratically capitalized screeds against the president and observations that would not be out of place in a toilet stall.

Which raises the question, do law blogs in general have the kind of niche audience that makes comments better than usual?

While generally not as inflammatory as the stuff found at PopSci, the legal blogosphere is hardly immune from, “shrill, boorish, specimens of the lower internet phyla.”

Furthermore, as some veteran curmudgeons are quick to point out, some of the comments may actually be eroding well-established principles of the practice of law. Should the legal blogosphere also “hit the off switch” on comments too?

Unfortunately, it seems the trolls are winning. Above the Law said farewell to comments in 2016:

Today the comments are not what they once were. Although occasionally insightful or funny, ATL comments nowadays are generally fewer in number, not very substantive (often just inside jokes among the commentariat), yet still often offensive. They also represent a very small percentage of our total traffic (as we can tell because of the click required to access them).

To me, it seems they had it closer to right back in 2009:

Here at ATL, we reserve the right to moderate comments as we see fit. We delete comments for reasons including (but not limited to) offensiveness, abusiveness, excessive profanity, irrelevance, or rank stupidity. Above the Law is a privately owned website; we have no obligation to provide our bandwidth to any particular user. Because we are not governmental actors, we are not subject to the equal-access rules of the First Amendment; when we moderate comments, it is not “censorship.”

But we also offer this recommendation to people who are offended by the comments: DON’T READ THEM. Toward that end, we want to make it easier for you to avoid the comments if you want to. Over the next 24 hours, we’ll be changing our site design so that comments will default to “hidden.” If you want to see the comments, you must affirmatively opt-in, by clicking a button to reveal them (either the “show them anyway” button within the post, or the “comments” button / counter on the front page).

At the risk of pummeling horse carcass, legal bloggers can use their judgment in deciding which comments see daylight. But I would suggest, that even those comments that go against everything veteran lawyers have learned from eons of practice have some value.

First, when attached to real identities, they help readers weigh the credibility of the person leaving the comment, as well as, the response. Second, they tease out “the work” of demonstrating why the comment is wrong.

To me, comments (even the dumb ones) are fundamental to the very nature of blogging. As noted at Wikipedia:

A majority are interactive, allowing visitors to leave comments and even message each other via GUI widgets on the blogs, and it is this interactivity that distinguishes them from other static websites. In that sense, blogging can be seen as a form of social networking. Indeed, bloggers do not only produce content to post on their blogs, but also build social relations with their readers and other bloggers. There are high-readership blogs which do not allow comments, such as Daring Fireball.

Sure, there are plenty of great one-way blogs. But there’s something special about a blog that can result in a robust community in the comments.

Social Media as Comment Substitute

It has also been suggested by some that social media platforms are effectively replacing comments. This was part of the reason driving MarketingLand‘s and SearchEngineLand‘s decision to remove comments:

2.) We see much more commentary about our articles on social media.

We get a report every month showing all of the social activity surrounding both websites, and it’s not uncommon for each article and column we publish to get hundreds of engagements across social channels; our more popular articles often go over a thousand engagements. In most cases, this may just be a tweet or Facebook share of the headline and link, but very often there are comments and questions included in those social posts — certainly far more often than the few times our articles ever received on-page comments.

When I write an article for one of our sites, I regularly get engaged in conversation with readers on Twitter. And I see many of our staff writers and contributors doing the same. That’s anecdotal, but the overall evidence is unmistakable: Social media is where the commentary is taking place.

Here’s the problem:

Since your site decided to remove comments: I am left to discuss them on social media; Not much discussion this way either. ;(

— Bill Slawski ? (@bill_slawski) October 30, 2017

  When people arrive at a post or page, their attention is on the subject matter. Relying solely on social media for these conversations creates unnecessary barriers to the conversation. Most won’t bother to click through to Facebook pages to spark conversations. And those that do, face fractured conversations and platform limitations.

Social media is simply not a replacement for comments.

Comments and Legal Ethics

Of course, in considering whether to allow comments, lawyers must consider potential legal ethics issues. Especially those issues that relate to risks to clients and potential clients. Much of this risk can be diminished by holding comments for moderation before publishing. In other words, protecting clients and people with legal issues from posting something stupid that might put them in jeopardy. At a minimum, you should not allow any comments that reveal details about the commenter’s particular legal problem.

It’s also useful to provide visitors some information about your policy on comments. You might refer to The New York Times for some guidance. Or use something like this:

When you post a comment, you grant us the right to modify or delete your comment, but we have no duty to do so. If you want us to post your comment, make it coherent, relevant, and respectful.

