#it is important to note that all three of these are MASSIVE undertakings that i should really knwo better than to think i'll ever finish

[autolovecraft]

Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door.

He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; so that he was reduced to a profane fumbling as he made his halting way among the long boxes toward the latch. Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives. Birch, in his ghastly situation, was now too low for an easy scramble out of the way in his quest for the Fenner casket.

When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. Great heavens, Birch, just as I thought! Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform.

Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago.

His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible.

He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives.

That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was also near by; but actually postponed the matter for three days, not getting to work till Good Friday, the 15th. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the rejected specimen, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the way in his quest for the Fenner casket. As he planned, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but he could do better with four.

This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height. The air had begun to be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch.

Why did you do it, Birch? The skull turned my stomach, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was. At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible.

It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, just as I thought! Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb. Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the way in his quest for the Fenner casket. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he planned to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily? I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the degree of dignity to be maintained in posing and adapting the unseen members of lifeless tenants to containers not always calculated with sublimest accuracy. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever.

[flashhwing]

oh we're in it now (crafting an outline for warden!hawke au)

[parvulous-writings]

Not so Wyld morning // Bill S Preston + Ted Logan x M!Reader

Request:     can you write a fluff oneshot with bill (s preston) x ted logan x m! reader with like. a sleepy morning between the three?

Requested by: @mlmpunisher​

Summary: Starts off as the request, and then goes off on a trip to the Circle K. I may or may not have gotten carried away. 

Warnings: a brief joke about kidnapping/death.

Words: 3.5K

Notes:  I’ve been waiting for an idea/request for these two. They’re my comfort idiots. My love for them... Let’s just say I watch the movies a fair amount, eh? My requests are currently open! My pinned post (found here) contains both a list of characters I write for, and a masterlist! Original character list - please request for these too!

Not my gif 

You, Bill and Ted were spread rather haphazardly over Bill’s bed. Legs crossed over one another, hands on chests or in faces. You were all tangled together, not that any of you really cared about that at that moment.  You had all fallen asleep during a study session- you had been desperately trying to tutor your boyfriends Bill and Ted, so that they didn’t fail their history class and completely flunk out of school- mostly because Ted’s father, Captain Logan, was threatening to send the taller boy away to an Alaskan military school to whip him into shape should he fail the semester. That was now an all too real threat to the three of you, none of you wanted to get pulled apart from one another. You had been trying to quiz them on the philosophies of the great Athenian thinker Socrates (whom both young men insisted on pronouncing So-Crates no matter how many times you corrected them) when you passed out one by one. First Ted- who was up against the headboard, and whose head had slumped forward when you had gotten onto the fifth or sixth question. Then Bill, draped over Ted’s legs, after leaning back to protest about how the quiz was starting to become “A total drag,” around the tenth question. He had promptly passed out whilst you were telling him it was for their own good- you weren’t all that surprised when you were interrupted by a rather loud snore coming from the curly-haired Bill.You hadn’t bothered to try and wake either of them- not only would they both be rather irritable if you woke them up too early, but it was nearly one o’clock in the morning at that point, so you figured that perhaps they were both subconsciously onto something.  You had taken the range and array of textbooks off of the bed, creating a little more space for you to somehow work yourself between them and get more comfortable to get some sleep of your own. After some shuffling, and a few murmurs from both Bill and Ted, you had found the perfect position, where you had promptly fallen asleep with them.

You were the first to wake up. Ted had taken your arm in both of his in your sleep, cuddling it as if it were a teddy bear. Bill’s legs had somehow tangled with yours, and he had ended up nuzzled into the side of your chest, not that you minded all that much. Though Ted was the more affectionate of your boyfriends in public, Bill could be just as affectionate as him in private. You tried not to move at first, not wanting to disturb them- they could both be as bad as each other when it came to being woken up too early (too early was counted as anything before they woke up by themselves). So, for what you had gauged to be about twenty minutes or so, you just laid there, staring up at the ceiling. There were no thoughts of any importance that drifted through your mind at this point, not until you had finally grown restless enough to carefully push yourself up onto one elbow to check the time on Bill’s alarm clock- which he rarely actually used as anything more than just a normal clock. It had just gone half past ten, and you felt your eyes go wide- that was much later than you had anticipated. Thankfully it was a weekend, though briefly your brain had tricked itself into thinking it was mid-week, causing even more of a jolt in your chest. You would have to get up soon to make your way back home; it was bad enough that you had spent the night out without letting your parents know that you’d be out past eleven o’clock. Every moment past nine in the morning that you spent away from them, the angrier they would get with you.  With this thought in mind you tried to push yourself up a little bit more, fully prepared to undertake the rather massive task of trying to begrudgingly untangle yourself from the two men you held dear, but you were quickly brought back down again by an unseen hand. Your head landed on Ted’s stomach, and you glanced over to him, seeing him peering back at you through tired eyes and a rather messy head of hair. He gave you a rather dopey smile, and you realised he was the one to pull you back; mostly prompted by the fact that Bill was giving another round of freight-train like snores. Ted’s head fell back again when you didn’t struggle against his protests of getting out of bed, and he gave a yawn before beginning to speak. “Morning, chief.” He mumbled, voice still raspy with the last dregs of sleep his body was trying to cling onto.  “I don’t get why you call me that.” You replied in a whisper, trying not to wake Bill. “Surely I should be the one calling you that- given your dad’s job and everything...”  “Eh,” Was Ted’s simple reply, accompanied with a rather lazy shrug. It was about a minute before the only other boy awake in the room started to speak again. “I mean, it does kind of suit you, doesn’t it? You keep me and Bill in order...” He prompted, glancing over to you with that same goofy smile, before his gaze moved back to the ceiling.  “For the most part, I guess.” You smiled back at him, taking his hand and draping his arm across you, so you could play absently with his fingers. Ted never minded that. 

The pair of you fell into a comfortable silence, which was disturbed only briefly, and rather inconsistently, by Bill’s snores. You weren’t sure how long you laid there for this time, but the rather delightful monotonous repetition was ultimately interrupted by a quiet groan of protest from the blonde haired boy at the end of the bed. He rolled onto his front, trying to cover his eyes- he had fallen asleep rather inconveniently where the light peaked through the blinds in the early morning. “Someone close the blinds,” He complained, trying to turn away from them but ultimately failing.  “Bill...” You chuckled lightly, nudging him to get his attention. “They are closed. The light is coming through the gap.” Your words were only met with a groan from Bill, and a stifled laugh from Ted.  “You should get it fixed, dude.” The taller boy jested, nudging the boy again, and Bill responded with a half-hearted swipe at Ted’s foot.  “Shut up, Ted.” Of course, he didn’t mean this in an inherently horrid way, despite his gruff tone. He loved both you and Ted deeply, more than he could love anything else- or at least that was what he thought. Ted thought very much the same thing- though that was no surprise. More often than not, it was like the two shared the exact same brain. If they were not thinking of the exact same plan down to the detail when it came to schemes, they were at the very least agreed on the end result. Most of the time this wasn’t too much of a problem for you- usually you were at the butt end of whatever shenanigan they were plotting- but there were times when you did get a little bit overwhelmed by the pair of them. More often than not, the times where you got overwhelmed involved a very particular phone-booth, with some rather unique properties. Unless you were in it’s presence you tried not to think about it- the amount of times you had been put through mind-bending situations already made your head spin to even consider again. They’d predict something, it would happen immediately after said prediction, then they would turn to one another and proclaim a quick “Excellent!” before reminding one another that they would need to remember that later. You were still a little bit confused by it- especially when they sprung something random on you-but you thought you were slowly starting to understand, even though the concept of time travel didn’t seem quite real. 

You broke your train of thought upon feeling a sudden weight on your chest. Though you wanted to crane your neck to see who it was, you didn’t really need to, you knew it was Bill. You did it anyway- your eyes being met with the golden curls of Bill’s hair. “Bill, love, I’m going to have to get up soon.” You warned him, as your movement would definitely affect him more than Ted.  “No.” He replied simply. From his tone, you could tell he didn’t overly want to debate it.  “But I stayed over without letting my parents-”  “You’re fine, you’re safe, what do they have to complain about?” He grumbled, shuffling so that his chin was on your stomach, his arms wrapped around your middle. His deep green eyes met yours, before flitting briefly to Ted, giving you both a smile. “C’mon, dude. It won’t hurt to have a little longer with us, right?” He asked, and you moved your hand to quickly brush a stray curl from his brow.  “Maybe he should go soon- like, just to check in.” Ted piped up, ever in your corner. “Cause you know what happens if he gets in trouble. He won’t get to see us for like... A week. That is most heinous, and you know it.” At this rather right line of reasoning, Bill groaned, burying his face into the fabric of your shirt.  “Shut up, Ted.” This was quite muffled, and of course still not completely serious. You laughed softly, “Okay- what about this? One hour. Like this.Then, we can ask Missy to drive us back to my place, and I can let my parents know I’m fine, and you two haven’t like... Murdered me, or something.” You joked, and you can feel Ted nod enthusiastically underneath you.  “Yeah, that’s a good idea!” He agreed, and you could hear the smile that was in no doubt plastered onto his face. “Then we can all head down to the Circle K afterwards, right?”  “Sure we can, Ted.” You agreed, reaching up behind you to clumsily pat his cheek.  “Only if he isn’t in trouble, remember?” Bill pitched in, shuffling to get comfortable again. “What about half an hour? If we want to head to Circle K, obviously.” You all consider this new plan for a moment, before each of you gave a curt nod, in unison. 

So there you all stayed- you nearly even fell asleep again before you felt Bill roll off of you. He then took your arm and helped you up, and Ted quickly rolled off of the bed to grab his sneakers. Bill chucked yours at you, before going to get his shoes as well. Ted was the first downstairs- “Hey, Missy?” He called out, and he was quickly met with the young woman’s reply.  “Yeah? What’s up, Ted?” She asked, giving a warm smile.  “We were hoping that you could drive us to (Y/N)’s house?” He asked, briefly wringing his hands, as he eagerly awaited her response.  “Sure thing!” She nodded cheerily, “Let me just finish making these drinks, and I’ll be right with you. You guys go out to the car.” She nodded over to the door leading to the garage. As you and Bill started down the stairs, Ted eagerly gestured for you both to follow him.  It didn’t take Missy very long to finish making the drinks she was preparing, and you all piled into the car. “So- did you all sleep well?” The blonde woman asked, glancing back at you and Bill in the back of the car- Ted had a fascination with sitting in the front seat. Ted and Bill nodded individually; you were the one to verbally reply.  “Yeah, I think we all got a fairly good night sleep.” You give an almost awkward smile. Though, at one point, both of your boyfriends had had some form of crush on her- despite her being quite a few years older than all of you- you hadn’t entirely understood why. You never really mentioned it though.  “Good to hear,” She replied, still wearing that joyful smile. “Hey, Bill- you might need to use the spare key today, the one behind the plant, if you’re staying out late with the boys.” She took a turning as she spoke, keeping her eyes on the road. “Me and your dad are going out for dinner tonight.”  “Okay, Missy- I mean, mom.” Bill replied, quickly correcting himself on his mistake. “Just stop on the corner here,” He told her, gesturing to the side of the road a five minute walk from your house.  “Are you sure?” She asked, glancing over her shoulder as she spoke. “I can take you all the way, if you-”  “No, it’s alright, thanks, Missy.” You interrupt quickly, leaning forward. “Here is fine.” She shrugged, but begrudgingly pulled over. 

“Thanks, Missy!” Ted called after the now fleeting car, giving a wave as well, before jogging to catch up with you and Bill, who had already started to cross the road to get to your street. “I’ll quickly grab some money whilst we’re there,” You told the pair of them, and they nodded.  “I was thinking we could get some slushies.” Ted suggested, giving a wide smile.  “Blue and red?” Bill added, giving a smile of his own, and Ted nodded energetically.  “Our tongues’ll end up as purple, you two know that, right?” You teased with a grin, glancing over your shoulder as Bill laughed heartily. It took Ted a moment longer to get the joke, but he started laughing even harder than Bill when it clicked with him.  “Oh well,” Bill shrugged, a rather mischievous smile. You fell into silence again as you jogged up your driveway, almost wrenching open the door and calling out a hasty “Hey!” to announce your presence to the household and those within it. You quickly made your way to your room, as Bill and Ted quietly entered your home after you, choosing to stay in the hallway- even though they had visited and stayed over at your house many times before. They were both silently hoping that they were making their will to leave relatively soon clear. Your father came into the living room, glancing to the two boys standing awkwardly in the hallway. “Bill, Ted.” He greeted, calmly. Bill mouthed a silent ‘Hi’, whilst Ted just waved. Neither of them wanted to anger your parents- Ted, because he knew how authority figures could be, he’d had experience with his own father, and Bill just didn’t want you to be punished and kept away from them. You came back through as quickly as you could, palming some of your loose change in your hand, making sure you would have enough for a slushie for yourself, and for your boyfriends if they hadn’t brought any money with them- which was more than likely.  “Going out again?” Your father asked you, wanting to make some sort of conversation. You nodded, glancing to him and giving a smile.  “Yeah, heading out to Circle K with Bill and Ted.” You told him. He was a lot more relaxed with the rules than your mother- whom you currently assumed to be out for lunch with one of her friends.  “Did your study session go well, then?”  “Yeah- we went over Socrates again. We all passed out- that’s why I didn’t come home or call last night.” Your father laughed gently, he understood.  “I figured as much. Your mother was saying that you could have been kidnapped- but I kept saying you’re a smart kid, you’d know what to do if that were a risk. Plus, I don’t think there’s anyone in San Dimas who would want to kidnap you.”  “Even if they did want to steal him away, we’d take whoever it is on,” Bill stated, confidently- nudging Ted.  “Yeah, we would!” The taller boy confirmed with a nod. You giggled and shook your head at the pair. Even your father chuckled gently at them.  “Good to know my son is in safe hands.” Though your father was aware that these two weren’t the sharpest tools in the shed of San Dimas, he wasn’t about to take away some of your only company. Your mother had brought it up to him before, but he usually elected to ignore the comments. “Anyway- get going, before your mother gets back. If she sees you going off with these to again without checking in properly she’ll have a fit.” He gestured to the door, “Just be back by eleven tonight, alright?”  “We’ll have him back by then!” Ted told him, opening the door and striding out, followed closely by Bill, and then you. Your father gave a wave, before heading back into your family home. 

There were few words on the journey to the local orange ringed store, you only started to speak again when you had each purchased your chosen flavour of slushie. Bill with strawberry, Ted with blue raspberry, and you with another blue raspberry. You all took a seat on the curb, and you decided to fill the silence with one of the first thoughts that came to your head mid-sip. “So, are you two ready for the end-of-semester presentation Mr Ryan is going to assign?” You asked, and both of your boyfriends looked rather shocked. “What? He’s done it with every other year-group, and we’re not exactly different, specification wise....” You pointed out, and Ted groaned.  “I suck at presentations.” He complained, “Plus neither of us can remember anything that Mr Ryan has taught us!” He exclaimed, gesturing rather wildly with his slushie. “I mean, even with your help, dude, I don’t think we’re going to do all that well.” You were about to speak, but Bill was the one to step in first.  “We gotta try, man,” He placed an affectionate hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder, “If we don’t, it’s even more likely that you’re going to be sent off to that heinous school in Alaska.” Ted considered this, then nodded. Bill was right.  “I’ll do everything I can to help my boys remember all they can,” You told them, a fond smile on your face which they quickly returned. They loved being referred to as your boys, they couldn’t even deny it- you could see it in their eyes. Bill leant over and pressed a very brief kiss to your cheek- though not before checking the parking lot was clear, empty of onlookers- and Ted reached across Bill’s legs to grab your hand, squeezing your palm to show some affection; you were too far away for a kiss from him, and he didn’t overly want to get up whilst his slushie was still rather full. He took a sip from the plastic straw in his beverage, before clearing his throat. “So..” He began, starting to grin wider than usual. “Who wants to make purple?” He nudged Bill, who then quickly looked to you, wearing the same grin as your other boyfriend. You started to laugh- of course this had been something that neither of them had forgotten. 

Without another word exchanged between you, you leant to close the gap between you and Bill, letting lips and tongue tangle in a passionate display of affection. Ted stared on adoringly, not overly minding that Bill was the first to get your attention and affection- though now he had finished off the majority of his drink he scuttled round to your other side, carefully taking your jaw in his hand when you eventually pulled away from Bill to catch your breath. Your break didn’t last for too long, since Ted pulled you gently so your already kiss swollen lips met his equally soft ones. Bill couldn’t help the warm and love-filled smile that spread over his face, before he just had to press a kiss to your cheek, and then reach over to Ted’s cheek to make sure he wasn’t left out. You all separated after a minute or so, and you wiped your lip carefully, wearing the same wide and almost goofy smile as the other two. Your lips, and tongue, as predicted, had turned a rather strange shade of purple.  “I think we should get another snack,” Ted suggested, “Cause I’m hungry, and then we can get the colour off of our tongues,” He grinned, and Bill considered the preposition.  “I guess some food wouldn’t hurt...” He agreed, “Marshmallows?” He suggested, which was replied to with a nod from both you and Ted. “I’ll get them then,” Bill smiled at you both, searching his pocket for some spare change as he got to his feet; marshmallows were a fair bit cheaper than slushies, and he could afford them with what he had to hand. Whilst he went back into the Circle K, you shuffled closer to Ted, smiling lightly as he drew you closer with an arm around your shoulder. That morning had certainly been most excellent, as most of the time with your boyfriends always was- it was something that you always looked forward to; spending time with them, making memories that would forever make you smile. 

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

Today the U.S. House Select Committee to Investigate the January 6th Attack on the United States Capitol asked eight federal agencies for records. The chair of the committee, Representative Bennie G. Thompson (D-MS), gave the agencies two weeks to produce a sweeping range of material that showed the committee is conducting a thorough investigation of the last days of the Trump administration.

Thompson sent letters to the National Archives and Records Administration (NARA), which keeps the records for the government; the Defense Department; the Department of Homeland Security; the Interior Department; the Department of Justice; the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI); the National Counterterrorism Center; and the Office of the Director of National Intelligence.

While the House had previously asked the National Archives for all the records it had covering the events and federal actors involved in the events of January 6 itself, the select committee is using a much wider lens. It has asked the departments not just for records covering January 6, but also for those reaching back as far as April 1, 2020, to see if the Trump administration had plans to contest and ultimately, should he lose, overturn the election.

The committee has asked the departments for any records about plans to derail the electoral count, organize violent rallies, declare martial law, or use the government positions to overturn the election results. It has also asked for any “documents and communications” about foreign influence in the 2020 election through social media and misinformation.

And then there was this tidbit. The last items the committee asked NARA to produce were: “All documents and communications related to the January 3, 2021, letter from 10 former Defense Secretaries warning of use of the military in election disputes.”

That letter, which was published in the Washington Post and signed by all ten of the living former defense secretaries, warned that “[e]fforts to involve the U.S. armed forces in resolving election disputes would take us into dangerous, unlawful and unconstitutional territory. Civilian and military officials who direct or carry out such measures would be accountable, including potentially facing criminal penalties, for the grave consequences of their actions on our republic.” The letter reminded then–acting defense secretary Christopher C. Miller and his subordinates that they were “each bound by oath, law and precedent to facilitate the entry into office of the incoming administration, and to do so wholeheartedly. They must also refrain from any political actions that undermine the results of the election or hinder the success of the new team.”

It was an extraordinary letter, and its authors thought it was important enough to write it over the holidays, for publication three days before the January 6 electoral count. The driving force behind the letter was former vice president Dick Cheney.

Cheney’s daughter Liz Cheney (R-WY) sits on the House select committee.

Trump has threatened to invoke executive privilege to stop the release of the documents.

House Minority Leader Kevin McCarthy (R-CA) said the committee’s action proved it is not looking for truth but rather is engaging in politics. The committee asked NARA for records of communications between the president and “any Member of Congress or congressional staff.” This will sweep in McCarthy, who had a heated conversation with Trump on the phone as rioters invaded the Capitol. “They come for members of Congress, they are coming for everybody,” he said.

But, in fact, such a sweep is precisely how scholars actually figure out what has happened in historical events. Limiting research before you know the lay of the land simply obscures the larger picture.

Just such a limiting view is on the table for the Republicans right now as they are proposing to investigate President Biden’s exit from Afghanistan if they regain control of the House in 2022, saying it “makes Benghazi look like a much smaller issue.”

The first days of the evacuation after the Afghan army crumbled and the Taliban swept into control of the country in nine days were chaotic, indeed, but since August 14, the U.S. has evacuated more than 82,300 people, bringing out 19,000 people yesterday alone. It has evacuated at least 4500 U.S. citizens and has sent more than 20,000 emails and made more than 45,000 phone calls to Americans who had notified the embassy they were in the country (since Americans do not have to register with the embassy, it is unclear how many citizens are there). A rough estimate says there are probably 500 U.S. citizens who want to leave, while another 1000 are not certain or want to stay.

Today, Secretary of State Antony Blinken gave a press conference pointing out that the evacuation “is one of the largest airlifts in history, a massive military, diplomatic, security, and humanitarian undertaking,” and noted that “[o]nly the United States could organize and execute a mission of this scale and this complexity.”

Blinken said that the success of the airlift to date has been “a testament both to U.S. leadership and to the strength of our alliances and partnerships.” He reiterated that the Biden administration is not abandoning Afghanistan but is shifting its focus from military power to diplomacy, cybersecurity, and financial pressure. He said that the administration has worked hard to build alliances and that the U.S. will continue to work with allies both in Afghanistan and elsewhere going forward. He pointed out that the Taliban has made both public and private assurances that they will continue to allow people to leave the country, and that 114 countries—more than half of the countries in the world—have warned the Taliban that they must honor that commitment.

Tonight, it appears the situation in Afghanistan is deteriorating. Russia, which backed the Taliban in its struggle against the U.S. and which originally said Taliban control would restore stability to Afghanistan, has begun to evacuate its citizens from Kabul. And tonight, the U.S. government warned of security threats and urged U.S. citizens to leave the area around the airport immediately. According to a State Department spokesperson: "This is a dynamic and volatile security situation on the ground.”

When asked by a reporter about investigations into the evacuation, Blinken said he and the president accepted responsibility for it. He seemed fine with scrutiny of the last few months but suggested that that period should not be looked at in isolation if we are going to learn from our experience in Afghanistan. “[T]here will be plenty of time to look back at the last six or seven months, to look back at the last 20 years,” he said, “and to look to see what we might have done differently, what we might have done sooner, what we might have done more effectively.  But I have to tell you that right now, my entire focus is on the mission at hand.”

Today, President Biden signed into law H.R. 3642, the “Harlem Hellfighters Congressional Gold Medal Act,” giving the Congressional Gold Medal to the 369th Infantry Regiment, commonly known as the “Harlem Hellfighters,” in recognition of their bravery and outstanding service during World War I.

In that war, the 369th Infantry was made up of 2000 Black men, 70% of whom were from Harlem. Since many white men in Jim Crow America refused to serve with their Black comrades, army leaders assigned the unit to the French Army, where, although they still wore the U.S. uniform, they were outfitted with French weapons.

Sent into the field, they stayed out for 191 days, the longest combat deployment of any unit in the war. At the Second Battle of the Marne and Meuse-Argonne, the unit had some of the worst casualties of that mangling war, suffering 144 dead and about 1,000 wounded. “My men never retire, they go forward or they die,” said their commander, Colonel William Hayward. Germans called them the “Bloodthirsty Black Men.” The French called them “hell-fighters.” A month after the armistice, the French government awarded the entire 369th the Croix de Guerre.

And now, in 2021, the unit has, at long last, been awarded a U.S. Congressional Gold Medal.

Sometimes it takes a while, but accurate history has a way of coming out.

—-

Notes:

https://january6th.house.gov/news/press-releases/select-committee-issues-sweeping-demand-executive-branch-records

https://january6th.house.gov/sites/democrats.january6th.house.gov/files/20210825%20Exec%20Branch%20One%20Pager.pdf

https://thehill.com/homenews/532486-idea-for-former-defense-secretaries-warning-to-pentagon-originated-from-cheney-perry

https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/10-former-defense-secretaries-military-peaceful-transfer-of-power/2021/01/03/2a23d52e-4c4d-11eb-a9f4-0e668b9772ba_story.html

https://january6th.house.gov/sites/democrats.january6th.house.gov/files/NARA.8.25.pdf

https://news.yahoo.com/january-6-committee-issues-sweeping-records-requests-to-federal-agencies-170505915.html

https://www.cnn.com/2021/08/20/politics/house-republicans-afghanistan-biden-benghazi/index.html

https://www.washingtonpost.com/powerpost/january-6-committee-trump/2021/08/25/cd356794-059a-11ec-a654-900a78538242_story.html

https://www.state.gov/secretary-antony-j-blinken-on-afghanistan/

https://amp.cnn.com/cnn/2021/08/25/politics/january-6-house-documents-investigation/index.html

http://werehistory.org/harlem-hellfighters/

https://www.military.com/daily-news/2021/08/24/storied-harlem-hellfighter-regiment-receive-congressional-gold-medal.html

https://www.npr.org/2021/08/25/1031088877/as-many-as-1-500-americans-in-afghanistan

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[anfisaframe]

Chapter 3 (google translate)

My office was located in the old part of the library. Many years ago this building was enough. Then Brumaltown was only restored after a wave of migration. But gradually the city grew, and a small house was not enough to store all the books. The authorities rebuilt a new public library in the city center, and dividing this into two parts, they gave it to private practices and the Grasse Foundation. While working, I occasionally saw Kathleen Grass, the youngest of Emma's children. She brought valuable documents to the archive and personally entered the materials into the file cabinet. Apart from her, no one could do this: Eliot and Emma died almost twenty years ago, and their eldest son Eugene was developing for the treatment of the virus. He was not up to the papers. As a result, Emma’s children shared responsibilities: the son was engaged in science, and the daughter in the fund of assistance and archives.

Kathleen was happy with everything: from childhood, she had seen what difficulties her mother had faced and what kind of ostracism she was subjected to. Science was not given to her either, and everyone noticed this: from parents who encouraged any undertakings of children, to teachers. And although the fund hired volunteers from time to time, they were not full-fledged assistants. Funding had severe restrictions: all donations went to meet the needs of patients and small salaries of those same volunteers. I knew this, because the Grasse Foundation collaborated with FVP and provided them with quarterly reports.

At first I was surprised that volunteers were paid money, but then I realized why: the fund worked not only in the states, but also around the world. His activities were equated with the Salvation Army or the Red Cross from the past. Because of this, few people went to such work, and there were always not enough hands. It was rumored that the fund even sometimes offered those works that were not directly related to risk as socially useful work. For example, all the same work in the archive. But recently, this has not helped.

The library was the best choice: it was hidden behind massive trees in the depths of the largest city park. Silence - and only rare visitors distracted from work, embarrassing applicants. Sometimes people came to me with such problems, which it’s a shame to admit even to ourselves, not like outsiders. Over the years, I have seen a lot. FVP did not like it, but everything tripled me. Without an eternal eye, working on your head was easier. And besides, part of the library was given to the archive, which also drove idle onlookers from this place, because they did not care about “some kind of documents there”.

When meeting, Kathleen gave me access, provided that I would check the operation of the equipment in the archive. She rarely came, busy with no less important matters, and it was extremely difficult to remotely check the archive. Looking for at least someone who will often visit this place, Miss Grasse asked for my help. The work is simple and easy - of course, I agreed.

Before, another employee worked with me, and we went upstairs one by one. But time passed, and Dale was promoted, moving to work in a private school for Eno. I was left alone among the books, dust and noise of the archive fans. This weighed, and at the same time saved: it was easier for me to experience my grief alone than in full view of others.

The caller came a little earlier and was waiting for me near the entrance. “This is good,” I said, recalling what other times there were clients.

More than once or twice, I came across those who called, begged for help, made an appointment, but never came. There were people who called three to four times, but found excuses not to visit a psychologist. So with all desire it was impossible to help.

“The costs of work,” I consoled myself, trying not to think about the bad. “I can't force them, after all!”

The current visitor nevertheless found the strength to come to the appointment, for which I was very grateful to him.

It turned out to be a tall, tight, though not complete, man in a strict business suit with a bright spot - a tie.

His stern facial expression with small wrinkles, barely noticeable on pale skin and cold evil eyes burned through me, hinting that the owner is not one of those people who blindly trust others.

“Eh, the consultation will be difficult,” I said immediately, hurrying up to the front door and standing next to the stranger.

The gestures of the applicant were smooth, but verified and very mean. I noticed this when the man turned to me. Like he was hiding something. This reminded me of the equilibrists in the circus - they just as carefully and smoothly moved, walking along a thin rope over the abyss gaping beneath them.

Approaching, I hastened to extend a hand to the expectant, noting the smell of cigars and "burnt" skin, mixed with subtle touches of cologne. My observation was confirmed: the stranger shook my hand tightly and gestured that it was worth continuing the conversation elsewhere.

Opening the door and minting a few steps on the bright tile, we went into the office near the entrance. Once there was a children's reading room. I really liked that from those times there were drawings on the walls and shelving with books. Many of them were written off, and I just took the books to myself, making excuses that I would read these tales to either my sister or my nephews.

We were greeted by a spacious room in blue and light yellow tones. I did not touch much, because it did not stop me from doing serious work. In addition, children's drawings and the situation itself sometimes said: for me there are no children's problems - there is a misunderstanding between children and adults.

When the visitor and I settled down in comfortable chairs left over from the past, he proceeded to the story.

“My name is Eric Coleman,” the man began, continuing to drill me with a heavy look from beneath his bright wide and straight eyebrows. - Your number was given at the hospital. It so happened that my daughter began to hurt herself.

- How long have you noticed this behavior? - the bright office tuned for a peaceful manner, and I hoped that I would be able to find out the details. I understood that, while working for the ZSC, I did not arouse the confidence of the newcomer, but still relied on his consciousness.

“Just yesterday,” Eric spoke calmly, his pose not expressing excitement, but I understood that this was not entirely true.

The one sitting opposite me seemed a strong-willed, decisive person, maybe even tough and straightforward. It shone through in his precise and dry manner of speech, in the article and direct posture. And although the man was large, which only added severity to his mind, he spoke surprisingly emotionless and calm. It’s just dry, as if stating the facts from some encyclopedia.

How many people will immediately tell a stranger, albeit very famous in narrow circles, that his child hurts himself and, perhaps, is trying to commit suicide? I also did not know such. Sometimes I spent a good half of the session on a banal clarification of the situation and its circumstances ... if not the entire session.

  “Don't think, my daughter doesn't want to die,” Mr. Coleman remarked, guessing what I was thinking. - She inflicts wounds horizontally. If these were suicide attempts, she would inflict them differently.

- Selfharm? I asked. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Most likely,” Eric answered my question. “I saw the veins being cut,” the man ran a finger along the sleeve, showing a vertical section.

Here I was already thinking: I had many patients who tried to commit suicide. Often, adoptive parents did not even know about the depression of their children, turning after one or two unsuccessful suicide attempts. I was definitely not the kind of person who should prove the lack of such a motive in behavior. I had a selfie in my practice, but for a long time. And he was connected with completely different circumstances.

Eric immediately made a reservation that this is not the case. But perhaps he simply did not know all the circumstances?

Maybe his daughter did not know how to inflict wounds in order to die? Or maybe she did it to check if she could bear the pain or not. A case came to mind: a boy inflicted wounds long enough to prepare for pain. But, without talking to the child himself, I could not draw any conclusions. Maybe a man is really right and the wounds are just self-harm, not talking about the desire to die? True, the latest version cannot be completely discounted. Statistics inexorably told me that even ordinary self-harm could ultimately lead to suicide attempts.

“You said you were a pink family?” - I remembered the detail of yesterday’s dialogue. It was awkward to be silent for a long time, considering options that might actually not exist at all.

I knew very well that “pink” families are called families where one of the spouses belonged to the eno. Officially, enos were considered hermaphrodites, which was indirectly confirmed by the structure of the genital organs. But only indirectly. Not all enos were born like that. In addition, a biological evaluation took place at birth. Therefore, the Garth test was created. It consisted of two parts: a biological assessment, which is given to all children at birth, and a psychological assessment, passed at eight and fifteen years. Often I saw very young children who did not even pass special tests, with a marker of the third sex - a pink choker on their neck. Why they put on this attribute so early was a mystery to me. Only the Garth test finally put an end to the question of the gender of the child. More precisely, even a fifteen-year-old teenager. This is the official age when every third-sex citizen received documents with a special note.

Over the years, I have seen a wide variety of enos, from gentle and sweet, when looking at which it is impossible to believe that they are biological men, to completely brutal and strong. After all, biology remained biology, and the psyche does not always affect the appearance as we would like. Within the norm, at least.

The formation of the “pink” marriage took place even if not before my eyes, but I found the forerunners of the current liberalization. And I'm ready to put my hand on the Bible, swearing that now everything is more or less good!

When the first outbreak of the virus broke out in 2034, almost every government threw itself into creating a cure. These attempts to cure the Mehoni virus led to the discovery of the Encantant. It began to be used after the first clinical tests on cell cultures. There was no time for more serious research.

A side effect of the drug and became irreversible changes in the psyche of some men. For a long time, it was believed that “Encantant” was a kind of chemical lobotomy that changes gender awareness and disables sexuality. That is how eno appeared.

The institute of the “pink” marriage and the “pink” family took shape finally not so long ago, about 60 years ago. A crisis in the economy, a crisis in politics, a lack of resources, a lack of women - all contributed to the forerunners of the “pink” marriage. Even the church did not condemn this, with the proviso that the guys do not sleep with each other. In addition, in those years there was a definite base, both cultural and scientific, allowing for relations between people of the "same" gender.

Healthy girls then massively campaigned to give birth to children. They tried to ban abortion, legally require the birth of children under a certain age. But all this was before the war. After that, another misfortune appeared - the reduction of the population. Almost all governments quickly realized that, if they continue to restrict women, the economic crisis will lead to the collapse of the remnants of the past, and the reduction in DBV will completely destroy the economy, returning the world to the agrarian-feudal system.

During the years of devastation, the third sex did not bother anyone, and the problems of eno remained in the shade for some time. Everyone tried to restore what was left of the once great country, split in two. Moreover, the migration of survivors from dead lands has become a huge problem - both for the states and for the S.I.C. Amid a similar problem, the enos seemed inconsequential and were ignored. As, in fact, what is happening in the shelters of St. Elena for patients with the virus. No, shelters appeared long before the first bombs fell on the world. That's just not easier from this. And then, after the story of Emma Grass, society had to put up with the fact that there are patients with a virus dangerous to humans and they also have their own rights. Because of this, the institution of the “pink” family was created. This is the price that the vast majority of countries were willing to pay for the peace of their citizens. At least that's what I knew. After all, sick children and women had to be put somewhere.