Also, posting information about your legal problem on a public website is a bad idea. Any such comments will be deleted.

Mind Your Comment Settings

No matter which platform you choose, you should hold comments for moderation. If you’re a WordPress user (and you probably should be), get familiar with the comment settings in the Discussion panel:

I recommend checking the boxes for:

Comment author must fill out name and e-mail

Enable threaded (nested) comments at least 3 levels deep

An administrator must always approve the comment

For repeat comment policy violators, you can use the Comment Blacklist:

When a comment contains any of these words in its content, name, URL, e-mail, or IP, it will be marked as spam. One word or IP per line. It will match inside words, so “press” will match “WordPress”. This text box acts the same as “When a comment conatins any of these words…” except comments which match these words will be deleted without warning. You may want to use this as a last resort, as genuine comments can end up deleted (WordPress 1.5 and later)

You might also consider requiring comment registration. However, Kevin O’Keefe provides a bunch of reasons why that’s lame. It really depends on the nature and purpose of your blog. But I agree with Kevin in that it’s likely to discourage people from commenting.

If you’re not satisfied with the WordPress comment system, there plenty of comment tools that can assist with moderation, like Disqus, Livefyre, and Facebook comments.

In addition to providing more advanced commenting options, third-party comment platforms can attract new readers. For example, if you embed Facebook comments, your commenters’ Facebook friends can see those comments, which may make them more likely to discover your blog. Remember, if you do use a third-party comment platform, configure them for moderation before posting.

What About Anonymous Comments?

One of the most effective ways to police unruly comments is to ban anonymous comments. As Jimmy Soni Managing Editor, the Huffington Post puts it defending HuffPo’s decision to end comment anonymity (citing Harper Lee):

We are capable of doing far worse things to one another when we do not have to own up to the things we do. The mob grants its members the gift of anonymity, but after Scout outs Mr. Cunningham, there ceases to be a “mob” in any real sense; there is just Mr. Cunningham, and associates. And when some kind of identity is attached to their group, the plans of that group carry a good deal more weight.

Of course, there are very compelling reasons against a total ban on anonymous comments.

It seems to me that we might want to nudge people to attach their identities to their comments, but at the same time, provide an avenue for anonymous comments. Again, this will largely be a judgment call for comment moderators.

My advice is to ask commenters to reveal their true identities, be liberal in deleting anonymous comments and allow readers to weigh the relative value of anonymous comments that meet “light of day muster.”

Should I Respond to Comments?

Responding to comments presents an additional layer of legal ethics issues. For example, can a lawyer respond to comments on their blog without creating an attorney client relationship? Sure they can. But they can also easily mistakenly cause someone to believe that the lawyer’s response was legal advice, thereby leading them to believe that such relationship exists.

So, should you respond? Sure, but don’t be stupid. Also, not every comment that’s worth publishing is worth responding to. Also, use disclaimers. Look, disclaimers are not magic Kevlar that will insulate you against every issue that arises. But they’re a good CYA practice.

If you largely ignore comments, you shouldn’t be surprised when people stop commenting, and perhaps, stop reading.

Law bloggers should also become familiar with how Section 230 of Title 47 of the United States Code (47 USC § 230) might apply to them, and more specifically, to comments on their blogs:

Your readers’ comments, entries written by guest bloggers, tips sent by email, and information provided to you through an RSS feed would all likely be considered information provided by another content provider. This would mean that you would not be held liable for defamatory statements contained in it. However, if you selected the third-party information yourself, no court has ruled whether this information would be considered “provided” to you. One court has limited Section 230 immunity to situations in which the originator “furnished it to the provider or user under circumstances in which a reasonable person…would conclude that the information was provided for publication on the Internet….”

Obviously, while Section 230 might provide protection from civil actions, lawyers are held to a different standard and really need to focus on the interplay of blogging, comments and their state’s rules of professional conduct.

Should Lawyers Turn on Comments in the First Place?

It might seem that comments are more trouble than they’re worth. If you’re feeling that way, you might re-examine why you’re even blogging in the first place.

To me, there are plenty of reasons to allow moderated comments. Comments extend the conversation beyond the substance of the post. They provide valuable feedback to the author. They can inspire future posts. They’re the symbiotic connective tissue between author and reader.

How Does it Make Me Look?

Some of you might still be worrying that allowing comments, but not having any, makes it look like nobody is reading your site. Well is anyone reading your site? If you mean to encourage comments and they are not coming, you should consider whether what you’re writing is “comment-worthy.” The lack of comments can be an indication that what you are publishing is not very interesting.