In addition to the third sex, who married a man, there were female “pink” families, where both partners had a virus note in their documents. But there were very few of them, and in my practice I did not happen to meet them. Eno alliances with women were not considered “pink” because of biology. Moreover, such marriages steadily made up for the shortage of the third sex, because Enos could only give birth to their own kind.

I doubt that female "pink" couples formed a relationship from a good life. More likely because of ostracism and loneliness. There was no question of love.

I already had a certain practice in working with “pinks”. It was necessary to work in such families not only with children due to a number of legislative aspects, but also the characteristics of the enos themselves. Almost all eno, both according to my data and statistics, had a soft psyche, a compliant character and a very strong parental instinct. Often they were brought up very strictly and in places harshly. The first years of the FVP required the education of eno children in closed schools. Due to the artificiality of the third sex, after coming of age, graduates of closed schools were transferred to the jurisdiction of the SSC. Then eno accounting was very tough, they were considered as a resource, and I even found those times ... Well, yes, there were enough problems in society, the economy was rising from its knees, and we had to look for ways of least resistance.

At that time, “pink” marriages were most often the second for male widowers, and eno spouses were considered by them as an option for a free nanny for children and a housemaid. A kind of bonus for good service to the homeland. After all, someone should lead a life, take care of children, especially after overpopulation has begun. Because of it, the number of officially permitted marriages was limited. These almost had nothing to do with love or sex. No one was embarrassed by the consumer attitude towards eno. Yes, and they themselves put up with this, just to survive: almost all the knowledge of the third sex was reduced to housekeeping and caring for children. Just 25 years ago, everything was just that. In those days, the “pink” couples tried not to advertise the relationship after the wedding. Yes, and the WCC did not strongly advocate the openness of these families. Well, yes, they once engaged in the selection of couples for eno: it is unprofitable to advertise problems in such families. So there was a cult of silence.

It might seem that no other options existed, but this is not entirely true. There were parents who wished their children happiness regardless of gender. Yes, society imposed severe restrictions on the behavior of eno, on their ability to learn, live and work independently. But loopholes were even then. My couple, for example. He received a very good education and after college got a job as a teacher. For those years, it was just “unheard-of arrogance” on the part of Eno.

Today, in 2133, everything was different, although the sediment from those troubled times was still felt. Almost every show or program said that “pink” families are one of the pillars of society. From screens, posters and newspaper pages, Protection of family values ​​seemed to shout out its slogan: “A strong family is the key to a happy future!” First of all, this concerned precisely the “pink” families and eno spouses. And it is not surprising that such families turned to me in the most difficult and neglected cases ...

According to my information, officially in Brumaltown there was only one “pink” family, which did not want to make contact. The same girls who were infected with the Mehoni virus. This created additional problems. Most likely, you will have to work not only with the girl, but also with one of her parents.

“Yes,” the interlocutor answered, a little confused. Bitterness froze in his eyes. Then the amber flame flashed, and Eric added:

“But,” having paused, “we are not quite so.”

It was very important. Of course, I probably could not know what was meant, but certain assumptions nevertheless appeared.

With the onset of the liberalization period, a sufficiently large percentage of enos did not want to formalize any kind of relationship. Yes, and to join them, too, did not dare. It was easier for them to live apart than to follow the stringent requirements of society. My former colleague Dale, who worked directly in the educational center, also complained about it, and the top of the FVP expressed their complaints about this - this was regularly reported in the news. If we count the number of eno, then we get quite decent numbers of single citizens: approximately every fifth state citizen and every twelfth citizen of S.I.C were alone. For other countries, I did not have statistics and could only refer to these summaries.

As a result, the Defense even had to make concessions and allow lonely eno adoption if they met the requirements of agencies. To be more precise, the latter, it seems, was influenced by the Grasse Foundation, which could not endlessly sponsor orphanages and orphanages, where, in one way or another, children with the Mekhoni virus got into.

I involuntarily breathed a sigh of relief: I will have to be very careful both in communicating with the Coleman family and with the Family Values ​​Protection authorities, which, upon completion of work, I will add this case to my report. I couldn’t conceal customer data. No ethics could cover this!

“Good,” I finally remarked, scrolling through the foregoing in my mind, “come with your whole family.” I’ll try to find out the reason for your situation. Eric thanked me and left the office without saying another word. After his visit, I involuntarily recalled what I had been trying to escape from for thirty years. Alas, I knew firsthand what the “pink” family is.

***

The next day, the Coleman failed to arrive. Eric called and dryly warned me that due to busyness, the meeting would have to be rescheduled. I agreed. In terms of speech, it looked like the first time Eric’s husband had called me. Understanding the state of the Colemans, I was very afraid of meeting with members of this family.

During the weekly break, I thought for a long time whether to take a new family or not. “Pink” families had their own specifics, because of which working with them was extremely costly in terms of resources. I was not sure that my reserves in this case could be enough. Neurotization in such pairs always exceeded the average, and it was simply not always possible to reduce it. And without it, the whole workflow would turn into hell. In addition, I myself once had a “pink” pair, because of which I could somehow project my experiences onto strangers, which could also affect my work. And the worst thing was that if I took on this case, I would have to lie to the Protection of family values. It would affect me too. After all, I worked for this organization.

I was persuaded by Eunice to tackle this, always getting in where I didn’t need and loving to put her two cents in any of my business. True, it was she who said that only I can understand such a family and help, having a certain experience behind me.

“You understand that someone else will calmly report about them to FVP?” Or somewhere else! Can you imagine what it feels like? - the last argument of the sister was a shot at the bull's-eye.

She knew that I could not talk about something if they did not directly ask me, even though I myself worked for the Defense of Family Values. Therefore, “pink” families turned to me in the hope that I would not say too much. At least that was before.

"Okay. If I can’t help, I’ll try to find another specialist who can be trusted, ”I reassured myself, as I did in situations with missing clients.

Eric did not deceive and really came on the day off with his family. That day, the door of my office swung open, loudly and unpleasantly banging against the wall. For the first time they burst into me like this, and I was even taken aback by such things, having remained standing by the table.

A guy of a dry physique flew into the office in a whirlwind. Dressed in a crumpled T-shirt, well-worn trousers and a battered leather jacket, the guest reminded me of a huge stray dog ​​from distant childhood: the same one, beaten by the life of a rogue.

The guy’s eyes smiled, as if to spite the whole world, sparkling with excitement. It reminded me even more of our shaggy friend with Eunice. He also brazenly smiled at his mouth, wagging his tail and edible bulls at the guys in the neighborhood. And only by the small gray lock in the visitor's long tousled hair did I realize that the stranger had long been not a teenager or even a youth.

Rushing across the entire hall, he flew up to me and, holding out his hand, he rumbled:

  - Hi. Are you dock?

I did not want to respond to such familiarity. I was just about to speak out, looking around at the sloven, as Eric entered behind him in a heavy, measured gait. Behind him peered apprehensively a little girl in a closed dress and with an elegant scarlet bow on her head.

“You ...?” I asked in surprise.

- Adrian Coleman. I called you, - still holding out his hand, laughed "rogue." “This is my ...”, hesitating and less confident, “my husband, Eric.”

Then, pointing to the still hiding girl, he said: “And this is our daughter Rina.” The girl only embarrassedly smiled and waved my hand, hiding again behind the adult. She seemed against the background of high enough strong parents quite tiny and reminded me of a beast of galago. Especially with large purple eyes, a small nose and a bow, one to one like huge triangular ears.

“Good afternoon,” Eric greeted dryly again, sitting down in a chair and showing with a gesture that his partner should do the same.

Adrian sighed theatrically, but still sat next to his spouse. Rina initially also sat next to her parents, but soon she became interested in the environment. We started a conversation, during which at first Adrian spoke more, chattering about all sorts of nonsense and nonsense. In contrast, it looked comical: a groovy jerk with smiling eyes to the whole world, like a dog’s eyes, and a gloomy phlegmatic man, boring others with a stern look. That's for sure - opposites attract.

And I realized what Eric meant by saying that they are unofficially a “pink” family. Colemans simply did not formalize the relationship! It’s good that I didn’t start the report. Now I was free to write in it about the conversion of a single father. Then I thanked the Lord that there was still a code of ethics for the psychologist and I could refer to it if someone tried to find something in my documents. And reports often turned out to be simple formalities for archives. Therefore, I breathed a sigh of relief: I did not want to set up my clients at all.

Coleman's daughter, Rina, turned out to be a silent, slightly aloof girl. She really looked depressed and painful: she covered her face with hair, hid her eyes, even if only for the first time. When parents talked about themselves, Rina separated from us adults, sitting back on the floor and hugging her knees. Talking with the Coleman, I remembered Eric's first visit. The man seemed a stern, domineering man with a heavy look. Straight and cold. This impression was complemented by the manner of speech, not a bit changed in the presence of the family, and the same strict, even prim style in clothes, and even dry, verified gestures, in which almost no emotions slipped.

The only thing that stood out against this background was a hairstyle similar to a yellow dandelion, and a more or less bright tie (albeit combined with the main suit). It seemed that Eric was a stern, imperious tyrant, accustomed to keeping both his partner and daughter under control. But I was wrong. All three spoke very openly and warmly, which was also evidenced by the fact that Adrian was chattering non-stop, and Rina, seeing a bookcase with books, asked me for permission and went to look for something interesting for herself. None of the fathers limited her to this. He didn’t even say a word. When the girl got up, I noted that her walk was a little uneven. This was not evident, but the girl limped on her left leg. “Leg injury?” I thought. “Athlete?”

The men themselves, though a little nervous, tried to be as honest as possible with themselves and me. And although only Adrian spoke, and Eric was silent, I saw that the men were in solidarity with each other. In the circumstances, lying did not make any sense. The mental state of the child depended on my work and both parents understood this.

Not finding anything interesting among the books, the girl painted the whole meeting something in her album. Adrian said that she often draws various sketches and gives to her friends. This hobby replaced another, and both fathers were glad that their child had found a new interesting activity for themselves.

“It was very difficult for us to find something like this,” Adrian smiled awkwardly with his hand behind his head. - Rin, almost no one wanted to take in circles and sections.

“She does not look like a conflict person,” I thought again, casting a cursory glance at the girl immersed in the drawing. “Asperger Syndrome?”

After a short presentation, we talked about their problem and a little more on abstract topics. I made sure that all three of those who came relaxed and realized that I could be trusted. The whole conversation, as I noted, rested on Adrian. He enthusiastically talked about his hobbies, his daughter and Erica, noting any trifle. He was probably nervous because I was connected with the FVP, and thus tried to cope with the jitters. At first, I could not understand which of the parents in this pair is Eno. No one had a hoop on his neck, appearance, too, as I said earlier, was not always an indicator. But still, I noticed that Adrian’s behavior is a little more characteristic of Eno than his husband’s behavior. In any case, it was he who spoke more often about Rina and with great warmth.

As the atmosphere in my office became more laid-back, I suggested the Coleman play a little. First I needed to establish the level of aggression of all family members. Aggression is not always directed outward, and I, as a psychologist, understood this very well. It can also be directed inward, in other words, towards itself. This is exactly what happened with Rina. Cuts could be a sign of auto-aggression. I wanted to understand if this is true. For identification, the Wagner test was useful to me. However, I immediately stipulated the principle: everyone takes a piece of paper and writes his answer in this charade. And then he hands it to me. In fact, this test is not carried out, but I was not sure that I would meet all the family members again. I needed to understand: could Rina adopt the level of aggression from one of the parents, was this level high or not.

Eric just rolled his eyes, Adrian nodded, and Rina folded her hands and put them to her cheek, like children do during sleep. I regarded gestures with signs of consent. He began to show one hand drawings in different poses one by one, asking the same question: “What does this hand do?” This was the test. Looking at images of hands in various poses, patients talked about their personal associations, albeit subconscious. They kind of projected their emotions onto drawings with hands. The drawings themselves depicted only hands in one or another pose, without any context or background. Nothing complicated. Simple work of associations. But only in this case the test took a lot of time.

I showed one card and waited until everyone wrote something on my sheet. A couple of times I saw Adrian peeking at Eric or Rina's sheet and indignantly resented that this answer was incorrect. Well, the answer itself was not voiced, limiting itself to exclamations: “Nonsense!”, “But she doesn’t do that!” Now I understand why Rina left the fathers a little distance. Another test I offered was for her. As if in jest.

“Rina, you're an artist,” I remarked. - There is such a test, Lusher test. Do you know him?

The girl shook her head.

“Choose the colors you like best right now,” I laid out a few cards on the floor. - You can choose them yourself and put them in order from the most attractive to the least. Just choose them precisely according to the “like” principle, and not according to the principles of combination, tradition and other things. Good?"

Rina nodded and enthusiastically began to choose the colors she liked.

This test took very little time. A minute later, in front of me was a table of the following order of colors: blue-green, black, brown, dark blue, violet, red and orange. It turned out that on the one hand, Rina was a very confident girl, but on the other, her aggression most likely had an internal motive. This was evidenced by the dark colors that followed the first blue-green. Another tick in the direction of depression.

Due to the speed of choice, I had no doubt that it was made exactly as I requested, without any association with fashion or any traditions. The only thing, I still had a little doubt about the black color. Rina herself was dressed in a black dress with white ruffles. But I still decided to accept these results. Nobody bothers me then to conduct this test again as a control check.

After the charade, I invited the Coleman to tell the story of their family. It would be nice to get an anamnesis, because I could not rule out a single variant of the occurrence of such a state of my young patient. At that moment, Rina looked at her fathers and pointed to her album. She did not utter ten phrases for the whole meeting, plunging into her drawings.

“Exactly,” cried Adrian, “forgot!” You have a lesson in the studio today! Sorry, petty! ” Rina shook her head - they say it’s fearless to be a little late - and, taking her father's hand, she went to the door.

- I trust Eric! He is our family's walking encyclopedia! Will tell you everything! - shouted Adrian, hiding from sight.

“As always ...” Eric sighed, sitting comfortably in his chair. - He likes to shift concerns to me.

“And in my opinion, he trusts you very much,” I remarked, sitting opposite my interlocutor. - Can you tell how Rina appeared in your life? It will be very important for me now to know how your daughter grew up. Perhaps the reasons for her behavior are in some event from the past.

Another sigh - and my interlocutor was immersed in the memories of almost thirteen years ago.

[queen-swagzilla]

Chapter 29: Hermione Granger and The Pit

See the full work HERE on Ao3! If you like it, please consider buying me a coffee!

Theo Nott wasn't stupid. As soon as Ginny Weasley started nosing around him, his defenses were raised. Sure, he knew her intentions probably weren't malicious, but that was the thing with Gryffindors. Even when they meant well, they tended to get the people around them into some sort of trouble.

Naturally, he started paying closer attention. Imagine his surprise when he noticed the sudden rapport she seemed to hold with two of his oldest companions. Not to mention their closeness with the undisputed queen of Gryffindor herself. While he was cautious, his curiosity demanded satisfaction.

Which brought him to the present, folded gracefully into a library chair across from the Weaslette herself, and surrounded by piles of books while she scribbled furiously, a massive star chart in front of her.

“You think the position of Mars is important to question nineteen?” Ginny asked absently.

He glanced down at his own notes. “I don’t think so. It doesn’t say anything about planetary positions.”

“Can’t hurt to include them and their influences, though. Right?”

“I guess. Sounds like overkill, though.” He replied. She hummed thoughtfully, still not looking up at him. “Then again, if you’ve been studying with Granger, it stands to reason that you’d go overboard.”

Ginny looked up sharply. He tried not to be too satisfied that he’d hit a nerve. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She demanded.

He raised an eyebrow. “That swot is a walking encyclopedia. We were assigned twelve inches in Arithmancy last week and she turned in forty-eight.” He drawled. She relaxed back into her seat. “You usually don’t rile so easily. What did you think I was going to say?”

She pursed her lips. “There’s a storied history of Slytherins dismissing Hermione for no reason other than her blood status.” She reminded him. “No matter how excellent a study partner you may be, I won’t hesitate to kick your ass if I hear it from you.”

He snorted. “My problem with muggleborns doesn’t stem from their perceived intelligence. If blood made brains, we wouldn’t have Crabbe and Goyle.”

“Oh?” Her gaze sharpened, and Theo wondered if this was what it was like to be a fish near a shark who’d smelled blood in the water. “Then what is your problem with muggleborns?”

He narrowed his eyes. “This feels like a trap.” He admitted.

“It’s not. It’s an honest question. How can you expect change if you don’t find the source of the problem?”

He considered her carefully. “I suppose,” he began, hesitant. “My primary complaint is that muggleborns enter the magical world with no perception of our culture or customs, and don’t attempt to learn. Instead, they become frustrated that we don’t try to understand them instead, even though they’re the newcomers.”

“Perhaps that’s less their fault than the fault of Hogwarts,” Ginny suggested. “We don’t offer a wizarding culture course for muggleborns.”

“Which must mean that no muggleborn has ever requested it.” He argued. “It’s the self-centered nature of incoming muggleborns that I take objection to. They think that just because they’re entering a world of new possibilities, that the culture should cater to them and their wonder. They don’t realize that the reason wizarding culture has even survived this long is because we shut their ancestors out of the community for our own safety.”

“Be fair. Imagine not having magic and then discovering it was real! The reality of magic is more than enough to distract them from that reality. Have you ever thought to take the time to explain it?” She asked. “Because all I’ve ever seen is blood purists telling muggleborns they don’t belong. Even if that takes the shine off magic, it refocuses their attention on proving that they’re worthy of magic instead of trying to fit into our society.”

Theo chuckled. “Perhaps. But ‘fair’ isn’t the standard the world sets. The reason I respect Granger is because she knows that, and does everything in her power to rise despite that. She’s taken great pains to understand our world, no matter how it treats her.”

“Just because it’s not a standard the world sets, doesn’t mean it can’t be a standard that you set.” She scolded. “If you want change, you need to seek it. You can’t expect it to arrive just because you’re frustrated. You’re smarter than that, Nott.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And what exactly do you expect me to do?”

“I don’t expect you to do anything. From what I’ve seen, despite your obvious talent and intelligence, you have a tendency to stand idly by.” She said the words casually and they held no judgment, but Theo felt utterly scathed by them. “I’m only suggesting that if you want to see improvement, you should try fighting for it. Pick a side, take a stand, and make yourself heard. You could even start by recommending a culture studies class for incoming muggleborns. That doesn’t seem like the most outlandish first step.” She shrugged, turning back to her star chart. “You’re right, though. I think I’ll skip the planetary correspondences.”

Theo stared at her, feeling as though he’d been hit by the Knight Bus.

From behind another bookshelf Pansy grinned at Blaise, who was barely suppressing his laughter. Turns out, they weren’t needed after all.

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

Grin lunged, swinging out with an outstretched fist as Amalia dropped down to dodge, aiming her own punch for center mass. Grin pirouetted at the last moment, spinning out of reach.

“Good,” Anwar called from his perch. He was training them on how to fight in close quarters if their wands were taken. Wandless magic took the kind of time and patience to learn that they just didn’t have. The most Grin herself had accomplished was a wandless Accio. “Grin, be careful that you don’t stay counterbalanced too long. It’s easy to take advantage of, and once you’re on the floor you’re finished.”

“Not with a well-aimed kick in the balls.” She muttered, ducking out of the way again as Amalia aimed a kick directly at her face.

They’d been at it for an hour now, and Grin was drenched with sweat despite the biting chill in the air. One of the worst parts about being in hiding was how easy it was to slip into paranoia that kept you locked indoors. With that came a lethargy that was tremendously difficult to shake. About six months into her stay at the Pit, Amalia had barged into her room (where she was artfully wrapped around Anwar) and hollered at her to stop festering and stagnating indoors. She’d then dragged her outdoors for a rigorous duel.

Since then, at least three times a week, they would train out back by the lake. Sometimes Prim would jeer at them from her balcony as she chain-smoked contraband cigarettes. They would run, and duel, and fight, and sometimes—weather permitting—they would swim. She owed a lot to Amalia. Maybe even her life.

“I think I need to tap out early.” She panted. “I’m wiped out.”

“We’ve only been at it an hour!” Amalia complained, aiming another punch for her gut.

“Give me a break, I couldn’t sleep last night.” Grin grumbled, blocking the punch and grabbing Amalia around the neck, trying to force her into a chokehold.

“It’s true,” Anwar called from the sidelines. “She kept tossing and turning.”

“Nightmares?” Amalia asked, breaking away from her and straightening, raising her hands to indicate the end of their spar.

“No. I didn’t sleep at all.” She replied, muttering. “I don’t know why. Too much running through my head, I guess.”

“Do you need a sleeping draught?” She asked, stepping closer to examine her friend’s face. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It was only one night.” Grin waved her off. “I’ll tell you if it gets any worse. I can just feel the stakes rising, you know? It was always going to be dangerous, but I can feel something really big stirring.” She was already walking back towards the house, and Amalia jogged to keep up with her.

“Does this have something to do with what Ginny was telling us last night?”

Grin shot her a side-eye. “Perhaps.” She conceded. “I want to help them, but it sounds like I might be too late. At least for Draco. It sounds like he has a fully realized plan in the works. Theo might not be as much of an issue, but nobody’s checked in about Adrian for weeks. Don worked on him a little over Christmas, but that’ll do fuck all once the pressure rises.”

Amalia nodded. “And the Dark Lord is encouraging parents to bring their children for initiation as early as end of term. That’s coming fast.”

“If we can get to them first, it won’t be so bad. But I’d hate for them to get in too deep, too fast. I have a feeling that Draco may be out of our reach. He’s dreadfully stubborn.”

Amalia snorted. “And you’re saying Granger isn’t? Or Pansy and Blaise?”

“That’s what I keep telling myself.” She admitted, sliding into her seat at the counter. Anwar slid her a glass of water and Etty slid them their lunches. “But he wouldn’t be using dunces like Crabbe and Goyle as lookouts if he hadn’t made a decision. He’s undertaking his plan—whatever it may be—and he’s intentionally shutting out the people who could help him or stop him.” Grin shrugged.

“We’re not nearly drunk enough for you to be this morbid, darling.” Prim tutted, sweeping into the kitchen with all the flourish of a true jaded upper-class socialite, right down to to the still-lit cigarette and silk pajamas and bed-robes. She looked like she should be lounging on a chaise with a martini by a fireplace. Sometimes Prim tipped the balance from extravagant into full-on theatrical, and it largely depended on her stress levels. On a normal day, she was the well-coiffed heiress to the Parkinson estate—dressed in fineries and armed to the teeth with pretty words and a venomous bite.

On days like today, where the air itself seemed to tell them that something was coming, she turned into the Marie Antoinette of her time. She was positively bursting with ennui and affected apathy, comforting herself with luxuries large and small.

“It’s too early in the day to be drunk, Prim.” Anwar scolded her. “Aren’t you supposed to be with Lawrence? Espionage is supposed to give Sirius and Hermione a briefing tomorrow night.”

“Bugger off. Lawrence is still sleeping. We’ll get to it.” She snapped. “Etty, darling, any chance there’s a meal lingering for me as well?”

“I is making one for you, Missy Prim.” Etty bowed low. “But I is asking you not to smoke in my kitchen.” She scolded. Prim vanished the cigarette immediately and with a great deal of flourish, smiling apologetically at the stern little elf.

“My apologies, Etty. I’ve been in distress.”

“You should exercise with us instead of ruining your lungs,” Amalia said around a mouthful of mash, poking her fork in Prim’s direction. “At this rate, you’re going to die before a Death Eater can kill us. It would be awfully anticlimactic.”

“What did I just say about morbidity?” She demanded hotly. “Where on earth is Cal? She’s always been a good counterpoint when you two get like this.”

“Cal and Marcus are scoping out a strike operation in London.” Grin replied. “They’re planning to pick off some bottom feeders in the next few weeks.”

“Is Marcus well enough to go back out on Strike?” Amalia fretted. She hadn’t completely let go of the guilt she’d held, and had taken to her hate-filled mother hen role enthusiastically.

“He’ll be fine. If he says he’s ready, we have to trust him.” Anwar said. “He’ll only do something reckless if we try to hold him back.”

Grin flinched, mind wandering to Sirius automatically. “Yeah, we don’t want him to start sneaking off without telling us. That would be a nightmare.”

“How’s the research team doing with the Horcruxes?” Anwar asked. Grin grimaced.

“Nope. Nothing. It’s a dark enough magic that all public records on how they’re created, and therefore how they’re destroyed, are basically impossible to find.” She grumbled. “Any luck with the Department of Mysteries?”

“No.” He admitted. “I know there are records somewhere, but they’re in a super-sealed room that I’ve never been in. I’ve never even seen it—I’ve got no idea where it is. I’ve searched, but there must be some incredibly strong concealment spell on it.”

“So then we’re nowhere,” Amalia observed, Prim nodding sagely beside her.

“Have we tried any family libraries?” Prim suggested. “I could check ours next time I’m home.”

“I think Rhia checked hers, and so did Meridian. I can’t exactly check ours.” Grin replied. “And Etty can’t get past the wards anymore.”

“There might be something in the Zabini library,” Prim suggested. “Adriana Zabini is a monster. Stands to reason she has some monstrous literature.”

“Maybe.” Grin murmured. “If only the Black Estate was available.”

The Black Family manor was a large, sprawling estate that spanned acres. It also hadn’t been seen by a human eye in over three decades, since the death of Sirius Black II in 1952. The man had been monstrously paranoid and had failed to key the wards to his wife and sons when he died. Thankfully for the rest of the Black family, the bulk of the family fortune was retained at Gringotts and there were multiple auxiliary properties for them to reside, including Grimmauld Place.

“It’s a shame, you know,” Anwar said. “As much as I don’t agree with blood purity, the entirety of the Black family line rests on Sirius. What if he doesn’t produce an heir? All that ancestral magic will be lost.”

“He could claim one of the outliers for the Black family. Draco, for example. Or if Nymphadora has a son, he could be claimed for the House of Black.” Grin speculated.

“It’s a shame women can’t be claimed for the integrity of a family line.” Prim sighed. “You’d be the perfect heir to the Black estate. Sirius loves you, and you’re born into the life. You know how to handle the gravity of a house’s responsibilities.”

She shrugged. “If my future partner would agree to take my name, then it would be plausible. But that remains unlikely, for the risk of another house going extinct.”

Anwar shot her a glance, but it went unnoticed. He might have to talk to Joshua later. “The Selwyn and Greengrass families may have something. They’re not as expansive as the Blacks but they’re just as dark, if not more.” He suggested.

“We can call a general meeting and ask for research assistance.” Grin agreed. “There has to be something we can find between all fourteen of us.”

“It must be bad if not even Dumbledore knows much about it,” Amalia said. “Something really twisted.”

They traded theories for almost two hours before Lawrence came to collect Prim and Amalia. Anwar and Grin retired to the living room—Grin with a massive and ancient book of malevolent spells—and watched Home Alone while she researched.

It felt like the calm before the storm.

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

“‘Lo Hermione,” Harry mumbled, dropping into the seat next to her on the couch. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, exuding exhaustion.

“What’s wrong with you?” She asked, alarmed.

“Just got back from Quidditch practice.” He mumbled, eyes still insistently shut. “Lavender was in the stands, and by the end of practice I wanted to snatch Cootes’ bat and smack them both with it.”

It was a testament to how little she’d been around—she was alarmed at Harry’s declaration. She hadn’t seen enough of Ron and Lavender to understand his sentiment. “Why?”

“The silly bint kept screeching over my directions!” He cried, gesticulating wildly and overcome with annoyance. “Good save, Won-Won! Go get them baby!” He mimicked. “We weren’t even playing anyone! We were doing drills!”

Hermione grimaced. She and Lavender didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye regarding priorities and behavior on a good day, so the idea that she’d become even more saccharine and boy-crazy made her a little ill. “That sounds nauseating.” She admitted. “Why didn’t you kick her off the pitch?”

“The last time I tried, Ron accused me of not being supportive.” He grumbled, slumping back in defeat. “I might just buy earplugs for everyone on the team.”

“They still wouldn’t be able to hear your directions.” She pointed out.

“Yeah, but at least Gin won’t threaten to claw her ears out.”

“Fat chance. Once Gin’s committed to a course of action, she follows through.” Hermione chuckled.

As though summoned, Ginny and Ron slammed into the common room, screeching at each other at full volume. It was so loud and rapid that neither Harry nor Hermione could decipher their screams of rage. They shared an apprehensive glance, trying to decide whether or not to interfere. They silently agreed to let them wear themselves out. It seemed safest.

From what Hermione could gather, Ginny had become so irritated with Lavender that she’d hexed her, and she was now having a constellation of warts removed from her face. Ron was incensed. Hermione balked. Was Lavender really that annoying? Sure, she was a bit shallow and too committed to fuzzy disciplines like Divination, but Ginny was making her sound like a Banshee while Ron made her sound like an Angel. She figured it was safe to bet that it was somewhere right in the middle.

Harry was grimacing so hard that it looked like he was watching Filch serenading Mrs. Norris rather than two of his best friends having a row. Probably because he wanted to side with Ginny, but he didn’t want to risk Ron’s ire.

The fight ended when Lavender returned, blemish free. Ron went to check her over, concerned and attentive, and Ginny stormed off to her dorm. Both of the bystanders on the couch let out sighs of relief, but immediately regretted it when Lavender latched onto Ron’s mouth like a leech with a whispered, pouting “Won-won.” Hermione had seen a lot of PDA over the last few months, but at least they were aware of the other people in the room and would excuse themselves. Ron and Lavender seemed to completely forget that other people existed and in moments they were slobbering and gyrating all over each other. Hermione was overcome with relief that she’d never kissed Ron if that was how he kissed. She turned her disgusted gaze to Harry, who had gone right back to grimacing.

“Is it always like this?”

“Always. I hate that you’re off doing important crap, because I have to witness this alone.” He replied.

“This is disgusting.” She declared. “We’re leaving.”

“Where are we going?”

“Dunno. Anywhere but here.” She replied. “Maybe we can hang out in the Great Hall. I’m going to grab Ginny.”

“The Slytherins are always in the Great Hall after lunch.” Harry complained. Hermione shot him a stern look.

“Then don’t talk to them. It’s bloody cold in the dungeons, Harry. You can hardly blame them.” She scolded. He scowled, but conceded her point. She ran up to Ginny’s dorm and rapped on the door. “Gin! We’re going to the Great Hall to escape Ron and Lavender. Come with us!”

The door was yanked open faster than she could have imagined. “Thank god.” She snapped, grabbing her book bag with one hand and Hermione’s wrist with the other and dragging her through the common room and out the Portrait Hole. Harry struggled to keep up with them as they put distance between themselves and Gryffindor tower.  

It occurred to Hermione about halfway to the Great Hall that Harry was no longer on par with them in terms of physical fitness. He was strong, of course, and was fairly athletic, but the training that she and Ginny had undertaken had pushed them ahead. She wondered if she should start training him, or if he’d throttle her if she tried.

As Harry had predicted, the Slytherins were out in full force—nearly every seat at their table had been occupied.  

They sat down at the Gryffindor table, pulling out books and parchment—Harry and Ginny had actual school work to accomplish, but Hermione was working on her next project. She’d have to confer with Sirius eventually, but for now she was content to work on it alone.

She unrolled a large sheaf of parchment, laying them out carefully in a particular order. “What’s that?” Harry asked, peering over to examine her work. “Looks like a map.”

“It is a map.” She agreed. There wasn’t much point in trying to keep it from him, because there was undoubtedly a map drawn and the boy had eyes.

“A map of what?”

“A map of your arsehole, nosy. Mind your own business.” Ginny scolded him. He flushed. “Knowing Hermione it’s some super-secret research project that she can’t tell us about.” She looked at Hermione for confirmation, and she nodded in reply. “See?”

“You’re not planning something dangerous, are you?” Harry asked. Hermione snorted.

“Is that suddenly unusual for us?”

“It’s one thing when trouble finds you, but it’s different if you go looking for it.” Harry insisted.

Hermione softened. “It’s dangerous.” She admitted. “But not for me. For now, I’m only tasked with research and coordination, I promise.”

“Well, you did break into the Department of Mysteries after hours in order to raise the dead.” Ginny pointed out. “But yeah, other than that we’re both staying safe.”

“Hold on—“ Harry declared, affronted. “You’re working on her assignment with her, aren’t you? Do you know what’s she’s working on?” He turned to Hermione without waiting for Ginny’s reply. “How come she gets to know but I don’t?” He demanded, petulant.

“First of all, stop whinging like a child. You’re the bloody chosen one.” Hermione scolded quietly, lowering her voice so as not to be overheard. “Second, Gin doesn’t know what I’m working on, she’s currently on errand and recruitment duty. Only my research team can know what we’re researching, just in case someone else gets captured.”

Harry looked mollified, but only slightly.

“Anyways,” Ginny swooped in to save the day. “Have you had any luck with Slughorn?”

“No.” He moped pitifully. “I’m going to try to chat with him after Potions tomorrow. But first I need to finish his essay. I can hardly question him if I haven’t even done the homework.” He said, pulling his battered, contraband textbook from his bag. Hermione pursed her lips at the book, but said nothing. Recently, things between them had been good—Hermione had been paying more attention to his needs and Harry had been respecting her boundaries and judgement. So had Ron, for that matter. She didn’t want to stir the pot by tickling that Half-Blood sleeping dragon.

Instead of picking an unwinnable fight, she bent back over her multitudes of parchment. They were experimenting with the MacDougal mansion—trying to replicate the Marauder’s Map for other magical strongholds. Obviously, they’d run it by Sirius, but each ancient household had its own wards and spells, often bespoke to the family in question. Besides, Sirius had leant some spellwork to the Map, but James Potter had been a Charms aficionado and the ultimate mastermind behind the map. Unfortunately, his brain was presently unpickable.

Ginny and Harry worked silently, even as Hermione began quietly muttering to herself. She poured over her notes and prodded the sheaf of parchment as she went, trying to replicate the living magic that the Marauder’s Map had.

Hours later, she threw down her wand with a frustrated grunt. “No luck?” Ginny asked, looking up. Hermione grimaced at her.

“A little. But not enough. I’m good with Charms, but this is just…a leap beyond me.”

Ginny smiled sympathetically. “You’ll catch up. You always do.”

“She’s right. Nothing stumps you for long.” Harry supplied.