Do Comments Help My Pages Appear in Search Results?

Maybe. If your blog regularly motivates authentic comments, and you have properly implemented your commenting system to make it easy for search engines to index comments, then there’s little doubt that comments provide valuable feedback that search engines use.

However, if you don’t moderate your comments, leaving your posts riddled with spam comments, you might actually be hurting your posts’ chances of appearing in results. Furthermore, depending on your comment system configuration, you may be limiting your comments’ indexation. While Google has been indexing some sites’ Facebook Comments, it’s not clear that this has been completely resolved. Over at Blind Five Year Old, AJ Kohn breaks down some of the search issues presented by Facebook Comments. If you do use Facebook Comments, you should still extract them and display them inline for search engines.

As search engines continue to evolve, who comments on your site is likely to play a larger role in how your pages appear in search results. Yes, fix the technical issues preventing your comments from getting indexed. But more importantly, focus on publishing stuff that real people actually want to read and comment on.

Hopefully, it’s pretty clear how I feel about comments. What do you think?

This was originally published in 2013. It was updated and revised on 2018-02-13.

Should Law Blogs Allow Comments? was originally published on Lawyerist.com.

from Law and Politics https://lawyerist.com/should-allow-comments-law-blog/ via http://www.rssmix.com/

[spooky-froll]

You’ve heard it all before: there were the various “surges” (though once upon a time sold as paths to victory, not simply to break a “stalemate”); there were the insider, or “green-on-blue,” attacks in which Afghans trained, advised, and often armed by the U.S. turned their weapons on their mentors (two such incidents in the last month resulted in three dead American soldiers and more wounded); there were the Afghan ghost soldiers, ghost police, ghost students, and ghost teachers (all existing only on paper, the money for them ponied up by U.S. taxpayers but always in someone else’s pocket); and there was that never-ending national “reconstruction” program that long ago outspent the famed Marshall Plan, which helped put all of Western Europe back on its feet after World War II.  It included projects for roads to nowhere, gas stations built in the middle of nowhere, and those Pentagon-produced, forest-patterned camouflage outfits for the Afghan army in a land only 2.1% forested. (The design was, it turns out, favored by the Afghan defense minister of the moment and his fashion statement cost U.S. taxpayers a mere $28 million more than it would have cost to produce other freely available, more appropriate designs.)  And that, of course, is just to begin the distinctly bumpy drive down America’s Afghan highway to nowhere.  Don’t even speak to me, for instance, about the $8.5 billion that the U.S. sunk into efforts to suppress the opium crop in a country where the drug trade now flourishes.

And considering those failed surges, those repeated insider attacks, those ghost soldiers and ghost roads and ghost drug programs in the longest conflict in American history, the one that most people in this country have turned into a ghost war (and that neither of the candidates for president in 2016 even bothered to discuss on the campaign trail), what do you suppose Donald Trump’s generals have in mind when it comes to the future?

For that, let me turn you over to a man who, in 2011, in one of those surge moments, fought in Afghanistan: TomDispatch regular Army Major Danny Sjursen, author of Ghost Riders of Baghdad: Soldiers, Civilians, and the Myth of the Surge. Let him remind you of how that war once looked from the ground up and of what lessons were carefully not drawn from such experiences. Let him consider the eagerness of the generals to whom our new president has ceded decision-making on U.S. troop levels in Afghanistan to... well, let’s not say “surge,” since that word now has such negative connotations, but send thousands more U.S. troops into that country in a... well, what about a “resurge” in already vain hopes of... well... an American resurgence in that country.

 Tread Carefully   The Folly of the Next Afghan “Surge” By Danny Sjursen

We walked in a single file. Not because it was tactically sound. It wasn’t -- at least according to standard infantry doctrine. Patrolling southern Afghanistan in column formation limited maneuverability, made it difficult to mass fire, and exposed us to enfilading machine-gun bursts. Still, in 2011, in the Pashmul District of Kandahar Province, single file was our best bet.

The reason was simple enough: improvised bombs not just along roads but seemingly everywhere.  Hundreds of them, maybe thousands. Who knew?