Hermione tried to take their words to heart, but lately it seemed that she was lacking more answers than she was providing. She’d never been stumped this often in her life, and it made her want to pull her hair out.

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

Pansy and Blaise were at the Slytherin table, watching out of the corners of their eyes as Hermione prodded at parchment with her wand at the Gryffindor table and Draco stared blankly at his parchment that was supposed to contain his essay on the theorem of wand position in metallic transfiguration. Neither project seemed to be going well.

“You alright, Draco?” Pansy asked. He looked up, startled to be caught zoning out.

“Yeah. Lot on my mind s’all.” He muttered.

Blaise and Pansy shared a look. “Have you given any thought to our offer?” Blaise asked hesitantly. Draco looked up at him, lips pursed.

“Yeah.” He replied after a long moment of silence. They waited expectantly for him to continue, but he didn’t elaborate. Pansy sighed, frustrated, and stood.

“Well, when you figure it out, let us know.” She muttered, gathering her things.

“Where are you going?” Draco demanded, alarmed at her sudden departure.

She gave him a wry smile. “Doesn’t feel too good to be left in the dark, does it?” She said, flipping her hair over her shoulder and storming out of the Great Hall.

Draco stared after her in shock. “She’s got a point, mate.” Blaise said quietly. “You’re losing it, and you’re not letting us help you. I’d say we’re on opposite sides but the truth is, we’re on your side. It’s just really fucking hard to be on your side when you’re like this.”

Draco glanced around at the table filled with Slytherins. Theo Nott was watching them out of the corner of his eye. “We can’t talk about this here.”

Blaise huffed out a sad little laugh. “You mean we can’t talk about it at all.” He replied, rising as well. “I’m going to go check on her.” He trailed out after her, and Draco stared after him long after he was out of sight. Eventually, his eyes drifted to the Gryffindor table, watching in absent interest as Hermione threw down her wand. He—having observed her from afar for years in an attempt to discern her weaknesses—had noticed that her hair seemed to gain volume whenever she was particularly frustrated. He wondered what could possibly be stumping the Gryffindor, and if it had anything to do with Pansy’s increased volatility.

No. He supposed that was his fault.

He wanted to take the offer. He might not like Muggleborns, but he’d never really known how grotesque the Dark Lord was until now. Now that he was breathing down his family’s collective necks and using their dining room as a showcase for his cruelty.

That was what kept him on his path. His mother was trapped—serving loyally as an unwitting hostage. He could live without his riches if he were disowned. He couldn’t live with his guilt if he got his mother killed.

Theoretically, he knew it was possible. The little militia that Blaise and Pansy had joined was full of renegade Slytherins. They just didn’t share in his level of risk. There was no dark master invading their homes and playing nice even as he kept loved ones under a guillotine. There was far less opportunity to get his parents out safely. They’d be dead before he could make a move.

Granger had noticed him staring, and raised an eyebrow. His eyes narrowed in response and dropped back to his work. His blank page. Why did it seem like he was always at square one these days?

Sighing, he lifted his quill and got back to work. The only thing he could do was keep going.

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[autolovecraft]

God, what a rage!

When Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. He could, he was sure, get out by midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie implications. I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks. His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. Why did you do it, Birch? The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had chosen it, how he had chosen it, how he had chosen it, how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer. He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? God, what a rage! Great heavens, Birch, just as I thought! For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. The pile of tools soon reached, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry. Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the degree of dignity to be maintained in posing and adapting the unseen members of lifeless tenants to containers not always calculated with sublimest accuracy. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood.

God, what a rage! He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age.

It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go. Being without superstition, he did not heed the day at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. It may have been just fear, and it may have been encouraging and to others may have been just fear, and it may have been just fear, and it may have been just fear, and it may have been mocking. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. Birch decided that he would begin the next day with little old Matthew Fenner, whose grave was also near by; but actually postponed the matter for three days, not getting to work till Good Friday, the 15th. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his aching arms rested by a pause during which he sat on the bottom step of his grim device, Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks.

[wallstagram]

wip progress update

hey guys!!

so every once in awhile, i’ll be doing a quick WIP update! i know that as an author, i love seeing how other authors are doing, esp when there’s a bit of a struggle involved. i just wanna be here for any other authors, to show that the writing process isn’t always cut and dry. this might be a wash, but if anything it will be a great encouragement to myself! if you are interested in supporting me and my writing process, feel free to read below the cut! (side note, I did take about a month break from writing, between finals and some health issues with my grandma!

1. HL Summer Exchange Fic 

Word Count: Currently 11.6 k, will probably finish around 17k.

Timeline: I actually started writing this fic on March 13, and I imagine it will be completely finished by this time next week.

Thoughts: I am so excited for this fic! It has been a process for sure - a constant state of writing scenes and deleting them, trying to find what did the characters and the plot justice. Honestly, this fic would have gone absolutely nowhere without my amazing friend + beta nicole (@ireallysawanangel) and her sweet cheerleading and wonderful suggestions! There were many moments where I thought about giving up or scrapping what I had to move to an alternate prompt. But, working through this story has helped me grow as a writer.

2. Single by Choice (for HL Mpreg Fest)

Word Count: 1.1 k, will probably finish around 20 - 30 k.

Timeline: Started on April 29, haven’t added to it since! The due date is September 4, 2019.

Thoughts: I am in love with the prompt I have received for this fest, and am excited to just tackle it once I finish up HL Summer Exchange. I have the basic ideas of the fic outlined, and I have written part of the intro, but that’s all. Still trying to decide if it’ll be chaptered, a single piece, or a main piece with an epilogue. Many thoughts and decisions ahead, but right now I’m just so excited and ready to dive into this fluffy, sweet, fic!

3. if the stars weren’t aligned for us

Word Count: 6 k, expecting it to be ~ 30k.

Timeline: yikes. I started this one on February 11! But I have no timeline, as it is not for an exchange, and is more of a passion project!

Thoughts: I absolutely love this fic! I don’t want to reveal too much, but it is a baker!Harry and broadwaystar!louis (as peter pan duh!) au that absolutely no one asked for but I needed. My thought process was, if the stars didn’t line up the way they did for one direction, how would h+l still find each other? hence, the title. i can’t wait to share bits of this with you all!

4. rest it on my fingertips (cause i know you’re persuasive)

Word Count: 54 k posted, 57 k written, literally i have NO idea how much it’ll end at lmfao

Timeline: pretty sure this will be my forever wip, sadly. I started it on December 26, 2018, and my last edit on it was March 28 (the day after I posted the most recent chapter).

Thoughts: A little-known fact about this fic, is that when I started it, it was only supposed to be three chapters and around 15k. However, these characters have minds of their own! Jeeeeeesus. Thomas just still has a story to tell, and Louis needs to learn how to navigate life with Harry involved again. It’s just such a massive undertaking. I’m honestly overwhelmed by it right now, so it’s been on the back burner. 

5. open me up like the textbooks on your desk

Word Count: 5 k, will probably finish around 20 k.

Timeline: I started this on January 28, and it was last edited on March 12 (whoops!). It’s not for a fest, so I have no solid timeline (are you sensing a theme here?? lol)

Thoughts: This is a story I want to just sit down and write, but I never seem to have time, between work, school, and all my other WIPs! Without revealing too much, it centers around a sexy love affair between post-grad student Harry, whose studying Sexology, and clinical psychologist Louis, who is doing research on pansexuality. Sexy and fun, and I can’t wait to write the rest!

6. (i’ll make this feel like) home

Word Count: 2 k posted, 4 k in my drafts, no idea when it’ll end.

Timeline: this is the real forever WIP. I started it on February 4, 2018, and last edited on February 28, 2018

Thoughts: This story isn’t written yet, because it’s heavy aand I am so scared I’m gonna fuck it up. It mirrors the political climate of 2018, with themes of deportation and activism. it’s ABO, and i’m in love with it, but I don’t want to do a topic this important a disservice.

7. Queer Eye (for HL TV Show Fic Fest)

Word Count: -

Timeline: due November 2019

Thoughts: I am currently working on my outline for this fic, and I am SO EXCITED to combine queer eye + one direction. more details to come!!

Looking ahead: I also have tentative ideas for an X Factor fic, and a Bed&Breakfast fic! Maybe they’ll be outlined or started next time I do a WIP update!

If you read this far, thank you for supporting me and my writing! Also, shoutout to anyone who has even remotely supported me with this process, including @ireallysawanangel, @sisqueer, @tommosgun, @runaway-train-works, @amarixx, and my sweet friend tumblrless kenzie! Here’s to hoping I finish some of these soon! Haha

[thesportssoundoff]

“No but seriously, he has one eye” The Brawl For All Combatants Ordered Out!

So a few weeks ago, I presented you with a beginning outline of what I'm aiming to do here. A chance to take a long look at the Brawl For All; a concept so insiduous that I imagine even Vince McMahon has aimed to bury it in the deepest recesses of his mind. The first time out we looked at its genesis, the concepts and the back stories beyond the concepts:

http://thesportssoundoff.tumblr.com/post/183395306465/what-happens-when-you-take-a-bad-idea-and-make-it

NOW let's take a long look at who participated, who didn't participate and the fallacy behind the entire project IF rumors are to be believed.

A Hot Take To Lead Us Off

This is something I long theorized but a long look at the people involved in the Brawl For All confirmed it for me. So by and large, the Brawl For All was a stupid dumb concept. Agreed, right? Well what if it could've worked elsewhere? Now again the rules are dumb, the genesis behind it was dumb, everything about it from stem to stern is full of stupidity. Allow me to argue that it COULD have worked; just not in the WWF. When you see the roster the WWF was working with here, it's not going to blow you away on paper and we obviously have a mighty fine idea of how the execution went. What about a different Brawl For All roster? Saaay (in 1998 when this happened):

Rick or Scott Steiner- Decorated All American wrestlers for the University of Michigan Scott Norton- Legitimate tough guy bad ass professional arm wrestler, former bodyguard of Prince Jerry Flynn- Taekwando practitioner, former mixed martial artist Earnest Miller- Three time karate champion Glacier- Professional karate man dude prior to pro wrestling Brian Knobbs/Jerry Saggs- The JBL's of WCW in more ways than one seemingly Meng- All time legendary tough guy and bar room savage Barbarian- Genuine tough guy El Dandy- Jam Up Guy Serious Professional All Around Good Man

Plus the other litany of guys who were noted shooters or tough guys on the undercard. Let's also be fair and note that the South was a touch more receptive to the UFC at this point in time than say the East Coast as well. Perhaps it could've worked with a better roster and perhaps WCW, with its glut of shooters and tough guys respected in the industry, would've been better suited for a Brawl For All.

Or maybe it's just a stupid fucking idea with no merit. That too.

So who DIDN'T participate?

Well let's start with the very beginning and work our way back. Let's talk about some of the guys who just opted NOT to participate. For starters, the big stars were obviously not going to partake in this. Right off the jump you have to assume Undertaker, Austin, DX, The Rock, Kane, Mankind, Vader and the like are not going to be participating. This was about giving a bunch of guys they kind of didn't give a shit about something to do so that meant no sacrificing top stars. It was filler programming and obviously everybody doing important shit was busy doing important shit. Also of note was that the WWF did not want originally the likes of Dan Severn, Steve Blackman and Ken Shamrock in it. Ken apparently wasn't interested and made the argument that it didn't benefit him given the fact that he was a genuine UFC star still to take a pit stop in pro wrestling. At the same time, Dan Severn was asked not to participate at first and then had to be coerced into taking a spot when injuries happened. The same goes for Steve Blackman who was signed up after a few drop outs occurred, primarily due to the promise of Blackman being allowed to throw kicks in the tournament. The dropouts are hard to pinpoint but Tiger Ali Singh is one of the more notorious ones per Bob Holly. I've also read around that Ahmed Johnson was at one point supposed to be in it but I've never been able to confirm that (or remember the shoot interview that it was mentioned in). The point is that on its face, the Brawl For All was going to be a shoot fighting tournament without the two genuine proven shoot fighters in case you're curious about the true idea behind it.

Also as an MMA fan, I can't help but notice the # of "I was a last minute addition" stories these guys have. Lord knows that has to be a common thing said by guys like Sean Shelby and Mick Maynerd to get some of these fights done. I'd imagine that "We need a guy and you're going to help us out!" sweet talk happens to this day. My immediate thought is that they were either a) having a tough time filling spots in the Brawl For All and started telling people they were in need of last minute additions or b) most of these guys regret doing it and figure saying they were last minute replacements helps take the edge off.

So who WAS in?

We got sixteen names so buckle up and pour a drink or two.

8-Ball- Ron Harris aka 1/2 of The Blu Brothers aka Vince Russo's Creative Control. Vince Russo has never been a master of subtlety and so I suppose it's no surprise that one of his top angles was "Gang Warz" pitting an all white stable (The DOA) vs an all Puerto Rican tag team (Los Boricuas) vs a mostly all black tag team (the Nation Of Domination). Needless to say, Vince Russo makes it hard to defend him sometimes. To my knowledge neither Ron nor brother Don have any sort of proven fighting experience and the less said about them (and their tattoos), the better off we'll be. Ron (and Don) were rumored to have threatened Shawn Michaels on their last night in the WWF in the 90s, a rumor that seems to be corroborated by at least a few folks.

Steve Blackman- Most of the dudes who talk about the Brawl For All admit that this guy probably wins it all things being equal. Blackman had a legit karate background with some muay thai and amateur wrestling mixed in. Besides Blackman somehow overcame being bedridden for two years with malaria to become a legitimate pro wrestler so needless to say if it's a "Who wants it more?" shoot type deal, he's going to cover the grit and grind department well. Blackman is also rumored to have once taken down The Big Show and held him down until Show begged him to let him up which is akin to Bob Backlund apparently getting the Iron Sheik down and sitting on him until he either lost interest or was asked to let him up. Steve Blackman is by all intents and purposes a badass.

Bradshaw- Apparently the inspiration behind this atrocity depending upon who you ask. Bradshaw's reputation is marred now with incidents of bullying (real or fabricated), pro wrasslin' racism (goosestepping in Germany to get heat, some other old school heel shenanigans) and borderline dangerous behavior like blindsiding the Blue Meanie and beating the shit out of him when Meanie thought it was a working brawl. At this point though, none of that is really widespread and Bradshaw is just a fake Stan Hansen who looks tough and stiffs the hell out of people. He's about to eventually turn into a mute member of the Undertaker's industry before he comes a heel mercenary for hire before they turn into FUN beer drinking cigar smoking mercenaries for hire before turning into a Wall Street rich Texan chasing Mexicans "at the border" to get heat for a feud with Eddie Guerrero. I suppose you cant say Bradshaw didn't earn it at least.

Brakkus- Wooof. Brakkus was a massive German bodybuilder who apparently didn't quite understand that the Brawl For All wasn't worked. The WWF had big plans for Brakkus (if they send you to Memphis to work for Lawler in the USWA, it probably means they had a long term vision for him) but he sucked and no matter where they sent him, he continued to suck. He was bad in Memphis, was bad in ECW and ultimately this feels like an attempt to just do something with him. Again though, how good you are as a pro wrestler doesn't matter in the Brawl For All. It was about legit fighting----and Brakkus apparently according to Savio Vega had no idea he was in a real fight. Keep that in mind.

Mark Canterbury- I have NO idea why Henry O. Godwinn is listed on wikipedia by his real name but fuck it, here he is! So full blindspot up front, I LOVED Henry O' Godwinn as a kid. He carried around a slop bucket, poured what looked like puke on people, wrestled in overalls which helped him stand out and it sort of gets lost in the fact that he was given a dumb gimmick (In the mid 90s, it felt like the WWE was acknowledging how big of a slide it was in because every human being had a side hustle) that Godwinn could absolutely work. Here's Godwinn vs Bret Hart in a killer match btw: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L9vihPkNmLM. This was before Vince Russo and company turned them from a fun midcard act into a gross-ish play on Vince McMahon's distaste for southerners. Oh and also! Henry Godwin PROBABLY is doing this with a  still kinda broken neck. He broke it in 1997, was told to take three months or more off (Godwinn gives numbers ranging from ten weeks to sixteen weeks) and he just showed back up in less than two months to work through it. Keep that in mind.

Droz- A tragic story all in all which we'll get to eventually. Droz at this point is basically coming out of a dead angle with the LOD where he was written in storyline to be feeding drugs (and whatever else) to Road Warrior Hawk in an attempt to take his place in the Legion Of Doom. If it sounds awful it's because it was and while MAYBE a good writer can make that work, we're talking about the WWF in 1998 trying to soap opera a drug pusher/drug abuse victim angle. It ultimately ended with Droz shoving Road Warrior Hawk off the titantron while Hawk was attempting to commit suicide. Again, it's as bad as you'd believe. Droz had a college football background but that's about it unless I missed some boxing or kickboxing background.

The Godfather- By all accounts the Godfather is a badass. He was hip to MMA before the UFC really caught on, was a freakishly devoted bodybuilder and he just looks like the sort of guy who would take very little shit from anybody. The Godfather is about to become THE Godfather as he's transitioning from Kama Mustafa and the Nation Of Domination's actually good muscle enforcer (Mark Henry is bad around this time and would continue to be such until about 2009 or so) but at this point I'd imagine the writing is on the wall for most of the NOD guys that the Rock is about to leave them in the dust and this group is going to theoretically die a death. The Godfather is about to take a seriously big turn but FIRST, the Brawl For All!

Bart Gunn- At this point, Bart Gunn is doing nothing. Basically nothing. One could even say less than nothing. Bart Gunn is in The New Midnight Express, an angle that Vince Russo has claimed was apparently a way to shut up Jim Cornette and prove to him that old style wrestling couldn't work in 1998. Bart Gunn was apart of the Smoking Gunns and according to him, he had toughman contest experience. Apparently Bart Gunn got brought into the Brawl For All because Kevin Kelly had seen him wear out big guys in Tampa and per Billy Gunn, Bart was the sort of dude who could wipe out a bar room full of people if need be. That said it's not like Bart had any boxing experience or what have you.

Hawk- Another noted tough dude and one of pro wrestling's weirdest mysteries. Every old school dude be it Kevin Sullivan, Jim Cornette or Paul Heyman raves about Hawk as a talent and claims he could've been a major marquee attraction as a singles wrestler. Kevin Sullivan in particular claims that had he had the opportunity to work with Hawk and freshen him up as a singles wrestler, he could've been an Undertaker-esque attraction who drew money across multiple character iterations. Hawk is coming off his personal demons storyline which I mentioned before that sucked. At this point, he and Animal have broken down and are in serious need of repairs from a physical and character standpoint.

Bob Holly- Bradshaw and Bob Holly in the same tournament and somehow they didn't face off? In 2019, I imagine people would be rooting for a double KO (although Bob's image has softened with fans since leaving the WWE) but at this point Bob Holly is just trying to figure shit out in his career. He's teaming with Bart Gunn in the New Midnight Express after sputtering out (HA HA) as a race car driver. Bob Holly is another dude who by in large is just known as a tough guy with a bit of a bully streak tendency behind that reputation. Owner of the wrestling world famous "YOU GOT TWENTY FOUR HOURS TO LEARN HOW TO FIGHT, BITCH!" threat to Rene Dupree before he kicked the shit out of him over parking tickets.

Marc Mero- The story of Marc Mero is a rough one with a happy ending. Marc Mero was really over in WCW as Johnny B. Badd, a Little Richard knock off with a Badd Blaster that shot confetti. Johnny B. Badd was so over that Vince paid him big money to be Johnny B. Badd----only for someone to smarten him up that Johnny B. Badd was a WCW trademark so he had paid for a guy who was trained from jump to do ONE role his whole career. Marc Mero was pretty over and underrated as a wrestler (I SWEAR BY THIS) before his knees gave in. Making matters worse for him was that his wife, Rena, was the women's face of the Attitude Era as Sable. According to Jim Cornette, Marc Mero was trying to be a good husband and help get his super over wife even MORE over---so he took a powerbomb from her on TV. Mero's future big money opponent was Stone Cold who happened to be  watching the show at the time from home. Apparently Austin called up Vince McMahon and immediately asked who he would be working with on next week's Raw since he wasn't going to do any business with Mero after eating a powerbomb on TV from his wife. I don't know if this was before or after the Brawl For All though so take that for what it's worth. Either way, Mero is doing a boxing gimmick now (he is apparently a reputable legit golden gloves champion) and so it makes sense he'd be in the Brawl For All.

Pierre- This is a real shootfight tournament. Actual punches are being thrown and takedowns are implemented. This is, again, a legitimate shoot fight----and so of course one of the dudes involved in the shoot fight is missing an eye. Quebeccer Pierre/Pierre Carl Oulette/Jon Pierre Lefitte is missing an eye and was competing in a shoot tournament WITH one eye. We're not talking Michael Bisping fighting with a damaged eye for years on end, we're talking about an actual lack of an eye. This happened, people. We'll talk more about Pierre (and his amazing story in 2019) but right now in 1998, he's JAG who is bouncing between WCW and WWF looking for something to do. He's also at this point known as the guy who refused to put Kevin Nash over in 1995 despite Nash being the face of the company. PCO is the original Bret Hart, refusing to job in Canada.

Scorpio- I gotta admit I have no idea what Scorpio is doing here. I bet he doesn't know either if we're being truthful. Scorpio is one of those guys who was ahead of his time but seemed incapable of staying on the right path (whatever that means in wrestling) to get what he was due. He had come into the WWF in 1997 as Flash Funk and so I imagine Flash Funk was over and he's just killing time until the Job Squad angle.  Scorpio is apparently a legit tough guy (or madman depending on who you ask) and held a 1-0 unofficial record over Hawk after he beat the shit out of him in WCW.

Dan Severn- Dan Severn was told he wouldn't even be allowed to participate and then was told the day OF the taping that he was needed to take a spot. Severn is not too far removed from being a UFC everything (champion, tournament winner etc etc) and so he's for the most part a prospective favorite. That's probably why he wasn't asked to compete at first I'd imagine since the plan was PERHAPS to get somebody else over. Another rumor is that Severn is such a boring plain dude with a boring plain style (Severn admits his plan was to never throw a punch and just grapple people) that if he had won, there would've been no payoff in it.

Savio Vega- I have NO idea if Savio Vegas has a professional sports background or what the deal was. Apparently Savio Vegas asked to be in it and was also the unofficial official matchmaker (he drew the names out of a hat) and he's Puerto Rican so he's got my rooting interest right away. I think Los Boricuas at this point were in full swing and Savio was obviously the head of said stable. Gang Warz was dumb as hell.

Steve Williams- And we reach the FINAL name. "Dr. Death" Steve Williams. Steve Williams was a former football player at the University of Oklahoma and one of the more decorated wrestlers in Oklahoma history. He had carved out a niche in Japan by this point after establishing himself as a star in Mid South with the occasional stop off in the NWA/Jim Crockett Promotions/various regional feds and start ups. Williams didn't have any official fighting background but he was a crazy good wrestler and by all accounts a ridiculous bad ass. Jim Cornette tells stories of Dr. Death fighting fans and laying bodies to waste with little to no effort. He was also extremely popular with people in the WWF office, namely Jim Ross and Jim Cornette. Bruce Prichard doesn't QUITE say that the WWF thought Dr. Death would win the Brawl For All but he does a damn good enough impression of Jim Ross advocating for Steve Williams that I have to believe it. Vince Russo has spoken in the past about Steve Williams being Jim Ross' "boy" and how this was basically his way of seeing whether Jim Ross was right. Bob Holly has said that they were already doing vignettes with Barry Switzer and interviews as if Dr. Death won the Brawl For All. Dr. Death claims that the Triple H push of 1999 was the one Vince had promised him before the Brawl For All.

All of this brings me to my final point.....

Dr. Death was never going to be a big star in the WWF

I truly hate to speak ill of the dead and I'm trying hard no to either. Let's just speak from a more realistic pragmatic grounded stance. The kind of talent that was getting over in 1999 falls into three distinct categories. The first were talkers, guys and gals who could rap so to speak and had tremendous presence. Promo guys could carry the day and even IF you gave Dr. Death a Jim Ross to do the talking for him, let's not forget that by 1998 at this point in July there's basically just one manager actually doing anything as a talker and that's Paul Bearer. "Dr. Death" Steve Williams was not a talker and even if he was, he's certainly not the kind of talker who would fit in Vince McMahon's WWF. The second were guys who were big with "the look" according to Vince McMahon. Pull up a picture of every top star in 1998 for the WWF and then slide Dr. Death in there and ask if he fits the mold. He's unique for sure and there's the Mick Foley outlier----but imagine how long it took Mick Foley to be seen as legitimate by Vince McMahon. Even if Dr. Death is the definition of a Jim Ross style Hoss, he looks woefully out of date by 1998 standards. He in many ways, like a lot of guys who frequently toured Japan and basically were behind on the times, looked like he had been left in 1988. Lastly there were the gimmick guys; the Undertaker, Kane, The Rock, DX, Austin etc etc. Dr. Death's gimmick was that he was an ass kicker which is great but AGAIN we are to believe every human being in the WWF at this time is an ass kicker. Maybe Vince and company would've found a way to get something out of him but the chances are that Dr. Death would've never been a big star. Could he have feuded with Stone Cold? Surely! A big money draw? A multi million dollar hit? I just don't see it. Can't imagine it. Also let's be fair here, how toned down would his style have been for the WWF at the time as well? Is he going to suplex Steve Austin around after Stone Cold broke his neck? I'm not quite buying that either.

So there's your sixteen. You got a few amateur wrestlers ten years beyond their competitive days, a boxer or two, a toughman contest guy, a few dudes who dabbled in kickboxing and a man with legitimately one eye. You've got the guy who the company thinks SHOULD win it. So who won the fuckin' thing? How did they win it?

That's for next time.

[stanley73z562-blog]

How To Merge MIDI Tracks

If you'd like to merge a bunch of audio tracks into one file, AVS Audio Editor is always prepared to assist, merge mp3s even if your enter files are of different codecs. merge mp3 together and split MP3 information even over one thousand minutes or 1GB. Be sure that the mp3 information to be merged have the same frequency, bitrate, and MPEG coding and layering. Otherwise, the output file might include non-obvious errors, even if no errors have been displayed throughout the merging course of. Prepare the audiobook recordsdata by dragging and dropping them to your preferred location in the merge listing. Wish to immediately take assistance from fast strategy to merge your MP3 recordsdata together? If you're attracted to do it, a web based MP3 joiner is the one you need. From our survey, it's troublesome to find easy and on-line packages to manage MP3 recordsdata. Namely, the web MP3 Joiner Software program ranked on this listing is fastidiously selected by us. Pick anybody you fulfill at present.

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Merge the tracks proper right into a single, prolonged monitor. Convert the monitor from MP3 to AAC , and alter the file kind to make iTunes contemplate it an audiobook. There are some limitations. From the album The Suburbs, out now on Merge Information. 5 Simple Tools to Edit Audio Data Like a PROFESSIONAL Good free audio modifying software program program will mean you can to provide superior music. Fashionable audio editors can cut, trim, merge music, apply filters and results, doc sounds, mix music samples, change voice, normalize quantity, make ringtones, mute silence and tons of different cool suggestions. Sure, the merged outcome looks unhealthy. But the issue with either track alone is that whereas it seems to be good, it is critically unsuitable! The following step after merging is to do some smoothing. There is no level in importing a monitor that is fully mistaken, whether it appears to be like good or not. MP3 Splitter & Joiner is a helpful application which is meant in modifying audio information. It is a multi-function device as it contains MP3 Splitter and MP3 Joiner in one bundle. Customers could split, trim MP3 file into portions, join, or even merge a number of files into giant information.

Although the editor is pretty awesome, one huge drawback is that you could solely work with one file at a time. So if in case you have a number of MP3s that you'll want to reduce individually and then be part of together, you may must edit them right here first after which return to a different device like MP3Cut and join them collectively. Additionally, if it's worthwhile to remix something that shall be longer than 5 minutes, you are able to do it in elements and then use the opposite site to join them together. Most audio CDs have periods of silence added in between the tracks to function delimiters between the tunes. MergeMP3 can produce joint tracks with customizable intervals of silence between particular person tunes - identical to the audio CD does. And, unlike on CDs, you can choose your own length of a silence between the tunes. Click on 'Add' button to add the MP3 files to the merge checklist, or simply merely drag & drop the recordsdata to MP3 Joiner window. In 2014, Merge Data celebrated its 25th birthday, and whereas our roster has modified, merge mp3s rotated, permutated, and expanded over the last quarter century, the quality we search for in information, as fans, remains to be there within the music we launch on the label.For Windows customers, I recommend using iTunes to import the CDs as grouped tracks, and in MP3 format, after which utilizing MP3 to iPod Audio E-book Converter to merge the tracks into a single audiobook. I am woefully behind on scripting this up, but I think it is simpler than utilizing MarkAble, which adds numerous complexity, without including a lot in the best way of flexibility. Within the Conflicts part, select the Overwrite Target Value option for any supply record subject that should overwrite the target file field. If this option is cleared, the target subject's worth is retained within the merged report.Do not forget that whenever you burn an Audio CD you'll be able to prepare the order of the files you are creating the tracks from in the CD burning software program window, and they're burned that manner onto the CD. As a result of an MP3 CD is simply storing MP3 information, they will be burned to the CD in the identical sort order as they are when ripped to MP3 files from all of your CDs. You cannot rearrange them in any method in the undertaking window of the CD burning software program and keep them that approach on the CD. Even in case you roam around the various folders of the arduous drive selecting MP3s and adding them to the burn venture, they are going to be burned to CD in ascending alpha-numeric order primarily based purely on the file title and the place they slot in with the other file names selected. Precisely the identical might be true for MP3 files on an SD storage card.

[andimthedad]

Road Trip: Eastward Day 3: Medicine Wheel and Crazy Horse

This summer, the kids and I embarked on a 10,000-mile cross-country road trip from Washington to Maine and back. Along the way, we got a brief taste of America through landmarks and sights that represent our nation, for better or worse.

Read notes from every day of the trip:

Eastward: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.

Westward: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12.

And various posts from the FAQ.

--

Medicine Wheel, Bighorn National Forest, WY

We left Cody in the morning and headed east to Route 14A, a seasonal road that winds through the Bighorn National Forest. There, up in the mountains, you can find the Medicine Wheel, an important Native American site for thousands of years. As noted by the Forest Service:

“The Medicine Wheel is a roughly circular pattern of stones about 82 feet in diameter surrounding a central stone cairn about 12 feet in diameter. In the center of the pattern is a hollow oval cairn of rock from which 28 radial lines extend to a peripheral circle. Around and near the peripheral circle are six more cairns.”

Scattered around Medicine Wheel are remains of personal, natural, and spiritual items, left from past rites.

Wikipedia further references oral histories and researchers who suggest the Medicine Wheel, or at least parts of it, dates back thousands of years. This and other similar wheels in North America provide a method of tracking lunar phases, solstices, and other cosmic cycles, but the Medicine Wheel at Bighorn is the largest.  It’s not like Stonehenge but there may be similarities in purpose.

From Route 14A, we took a dirt road to the trailhead parking lot, and then hiked up to the Medicine Wheel itself. The views from the trail alone are amazing. I'm not sure if this panorama can do it justice:

In warmer weather, this would have been an easy trek: the trail is wide, though uphill. However, with temperatures at 46°F (8°C) a significant portion of the trail was still covered in packed, icy snowdrifts. And despite the steep mountainside next to the trail, there are no railings or barriers. A bad slip on the snow could send us hundreds of feet down the slopes. In fact, we all did slip a little, more than once.

"You can't fall off the mountain, kids," I said halfway through the snow. "If I come back without one of you, Mom will kill me."

The Wheel is awe-inspiring, especially if you imagine people hiking up here for thousands of years to worship and study. The mountaintop views are amazing, like being on top of the world. And, of course, there was the adrenaline rush as the three of us took our life into our hands on the slippery snow.

Also, Luke, age 14, spun a basketball on his finger in the trailhead parking lot, leading him to claim that he’d spun a ball at 10,000 feet.

“It’s only about 9600 feet,” I reminded him.

“Close enough,” he said.

--

On our way through Wyoming, we came across some wild moose by the side of the road. They mostly eyed us with disdain. But, they were the first wild moose we've seen since northern Maine a few years ago.

--

Crazy Horse Memorial, Crazy Horse, SD

We left the Bighorn National Forest and crossed into South Dakota, pulling into the town of Custer with a couple of hours to spare. We took the opportunity to visit the nearby Crazy Horse Memorial before calling it a day.

The memorial was the idea of Henry Standing Bear, a Lakota chief. In 1939 he wrote to Korczak Ziolkowski, a Polish-American sculptor who had worked on the nearby Mount Rushmore monument. Henry Standing Bear sought a similar monument to Crazy Horse, the famous Lakota war leader who died in 1877. Ziolkowski adopted the dream as his own and began work on the mountain in 1948. Someday it is supposed to look like this 1/34th scale sculpture that Ziolkowski made:

Ziolkowski died in 1982, but his widow and children continued the project, and it proceeds slowly to this day. From the memorial’s official introduction video, we got the impression that Ziolkowski’s family was not sure of finishing it in their lifetimes.

It is amazing that a family would stay committed to a father’s long-range project like this, where his dream might not be finished for decades, if ever. My kids can’t decide if this extreme dedication is noble, or if it amounts to a family curse, or possibly both.

“What massive, expensive undertaking should I pass on to you two?” I mused.

“Don’t even think about it,” muttered Beth, age 11.

--

Custer, SD

We ended at a hotel in Custer. It’s a good waypoint for area attractions like Crazy Horse, Mount Rushmore, and Jewel Cave (which we, unfortunately, did not have time to visit).  The town is named after the infamous General Custer, who came to the area in 1874 with a thousand men to investigate rumors of abundant gold. His prospector did find some, and a short-lived gold rush commenced.

Custer’s infamous “last stand” — a.k.a. the Battle of the Greasy Grass, or the Battle of the Little Bighorn — occurred against Crazy Horse himself, during the Great Sioux War almost 2 years later and 300 miles away from Custer, South Dakota.

—

Unless noted otherwise, all photos are taken by the kids and I, and are shared under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license.

[joz-yyh]

Rust - Ch. 4

SUMMARY: A “how they got together” and “where they are now” fic in which I detail how Damian and Tardif meet and consequently fall in love. No beta. Read at your own risk.

RATING: EXPLICIT (for violence / sexual themes)

PAIRING: Bounty Hunter x Flagellant

WORD COUNT: 9,661

READ ON AO3: Here

A/N: Very important note, but keep in mind this chapter is a FLASHBACK.