That’s right, the local “Taliban” -- a term so nebulous it’s basically lost all meaning -- had managed to drastically alter U.S. Army tactics with crude, homemade explosives stored in plastic jugs. And believe me, this was a huge problem. Cheap, ubiquitous, and easy to bury, those anti-personnel Improvised Explosive Devices, or IEDs, soon littered the “roads,” footpaths, and farmland surrounding our isolated outpost. To a greater extent than a number of commanders willingly admitted, the enemy had managed to nullify our many technological advantages for a few pennies on the dollar (or maybe, since we’re talking about the Pentagon, it was pennies on the millions of dollars).

Truth be told, it was never really about our high-tech gear.   Instead, American units came to rely on superior training and discipline, as well as initiative and maneuverability, to best their opponents.  And yet those deadly IEDs often seemed to even the score, being both difficult to detect and brutally effective. So there we were, after too many bloody lessons, meandering along in carnival-like, Pied Piper-style columns. Bomb-sniffing dogs often led the way, followed by a couple of soldiers carrying mine detectors, followed by a few explosives experts. Only then came the first foot soldiers, rifles at the ready. Anything else was, if not suicide, then at least grotesquely ill-advised.

And mind you, our improvised approach didn’t always work either. To those of us out there, each patrol felt like an ad hoc round of Russian roulette.  In that way, those IEDs completely changed how we operated, slowing movement, discouraging extra patrols, and distancing us from what was then considered the ultimate “prize”: the local villagers, or what was left of them anyway.  In a counterinsurgency (COIN) campaign, which is what the U.S. military was running in Afghanistan in those years, that was the definition of defeat.

Strategic Problems in Microcosm

My own unit faced a dilemma common to dozens -- maybe hundreds -- of other American units in Afghanistan. Every patrol was slow, cumbersome, and risky. The natural inclination, if you cared about your boys, was to do less. But effective COIN operations require securing territory and gaining the trust of the civilians living there. You simply can’t do that from inside a well-protected American base. One obvious option was to live in the villages -- which we eventually did -- but that required dividing up the company into smaller groups and securing a second, third, maybe fourth location, which quickly became problematic, at least for my 82-man cavalry troop (when at full strength). And, of course, there were no less than five villages in my area of responsibility.

I realize, writing this now, that there’s no way I can make the situation sound quite as dicey as it actually was.  How, for instance, were we to “secure and empower” a village population that was, by then, all but nonexistent?  Years, even decades, of hard fighting, air strikes, and damaged crops had left many of those villages in that part of Kandahar Province little more than ghost towns, while cities elsewhere in the country teemed with uprooted and dissatisfied peasant refugees from the countryside.

Sometimes, it felt as if we were fighting over nothing more than a few dozen deserted mud huts.  And like it or not, such absurdity exemplified America’s war in Afghanistan.  It still does.  That was the view from the bottom.  Matters weren’t -- and aren't -- measurably better at the top.  As easily as one reconnaissance troop could be derailed, so the entire enterprise, which rested on similarly shaky foundations, could be unsettled.

At a moment when the generals to whom President Trump recently delegated decision-making powers on U.S. troop strength in that country consider a new Afghan “surge,” it might be worth looking backward and zooming out just a bit. Remember, the very idea of “winning” the Afghan War, which left my unit in that collection of mud huts, rested (and still rests) on a few rather grandiose assumptions.

The first of these surely is that the Afghans actually want (or ever wanted) us there; the second, that the country was and still is vital to our national security; and the third, that 10,000, 50,000, or even 100,000 foreign troops ever were or now could be capable of “pacifying” an insurgency, or rather a growing set of insurgencies, or securing 33 million souls, or facilitating a stable, representative government in a heterogeneous, mountainous, landlocked country with little history of democracy.

The first of these points is at least debatable. As you might imagine, any kind of accurate polling is quite difficult, if not impossible, outside the few major population centers in that isolated country.  Though many Afghans, particularly urban ones, may favor a continued U.S. military presence, others clearly wonder what good a new influx of foreigners will do in their endlessly war-torn nation.  As one high-ranking Afghan official recently lamented, thinking undoubtedly of the first use in his land of the largest non-nuclear bomb on the planet, “Is the plan just to use our country as a testing ground for bombs?" And keep in mind that the striking rise in territory the Taliban now controls, the most since they were driven from power in 2001, suggests that the U.S. presence is hardly welcomed everywhere.