A mission at the warrens goes from bad to worse (warning for descriptions of decay and animal injury since Fergus is attacked and temporarily infected with a pestilence. She gets better, don’t worry). Expanding on Tardif and Paracelsus’ friendship (they taunt him relentlessly for comic relief and also because he deserves a slice of humble pie) as well as Damian and Willaim’s friendship (yay, trauma bonding). P.S. Tardif has the “Warrens Phobe” quirk and Paracelsus is nonbinary.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

Tardif can’t say he’s too excited about being assigned to the sewers. 

He's convinced their indisposed benefactor (who would rather delegate their orders through the groundskeeper and the town crier than address their recruits in person) gets some sick enjoyment out of exploiting his "condition." 

The blasted nurses had let it slip, the rumor mill running rampant, and Tardif has to disagree with the buzzing conspiracy because his mild discomfort isn't severe enough to be deemed a "phobia."

The bounty hunter is not squeamish, per say. He couldn't be, not when he's built a livelihood atop all the bounties he's slain, a throne of cadavers, a man-made undertaker, but the idea of sloshing about in disease-ridden orifices of unspeakable origin makes him whinge.

Tardif does little to hide his irritation, his reluctance indelible as their less than merry group travels to the dark, nauseating cradle of filth that awaits them.

The flagellant is in formation ahead of him, though the brooding mercenary refuses to acknowledge his existence, staring at the sickening ground, the gaudy sky, anywhere that isn't the slashed ribbons of the holy man's swaying back muscles.

Damian seems to follow his example, the religious chatterbox strangely misanthropic, even when it comes to the other members of their expedition party, his devout blessings left unawarded, revoked without cause and Tardif tries not to dwell on the reason why.

"I am curious, could you be any less pleasant," Paracelsus quips, poking their nose out from behind William, addressing the bounty hunter's stormcloud of misery.

"No less annoyin' than ye," Tardif derides with an ardent growl.

Maybe with one more body between them, he can muffle the sound of Paracelsus' gibberish, their voice having to pass through another ear on it's way to his, tolling it out, until it was spent entirely.

Putting his plan into effect, the bounty hunter breaks the line, striding past the flagellant, the mercenary swapping positions with him out of his own willful accord.

Aside from the abrupt shuffle and the light gasp of surprise, the morbid priest carries on with the change, the two men parallel forces on opposite plains.

The lead position now claimed for himself, the cramp that had been working it's way into his neck begins to abate at facing forward again. It's a temporary relief, the seedy view laid out before him just as terribly abysmal as any other part of the squalid mire of the warrens.

Suddenly, their progress stops. The line waits.

"What's the hold up," Para calls, their smaller height impeded by the backsides of the three taller men ahead.

"Blockages," Tardif grumbles, referring to the massive cave-in obstructing the way.

"You're one big blockage," Para groans rolling their eyes beneath the mask, hand on their hip for emphasis.

William's cheeks inflate with a stifled laugh, coughing into his hand to disguise it further.

Damian's exasperation is no different, an exhale hidden beneath a winded sniffle, the holy man shifting to hide it.

Tardif's eyes narrow behind his visor, darting between the two offending characters. He knows when he's being made a fool of.

"Only got two shovels," Tardif barks in retaliation, angling his voice towards the demanding, hooked-nose caboose and anyone else questioning his competence.

"And? You're fifty maybe, seventy five percent upper arm strength if you factor in the axe. You can handle it," the scientist retorts, failing to see the problem.

"I'll help clear it," Damian interjects, sustained by his own bare hands, volunteering his body in place of tools. He approaches the pile from the left, chipping away at what stone and debris he can wrap his bloody, masochistic fingers around.

"Yes, count me in too," William offers, the chivalrous sort, not one to stand idly by, "Paracelsus, would you mind looking after Fergus for me, please?"

The plague doctor nods, taking the hound by the collar and leading her a safe distance away.

Tardif has lost the grounds to argue, wielding the remaining shovel as he solemnly aids in the digging.

Paracelsus resides on an abandoned storage crate as they wait, the loyal canine sat beside them, passing time by throwing a leather-bound ball and petting gray fur to the tune of manly exertion and sifting dirt. As adorable as her shaggy scruff is, the plague doctor grows bored of such mundane activities, their posture bent into rigid crescent, their chin perched upon a gloved fist as they oversee the excavation of the wreckage.

"You done yet Armstrong," Paracelsus asks, a heavy sigh winding in the hollow space of their mask, the jeer aimed at none other than their favorite punching-bag Tardif.

"Keep rushin' me, bird brain," the bounty hunter threatens, driving the metal spade of his shovel into the rubble, "and yer gunna find out."

Para holds onto Fergus in mock distress, clutching svelte arms around the hound's collared neck.

"Oh Fergus, you'll protect me from this nasty squawking cockatrice, won’t you," the former med student begs, their voice a patronizing, ghostly tremble.

William and Damian lean outward from opposing ends of the dirt pile to exchange a look of levity, a silent audience to the insults that would make Sarmenti proudly laugh in glee if he were here.

"Not my fault we were under-prepared," the plague doctor taunts in a quieter voice meant for Fergus’ floppy ears, sticking their tongue out at the man, though the gesture is safely hidden beneath their face covering.

Tardif takes that affront personally, about to act on his baser instincts as he plants the shovel into the ground.

"OK, that's it," he growls, cracking his knuckles, preemptive of a fight.

Before he can move another muscle, a trickle of gravel hits the bounty hunter in the head, a clunky ping resonating off his helmet.

"Sorry," Damian offers, feeling responsible for the act of gravity, clawing at the embedded earth closest to the bounty hunter.

Then they hear it, the shrill screech of the diabolical thing they're meant to purge as clearly as nails being hammered into their ears. It sounds like the last wails of a butcher's slaughter, of grinding metal pipes bent into horrendous shapes and for a moment, everyone's blood runs cold as the tunnel shudders, more hulking debris falling down from above. The thing is close. This is a warning.

"I don't think you can take credit for that," William speaks softly, absolving the flagellant of any wrongdoing that he may have assumed.

Damian turns in his direction, gives him the barest traces of a smirk, a shallow nod of gratitude.

The houndmaster clears his throat, calling the rest of the group's attention. "Concentrate men," William says, his voice a dutiful, inspiring cry, "We're nearly through. Let's keep at it."

"Wait,” Damian says, uncovering a weak spot, “stand back."

With a few insistent scrapes, the remaining pile crumbles like a dam, an avalanche of filth skittering past their feet. A barrage of polluted dust clouds the air, the irritating particles invading the sinuses, those with masks immune to coughing it back out.

Fergus sneezes in response, her furry expression downtrodden as she returns to her master’s heel.

"Finally," Paracelsus says, hopping off their crate to give a ceremonious clap for William and Damian," good job you two."

Tardif simply growls at his being left out of the plague doctor’s applause.

The group presses on, greeted by their first encounter a few short paces later.

The boar-like creatures inhabiting this hell hole may appear crude and uneducated, but some prove to be strong and resourceful, intelligent enough to construct armor and weapons, the younger spawn using their much bigger counterparts as meat shields.

Tardif learns this the hard way, an aggro of spears, arrows and bile all rallied against him.

Paracelsus teases him about being too slow as well as too wide of a target (comparing him to clunky stagecoach of all things) before patching him up.

With a sharp whistle, William's trusted hound picks off the smallest and weakest runt, her maw tearing the swine's mutated flesh to pieces, putting an end to their dodgy tussle.

Fergus, the poor girl, hasn't been the same since.

As well trained a battle companion as she may be, her body and brain are first and foremost animal in nature. It isn't entirely unheard of for a scent or a sound to cater to distraction, but the degree in which the canine lags behind to circle the same spot, wanders around as if she's lost her way is cause for alarm.

"What's wrong girl," the ex lawman says, kneeling down to his four-legged friend's level.

Despite his outstretched hand, the hound shimmies away on her paws, tongue flopping out the side of her mouth, whimpering in pain.

The Scotch-Irishman’s expression turns bleak, fearing the worst conclusion, knowing the symptoms of such behavior.

"Something isn't right," he says, a note of desperation in his voice as he turns to address the group,"I'll need a moment to look after her."

Paracelsus shrugs,"Fine by me. I wanted to harvest some samples anyway."

"Hrm," the bounty hunter declares, a chagrin of annoyance heralded by the delay, but nonetheless tolerant.

"Very well," Damian accedes, ambivalent, his focus drawn to the tormenting obelisk on the other side of the room.

William reaches into the cache of supplies, searching for a homemade recipe of herbs and peanut butter, the medicine rolled into a treat.

He holds the tempting concoction in his palm, the hound coming to sniff at it suspiciously. Fergus snags the morsel between her teeth, dropping it down to the ground, clawing at it with her forepaws, picking off little bites.

William waits for the combination of ingredients to take effect, finding it strange that regurgitation never occurs.

Nervously, the blonde male rubs a hand through his straw beard, trying to think of another solution.

"Paracelsus, could I ask for a second opinion," William inquires, his wholesome features warped into a mixture of fear and concealed desperation.

The plague doctor finishes up gathering a souvenir of green plaque from the wall as part of their collective field study, turning their beak in his direction. They wipe the excess grime on dark robes, rocking the knifepoint of their swiveled dagger between gloved fingers as they approach.

"Before my prognosis," the scholar advises, their voice a muffled distortion caused by the mask, "I must warn you, my expertise lies in the human body, and while land mammals are quite similar, there are some discrepancies.”

"Even I can tell she's eaten somethin’ rotten,” Tardif grunts, impertinent, “Just look at her."

"Yes, thank you. I am aware. Nothing I try is working," William explains, his words polite at face value, though his expression is cross with umbrage.

"Nothin’ is workin’ because she's diseased,” Tardif counters, his repressed opinions coming to light, “Only a matter of time ‘fore she's turnin’ into one of them. The heir got it wrong, choosing you for this place."

The houndmaster glares at him, schooling his expression so as not to reveal how abhorrent he truly felt, “I think it's too early for us to be jumping to conclusions like that."

"There's a good chance he's right, you know," Paracelsus states, deadpan.

The beastmaster gapes at the pair of them, their cold, unfeeling bluntness stabbing like splinters down his spine. He should have known the good doctor wasn't the type to sugar coat the facts.

"I would have to run some tests, but from what I can see, she's mostly likely infested with parasites," says the chemist, relaying their analysis, “and judging by the mutagen, her affliction is going to get worse."

William goes quiet. Understandably, he's not thrilled by the news.

"There was an old laboratory table approximately 300 yards back," Para continues, "I can scrounge up something mediocre, though it would be completely experimental and I couldn't guarantee the outcome. Even under perfect conditions there are risks, unless you prefer I cut her open here, without any anesthesia?”

"Bawbags, the lot of you,” William seethes, reaching his wits end, “Surely, there are other options to consider. Between the three of us, there must be something we haven't thought of yet."

Despite his altruism, a telltale panic creeps it’s way into William, incurring a nervous sickness from it. So far, any attempts at finding a cure for Fergus have proven fruitless, his companions less than evangelical, but there is one man's counsel he hasn’t heard.

His eyes search for the man who’s gone astray and finds the flagellant standing beneath an ominous stone totem.

"Damian, could I seek your assistance," the beastmaster asks, hoping this morbid saint would produce for him a better result than the other two. If Junia could use the holy book to heal, perhaps he could achieve the same miracles as well.

At hearing his name, the priest breaks from his trance, surprised that the curse of this device had consumed his mind so, the suffering wails of the damned blocking out any previous thought.

He pulls his hand away from the decrepit altar, shaking off the residual stress of voices, his services needed elsewhere.

"Yes, of course,” the flagellant replies, heading towards the man that beckoned him, “but why call upon me?"

"Your …," William pauses, pondering how he could phrase his next words before continuing,"abilities … you can remove disease, yes? Do you think you could try it on Fergus?"

"I can't say I've used my blood on animals before, but I have faith," Damian reassures him.

Seeing that they were no longer needed, the scientist returns to their biology investigations, fascinated by squirming masses littering the chamber, kneeling down to scoop various samples into their petri dishes to examine for later.

Tardif is startled when the plague doctor backs into him, their bony elbow catching his side as they stand up from whisking around the spot he’s currently occupying.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were out of your element here,” they note, but there's no humor in it, merely a vocal recording of evidence. Their intrigue is reserved for the glowing green swirling about in the vial they've doused in some ph altering chemical.

"Do ye have to do that so close to me," Tardif grouses.

"You're the one standing in a mycelium colony," Para says.

The bounty hunter looks down, upturning his heel to assess the "colony" smeared across the tapered soul of his boot. He stomps his foot back down, attempting to scrape the tendrils off.

“Just hurry up and collect your toys so we can go,” Tardif grumbles, trying to avoid any more muck on the floor.

“Oh, you mean this,” They ask, shoving a sample of it in front of his face. It's black, like moldy seaweed and the bounty hunter doesn’t know how something so dead can still squirm around as it dangles precariously from the end of their tweezers.

“Gah,” Tardif cries, flinching away, trying to pretend he wasn’t revolted by the grime and failing.

William sighs at the brooding mercenary’s candid yelp, disappointed by the two stooges and their buffoonery.

“How can they be so carefree when we may very well be marching to our deaths down here,” the houndmaster speaks, confiding in the holy man, “This place is teeming with the screams of tormented beasts. I am afraid the sound is driving me mad.”

Damian says nothing as he holds Fergus’ paw in his hand, the soft pads swollen and crusty.

The hound master looks down at his furry companion, her body draped on it’s side, across his lap. He holds her muzzle in his hand, stroking along her side with the other, her erratic panting a constant concern.

“I am sorry, I am not quite myself. I am worried about her,” William explains, "Do you think your Light magic will work?"

“The Light is omnipotent,” Damian says, hovering his hand over her bloated stomach, the animal’s whistling, ragged whines intensifying, “I am merely a vessel to be tested. If she is meant to be saved, then she will be.”

The flagellant can feel something wicked brewing inside her gut, squirming to get loose. He concentrates on it, as if it were contained within his own holy flesh, calling forth the Light to exorcise the vile parasite before it grows into something more perilous.

The priest lowers his hand, less red than before, the toxic presence snuffed from the would-be host.

William regards him expectantly,"Well? How’d it go?"

"Your Fergus has a strong heart,” Damian adds with a close-lipped smile, “She'll make it."

In that moment, so consumed with gratitude and relief, the houndmaster has no choice, but to consider the flagellant of a more comely appearance (if only he smiled more like that).

He may have even kissed him if not for disturbing his beloved Fergus, but the houndmaster quickly squanders such absurd delusions.

"Perhaps we should make camp, give her sufficient time to recover," the ex-law man suggests.

Damian nods in accord, looking towards the other members of their party, pending their approval.

Tardif grunts,"Not sure how much good it will do, but aye, if we must."

Paracelsus is already leagues ahead of them, plopping down in a slightly less infested part of the room, arranging the stew kettle and firewood, using her dagger as a stand-in can opener for the rations.

Sticking to what he's good at, the bounty hunter keeps a lookout, the scrawling darkness of the conjoined tunnels prime candidates for an ambush, but despite the plausibility of danger, his eyes deviate from their post and towards the man he’d been so eager to avoid.

Impervious to the ick around them, the flagellant and the houndmaster seem to be making the best of it, the two batting eyelashes at each other and exchanging coy smiles as if it's the only emotion that exists.

He fixates on the way the deranged priest is gently consoling Fergus, nearly touching William's stagnant fingertips after each pass of his hand through her long fur.

Without realizing it, Tardif grinds his teeth until they ache, his jaw locked up from the pressure.

He already hates this mission. He's beginning to hate it even more.

“You sure you don’t want to eat,” the plague Doctor asks him, holding out a soup bowl swimming with inedible colors, “your metabolism is going to run out.”

The bounty hunter’s stomach leaps into his throat, though he maintains his facade, hoping the young upstart hadn’t caught his negligence.

He must've hid it well enough, Paracelsus showing no indication of teasing him about slacking off.

“Not hungry,” Tardif barks, petulant, turning his head away and crossing his arms in disgust to sell it further.

Paracelsus shrugs, shaking their head as they return their attention to disinfecting the rancid food, letting the bowl rest on their lap as they wait for the remedy to take hold.

“Suit yourself, but don’t come crying to me when your accuracy turns to shite. I am not wasting any of my vapors on you,” they say, lifting their mask to take a spoonful of slop into their mouth without a care for their health.

“Wouldn’t want ye to anyway,” Tardif says, “Can’t rely on blasted snake oil in a bottle.”

Paracelsus turns to him, the black, beady lens of their mask shining with an evil glint.

The doctor flicks their spoon at him and the surly man has to duck to avoid getting shot in the face with a trajectory of dubious porridge.

"I can’t wait to tell Boudica about your sissy squeals the moment we get back. She's going to have a field day with you,” the researcher snubs as they take another bite, chewing loudly with a brooding scowl.

"If ye survive that long," Tardif whispers under his breath, returning to a neutral stance.

"What was that," the scientist says pointedly, those lenses catching the torchlight with another foreboding shimmer.

"Nothin'," he grumbles, turning his back to them, crossing his arms obstinately.

At some point, the flagellant must've traversed the room, the priest now standing before them and what an awful sentry Tardif is turning out to be if he couldn't even signal his approach.

“Paracelsus, could you spare another bowl?"

Wordlessly, the plague doctor fulfills the request, handing over a hearty portion of stew.