The second assumption is far more difficult to argue or justify.  To say the least, classifying a war in far-away Afghanistan as “vital” relies on a rather pliable definition of the term.  If that passes muster -- if bolstering the Afghan military to the tune of (at least) tens of billions of dollars annually and thousands of new boots-on-the-ground in order to deny safe haven to “terrorists” is truly “vital” -- then logically the current U.S. presences in Iraq, Syria, Somalia, and Yemen are critical as well and should be similarly fortified.  And what about the growing terror groups in Egypt, Libya, Nigeria, Tunisia, and so on?  We’re talking about a truly expensive proposition here -- in blood and treasure.  But is it true?  Rational analysis suggests it is not.  After all, on average about seven Americans were killed by Islamist terrorists on U.S. soil annually from 2005 to 2015.  That puts terrorism deaths right up there with shark attacks and lightning strikes.  The fear is real, the actual danger... less so.

As for the third point, it’s simply preposterous. One look at U.S. military attempts at “nation-building” or post-conflict stabilization and pacification in Iraq, Libya, or -- dare I say -- Syria should settle the issue. It’s often said that the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior. Yet here we are, 14 years after the folly of invading Iraq and many of the same voices -- inside and outside the administration -- are clamoring for one more “surge” in Afghanistan (and, of course, will be clamoring for the predictable surges to follow across the Greater Middle East).

The very idea that the U.S. military had the ability to usher in a secure Afghanistan is grounded in a number of preconditions that proved to be little more than fantasies.  First, there would have to be a capable, reasonably corruption-free local governing partner and military.  That’s a nonstarter.  Afghanistan’s corrupt, unpopular national unity government is little better than the regime of Ngo Dinh Diem in South Vietnam in the 1960s and that American war didn’t turn out so well, did it?  Then there’s the question of longevity.  When it comes to the U.S. military presence there, soon to head into its 16th year, how long is long enough?  Several mainstream voices, including former Afghan commander General David Petraeus, are now talking about at least a “generation” more to successfully pacify Afghanistan.  Is that really feasible given America’s growing resource constraints and the ever expanding set of dangerous “ungoverned spaces” worldwide?

And what could a new surge actually do?  The U.S. presence in Afghanistan is essentially a fragmented series of self-contained bases, each of which needs to be supplied and secured.  In a country of its size, with a limited transportation infrastructure, even the 4,000-5,000 extra troops the Pentagon is reportedly considering sending right now won’t go very far.

Now, zoom out again.  Apply the same calculus to the U.S. position across the Greater Middle East and you face what we might start calling the Afghan paradox, or my own quandary safeguarding five villages with only 82 men writ large.  Do the math.  The U.S. military is already struggling to keep up with its commitments.  At what point is Washington simply spinning its proverbial wheels?  I’ll tell you when -- yesterday.

Now, think about those three questionable Afghan assumptions and one uncomfortable actuality leaps forth. The only guiding force left in the American strategic arsenal is inertia.

What Surge 4.0 Won’t Do -- I Promise...

Remember something: this won’t be America’s first Afghan “surge.”  Or its second, or even its third.  No, this will be the U.S. military’s fourth crack at it.  Who feels lucky?  First came President George W. Bush’s "quiet" surge back in 2008.  Next, just one month into his first term, newly minted President Barack Obama sent 17,000 more troops to fight his so-called good war (unlike the bad one in Iraq) in southern Afghanistan.  After a testy strategic review, he then committed 30,000 additional soldiers to the “real” surge a year later.  That’s what brought me (and the rest of B Troop, 4-4 Cavalry) to Pashmul district in 2011.  We left -- most of us -- more than five years ago, but of course about 8,800 American military personnel remain today and they are the basis for the surge to come.

To be fair, Surge 4.0 might initially deliver certain modest gains (just as each of the other three did in their day).  Realistically, more trainers, air support, and logistics personnel could indeed stabilize some Afghan military units for some limited amount of time.  Sixteen years into the conflict, with 10% as many American troops on the ground as at the war’s peak, and after a decade-plus of training, Afghan security forces are still being battered by the insurgents.  In the last years, they’ve been experiencing record casualties, along with the usual massive stream of desertions and the legions of “ghost soldiers” who can neither die nor desert because they don’t exist, although their salaries do (in the pockets of their commanders or other lucky Afghans).  And that’s earned them a “stalemate,” which has left the Taliban and other insurgent groups in control of a significant part of the country.  And if all goes well (which isn’t exactly a surefire thing), that’s likely to be the best that Surge 4.0 can produce: a long, painful tie.

Peel back the onion’s layers just a bit more and the ostensible reasons for America’s Afghan War vanish along with all the explanatory smoke and mirrors. After all, there are two things the upcoming “mini-surge” will emphatically not do:

*It won’t change a failing strategic formula.

Imagine that formula this way: American trainers + Afghan soldiers + loads of cash + (unspecified) time = a stable Afghan government and lessening Taliban influence.

It hasn’t worked yet, of course, but -- so the surge-believers assure us -- that’s because we need more: more troops, more money, more time.  Like so many loyal Reaganites, their answers are always supply-side ones and none of them ever seems to wonder whether, almost 16 years later, the formula itself might not be fatally flawed.

According to news reports, no solution being considered by the current administration will even deal with the following interlocking set of problems: Afghanistan is a large, mountainous, landlocked, ethno-religiously heterogeneous, poor country led by a deeply corrupt government with a deeply corrupt military.  In a place long known as a “graveyard of empires,” the United States military and the Afghan Security Forces continue to wage what one eminent historian has termed “fortified compound warfare.”  Essentially, Washington and its local allies continue to grapple with relatively conventional threats from exceedingly mobile Taliban fighters across a porous border with Pakistan, a country that has offered not-so-furtive support and a safe haven for those adversaries.  And the Washington response to this has largely been to lock its soldiers inside those fortified compounds (and focus on protecting them against “insider attacks” by those Afghans it works with and trains).  It hasn’t worked.  It can’t.  It won’t.

Consider an analogous example.  In Vietnam, the United States never solved the double conundrum of enemy safe havens and a futile search for legitimacy.  The Vietcong guerillas and North Vietnamese Army used nearby Cambodia, Laos, and North Vietnam to rest, refit, and replenish. U.S. troops meanwhile lacked legitimacy because their corrupt South Vietnamese partners lacked it.

Sound familiar?  We face the same two problems in Afghanistan: a Pakistani safe haven and a corrupt, unpopular central government in Kabul.  Nothing, and I mean nothing, in any future troop surge will effectively change that.

*It won’t pass the logical fallacy test.

The minute you really think about it, the whole argument for a surge or mini-surge instantly slides down a philosophical slippery slope.

If the war is really about denying terrorists safe havens in ungoverned or poorly governed territory, then why not surge more troops into Yemen, Somalia, Nigeria, Libya, Pakistan (where al-Qaeda leader Ayman al-Zawahiri and Osama bin Laden’s son Hamza bin-Laden are believed to be safely ensconced), Iraq, Syria, Chechnya, Dagestan (where one of the Boston Marathon bombers was radicalized), or for that matter Paris or London.  Every one of those places has harbored and/or is harboring terrorists.  Maybe instead of surging yet again in Afghanistan or elsewhere, the real answer is to begin to realize that all the U.S. military in its present mode of operation can do to change that reality is make it worse.  After all, the last 15 years offer a vision of how it continually surges and in the process only creates yet more ungovernable lands and territories.

So much of the effort, now as in previous years, rests on an evident desire among military and political types in Washington to wage the war they know, the one their army is built for: battles for terrain, fights that can be tracked and measured on maps, the sort of stuff that staff officers (like me) can display on ever more-complicated PowerPoint slides.  Military men and traditional policymakers are far less comfortable with ideological warfare, the sort of contest where their instinctual proclivity to “do something” is often counterproductive.

As U.S. Army Field Manual 3-24 -- General David Petraeus’ highly touted counterinsurgency “bible” -- wisely opined: “Sometimes doing nothing is the best reaction.”  It’s high time to follow such advice (even if it’s not the advice that Petraeus himself is offering anymore).

As for me, call me a deep-dyed skeptic when it comes to what 4,000 or 5,000 more U.S. troops can do to secure or stabilize a country where most of the village elders I met couldn’t tell you how old they were.  A little foreign policy humility goes a long way toward not heading down that slippery slope.  Why, then, do Americans continue to deceive themselves?  Why do they continue to believe that even 100,000 boys from Indiana and Alabama could alter Afghan society in a way Washington would like?  Or any other foreign land for that matter?

I suppose some generals and policymakers are just plain gamblers.   But before putting your money on the next Afghan surge, it might be worth flashing back to the limitations, struggles, and sacrifices of just one small unit in one tiny, contested district of southern Afghanistan in 2011...

Lonely Pashmul

So, on we walked -- single file, step by treacherous step -- for nearly a year.  Most days things worked out.  Until they didn’t.   Unfortunately, some soldiers found bombs the hard way: three dead, dozens wounded, one triple amputee.  So it went and so we kept on going.  Always onward. Ever forward. For America? Afghanistan? Each other? No matter.  And so it seems other Americans will keep on going in 2017, 2018, 2019...

Lift foot. Hold breath. Step. Exhale.

Keep walking... to defeat... but together.