"Thank you," the flagellant says before departing, Tardif nothing more than a figment, a ghost in the mist for all the concession Damian spares him.

He watches on as the priest offers the bowl to William, Fergus still resting across his legs as he reaches out to take it.

“What about you," William asks, hesitant to be the only one partaking,"Don't you need to eat?"

The flagellant shakes his head,“That's kind of you, but I have no need.”

At that, the houndmaster risks a bite, the odd earthy flavor going down hard, his dwindling appetite shrinking further.

“I'm pleased Fergus is on the mend,” the holy man says, "But you’re certain you do not wish to return? I would not hold it against you.”

"This old girl has been through worse,” William says, patting the arch of her back, the soup bowl growing cold in the other, “though, I’ll be doing the majority of the fighting from now on. For this mission at least."

Damian gives a shallow nod. “You may call upon me again,” he offers, “Should she ever need it.”

The hound master laughs, almost spitting out the overly salted broth.

“I may have to take you up on that."

—---

When they encounter the formless flesh, none of them expect it to be this abominably grotesque, this gigantic horde of undefinable chaos.

It starts out as nothing more than a few homogeneous blobs. Scattered and twitching, it rises from the floor, piles of flesh absorbed into a massive hog's head, bearing down on them with it’s innumerable black eyes and clamoring mouths.

Tardif grits his teeth for what seems to be the hundredth time. It really is turning out to be that kind of mission, so the huntsman sticks to old favorites, plays it safe with tried and true tactics, testing the waters to see what the dirt kicks up.

Paracelsus assails the mutant’s extremities in a cloud of blight, the corrosive antigen causing the undulating swine to squeal in aversion.

“It’s epidermis is weak," the plague doctor shouts, "Damian, make it beed!"

Just as their voice rings out, a tentacle breaks from the swarming mass of swineflesh, a fluid parasite outfitted with mandibles of teeth, destined to take a chunk out of the scholar's big mouth.

Living up to Para's earlier condemnation, Tardif is too slow, only catching the afterimage of it’s flexible body when it whips past him and thank the Light the plague doctor is the nimble sort, the attack missing them by a mere thread of their skirt.

Tardif is rattled, not just by his own ineptitude, but for the fraction of a second he had to consider how truly screwed they would have been without their eccentric wingman.

As much as the long-nosed pest had taunted him, the bounty hunter favored their presence over their absence, and while Paracelsus is fully capable of holding their own in a fight, the bounty hunter wasn't going to be caught in another disadvantage.

As soon as the sinuous parasite retracts back toward the sanctuary of it’s body, Tardif gets his revenge. With an overpowered swing, he chops the fragile thing in half, his axe cutting a groove into the floor, the effort leaving him panting and splattered with inhuman blood.

The creature reels, screeching in pain, the severed head of it's minion flopping about uselessly and Tardif stomps on the offending maggot to end its pathetic life quicker.

The swarming flesh transforms, it's mutant body molding into baleful fans of bone, each prong as tapered and sharp as a dagger's edge.

Tardif has been carefully memorizing all the creature’s tricks, each piece of the swine altering its shape independently, this configuration telegraphing it's next assault in vivid notoriety.

The houndmaster can sense it too, Fergus barking loudly in warning.

"Brace yourselves," William shouts, guarding his hound, defending himself with the bludgeon of his club.

The serpent-like bones strike the front, the branching tines aimed at the easiest target once, twice, thrice. It misses Damian on the fourth.

"Hold steady! I've got you laddie,” the houndmaster says, helping the hooded man to his feet.

Damian pushes him away, censure ripe in his voice as he speaks, “Forget me. Focus your efforts on protecting Paracelsus.”

"You can't keep going on the way that you are," William argues, gritting his teeth at the man’s stubbornness.

The flagellant pulls his hand away from his newly acquired wounds, his fingers drenched in a lacquer of crimson.

"This …,” Damian smirks, his gaze focused on the beautiful shade coating fist, “... this is nothing!"

He clenches his hand in morbid glee, his blood magic coming to life, healing the group by increments, losing a little part of himself every time his flesh is reopened in a new layer of scars.

Another unyielding blitz of bone zephyrs lash out at four heroes, sparing no one, landing devastating blows in rapid succession.

The onslaught leaves the group hobbled over, too preoccupied with their own stock of suffering to notice the flesh is winding up to strike at them again.

One such attack locks onto Damian and the man has no plans to refuse it's cruel, unforgiving touch.

There's a blinding streak of dark fur, a growl followed by an injured yelp, the hound discarded, lobbed into a heap.

It takes the flagellant a moment to realize that he's been saved by another, of how that knowledge tears into him more deeply than any physical pain ever could.

"Fergus,” William cries, running up to her prone body. The vigilante falls to his knees, abandoning his weapon to tuck his arms under her.

He clutches the canine's injured body against him, holding back tears as he sees the gash the swine had dealt to her muzzle. “By the Light, my sweet girl, what were you thinking.”

"We’re wearing it down," Para calls out, never losing sight of the battle, “strike it now, while it's weak!"

Tardif does. Damian does so harder.

Wracked by the slow passage of blight and bleed, the creature's body begins to break down, it's overinflated head lolling, it's beady, compound eyes heavy.

In regards to this, the monstrous appendages shift, mimicking the arches of vascular tubes, switching to a more passive strategy to knit what pieces are broken.

Tardif has a feeling this monster still has half a brain, enough to plot something beyond the obvious, hiding an ace up its sleeve.

It dawns on him then, why the creature went for Paracelsus first, why it made Damian the new focal point of it's repetitious attacks despite Tardif severing it's infiltrating parasite in half.

No healer meant no hope of resurgence and Damian was it's willing prey. With the holy man out of the way, the creature can take it's time picking off the rest of them, replenishing its reserves all the while.

Just like that, the swine comes for Damian, it's gaping maw unhinged, impossibly wide like a snake's to swallow the flagellant down, completely whole and alive.

"Out of the way!"

"Damian!"

"Move you moron!"

The suicidal fool is glued in place, gladly accepting his fate with open arms as the inflated mass of teeth consumes him right where he stands.

What remains of the expedition party is shocked into silence, watching on as the colossal beast closes around him like a hideous faberge egg.

The swine stills, it's grotesque web of muscles giving a rough spasm, then another, exponentially repeating until the beast is distended, releasing a choked shriek before it pops like a gorged balloon.

Gore splatters the walls, pieces falling to the floor with a sickening slap, the ever-present squeals that haunt the network of tunnels receding into a faint whisper, bowed in mourning of their slain brethren.

"Well, that's enough field study for one day," Paracelsus jokes off-handedly, picking off pieces of exploded viscera from their person.

“Mission’s over," Tardif remarks solemnly, “Time to head back.”

"But Damian … what's become of him," the houndmaster interjects, Fergus a morose bundle in his arms, "We can't just–"

"Leave him," Tardif snaps, venom in his throat, "If he's so eager to die for us, let him."

Williams mouth is agape, Paracelsus too seems rather taken aback by the unwarranted vehemence of his reaction.

"What right do you have to abandon him after he saved you, damn well saved us all,” the Scotsman argues, “I would carry him myself had I another pair of hands."

Tardif strides up to the ex-lawman, deathly serious. "He didn't save shite," the brute shouts,"the bloody bastard wanted to die. He chose this ending for himself all on his own. It had nothin’ to do with any of us."

"You … you don't know that," William says, a disbelieving murmur, unappreciative of the bounty hunter’s aggressive proximity.

"OK, enough," Para says, wedging themselves between the two men, spreading them apart with their minimal arm span.

"We're taking him back," William says, finding his voice again, his well of courage.

"Yer welcome to drag his useless corpse around if ye feel so inclined," Tardif grunts, affording himself the winner of the dispute.

"When I said ‘we,’ I meant you," William sneers, teeth clenched into a sharp corner beneath his mustache.

Tardif hadn't calculated for that response, his obscured eyes growing obtuse then narrow.

"Get bent," the brute spits.

"If you leave the decision to me,” Paracelsus chimes in, one an eyebrow arched beneath their mask, “he's coming back in pieces. As in dismemberment. For ease of transport."

Tardif shrugs. He could care less about how the plague doctor planned to package him up.

“Let me put it another way,” Paracelsus offers, altering their voice into something more crass, “If I have to tell the heir that you left one of their favorite playthings here to rot, you’re going to be a very unhappy man when they decide to ban you from the tavern and everywhere else for that matter. Then, dock your pay.”

William and Paracelsus stare Tardif down, the man showing no signs of acceptance, his demeanor stationary and mute.

“So what’s it going to be,” the negotiating intellectual prompts in urgent ultimatum, “you in or not?”

"Fine,” Tardif snarls, jerking his head in reluctant accord, “I'll square away the baggage. Now, get goin'.”

The science aficionado nods their beak in approval, delegating the next task at hand.

"William, I'll take point."

The houndmaster means to protest, suspicious of leaving Damian alone with Tardif.

Just as well, allowing the petite researcher and their seemingly delicate constitution to lead them back home went against his own quixotic romanticism, principle driving his motivations.

"Whatever you're about to say, don't,” Paracelsus warns, “Tardif will do what he has to. And I am more than capable of retracing our steps back to the entrance and gutting whatever stands in our way."

The ex-lawman tacitly agrees.“Do what's right, Tardif,” he portends, “or else the heir won’t be the only one with a bone to pick.”

The hound master gives one last look at their unfortunate comrade before following the plague doctor down the passageway.

Once they're both out of sight, the brute takes a few paces forward, just close enough for his words to carry.

From here, the flagellant is frightfully charming, hatched from the monster’s nefarious gammon, frozen and stillborne, coated in a yolky membrane of entrails.

"Get up, we're goin'," Tardif orders, hard-pressed to even waste his breath on the tone-deaf fool.

Damian remains as he is, knee-deep in the ruddy pool of burst flesh, the monster’s rotting corpse tainting what breathable air there was left.

"Did I not hear you,” the flagellant sneers, a terse citation, twisting his neck just enough to catch the edges of the bounty hunter’s silhouette looming behind him, “Is this not where I am meant to be?"

Ah, so the flagellant was still alive.

"Then stay for all I care, and spout all the useless drivel ye want," the mercenary scoffs, losing what little scraps of patience that still clung to his sanity.

He turns away from the murk, grateful his mask filters some of the awful stench.

“What is it, bounty hunter,” Damian scorns at the wet slap of retreating steps, “Am I not dangerous enough for you?”

Of all the things he thought the flagellant would say, Tardif never guessed it would be that. The brute pivots on his heel, turning to stare at the man’s scarred back, thoroughly speechless.

The flagellant finally stands up from his crouch, tense with an imploding star of wrath, so many atoms of light beating inside of him, his entire body shaking with the strain of it. He strides toward the bounty hunter, getting too close too fast, a biblical sea of thrashing red.

Tardif waits til the last second to side step, repelling away as Damian’s blood-soaked hands reach out to snag the fabric of his cowl, missing him by a needle's length.

"Why else would you turn away from me, if not for this,” Damian laments, hurt more by the mercenary’s flinch of rejection than the grueling battle that's left him bleeding out. The holes that the monstrous beast bore into the flagellant's flesh still gushing with vital spurts of crimson.

Why would anything Tardif does matter so much to Damian?

“That thing knocked all yer screws loose, didn’t it,” the brute scoffs, feeling a drop of unease, his pulse quickening, but he thinks that just might be the paranoia that something else more threatening than Damian is lurking about.

"Am I too predictable? too loyal,” the flagellant asks, growing more desperate as the words roar past his throat, his canines splattered with blood, "Have I disappointed you? Fallen short of your expectations? Are we too different? Too opposite?"

Tardif hadn’t realized he'd backed himself into a wall, his gloves sticky and putrid with the slime of it. He makes an exasperation of disgust.

This seems to fuel the fanatic even more, his lanky frame bowing forward, cornering the bounty hunter. How many times must they dance this same, tired song?

“What must I do? Are my intentions not clear enough for you? Must I drive them in further," Damian tells him, his arm an iron bar jabbing into the stonework, above the huntsman's helmet.

Damian's body is slick with gore, enough to stain every part of Tardif that he now presses against, the curdling, tangy scent of the sticky substance overbearing, his nostrils flaring at the pungency.

The flagellant smirks, breath ghosting over the shorter man's clothed ear, "Use that rope of yours and give me another lesson to learn."

Part of Tardif wants to give into the cruel twist, to bind him into submission, but he's already let the holy man walk in his shadow once, a mistake he can't seem to blame on stale mead and mindless curiosity, and the bounty hunter refuses to re-live a pain he's sworn never to have again. He can't. He won't.

"Ye bloody fool, are ye too cracked to see yer dyin'," Tardif grunts.

The flagellant cackles, unhinged, no longer a man, but something else more wild and fargone," With death, brings clarity. If you wish it, I would die for this, for you. It would be my greatest act. Do not keep me waiting, Tardif. Finish it, now. This existence only causes pain."

"No," Tardif says with a finality as grim and sharp as a guillotine.

That one word makes Damian's face contort, a twitch of anger not unlike a death throe, lips pulled down into the corner of his clenched teeth with a sagging snarl.

"Then, I'll make you," Damian growls, his nose wrinkling with the depth of his meaning, pulling out his flail from behind his back, easing it from the sash in his robes. The chains unfurl, swinging in a glittering, metallic hymn, a trickling pendulum of demise.

It takes only a second for the stare-down of idle tension to become a whirlwind of blind fury and his time, when Damian lunges, swings, an array of spikes catch Tardif, tearing a gaping hole in his cowl, just missing his throat.

Tardif's instinct takes over, too lost in the adrenaline of survival to acknowledge his own swell of anger bubbling up, his hands grasping for the handle of his axe with expert precision.

He parries, deflecting the next maelstrom that comes, a sickening pang of steel that sparks and echoes, eclipsing the distant squeals of malformed beasts.

The two weapons collide, a reverberating volley, as the flagellant holds nothing back, the piercing rain of blood slashing him open, ripping open new gashes on Tardif’s axe-wielding arm, just over his shoulder.

One such attack hits with perfectly curved momentum, the cerberus-headed weights of the priest’s fail wrapping around a gloved wrist, and the more that Tardif tries to tug his hand free, the more the chains tighten around him, disabling it’s use.

"When," Damian asks, gritting his teeth, advancing a step, "if not by death, in what form will I be enough for you?”

Of all the stupid, ill-begotten rants he could be going on about, the flagellant chooses this to be his eulogy.

Damian could solve all their problems now, heal them both with his Light magic and be done with this pointless skirmish, but the bastard would rather stick both feet in the grave.

The bounty hunter grips the flail's metal with his free hand, yanking the weapon forward and the flagellant along with it.

"When," the mercenary barks, "Ye really want to know when, ye bloody idiot?"

He takes the opportunity to backhand the cowled freak, following it up with a swift kick to the stomach, pulling himself off balance in the process, the two weathered fighters still attached.

Tardif snarls, swinging out his axe to compensate, the curved blade cutting across the flagellants chest, collarbone to ribcage, his self-preservation gene nonexistent.

The man gushes like a fountain of stringy red bouquets, wavering on his feet, no doubt woozy from blood loss, the dramatic lines of hot air he was toting before finally expended.

Seizing the moment, Tardif digs into one of his leather pouches on his belt, finding the small bottle of knock-out vapor that he borrowed from Paracelsus' lab.

He crushes the bottle inside his fist, the leather saving him from the pinch of thorny glass shards. His glove now soaked with the compromising chemical, he shoves it in the flagellant's face, covering his nose and mouth simultaneously with his palm.

"This is when," Tardif tells him, meeting his eyes in defiance.

The effects are instantaneous, Damian's eyelashes fluttering like a bird’s wings, his conscience evaporating like a billow of smoke as he crumples, completely limp in the bounty hunter's arms.

Maybe it's just the waning edge of the inciting battle, the mounting of his wounds, but the flagellant proves to be heavier than he looks.

The brute lowers them both down, the flagellant still clutched feebly in his grip as he sits amongst the rotting muck, taking a temporary reprieve to steady his breath.

It's not long before his mind wants to explore the subliminal context of what took place, but he won't allow it, springs to action instead, stripping off his soiled glove, discarding into the trash heap of this cancerous wasteland.

He reaches into his utility belt for another capsule he acquired from Paracelsus, cracks it open like the chemist had demonstrated (not necessarily taught) during one of their many experiments.

The kinetic energy has a domino effect, creating a foam to cauterize the gaping holes in the flagellants' wounds.

He doesn't have the resources to address every deep gouge presented to him (there were far too many for his limited supply), so he fills in the largest ones he can find, binds whatever's leftover in a roll of bandages.

The results are better than nothing, a temporary fix until he can get him to a proper medic.

As he looks over what remains of the flagellant, a repressed, infinitesimally small part of him prays that the stubborn bastard lives just so that he can beat the ever loving shite out of him when he recovers. Maybe then, he'll finally learn some sense.

—---

William frowns, eyes settling on the impending bruise of twilight.

“Something's gone awry,” the houndmaster declares, his keen intuition focused on the sinister aura emitting from the sewers, "they’ve been in there too long.”

"Unsurprising,” Para remarks, “knowing those two. Tell me you're not suggesting that we go back in after them, are you?”

William is contemplative, about to open his mouth to speak when another's arrival cuts him off. The two heroes turn in unison to scuff of heavy footsteps, an oddly-shaped shadow emerging from the sluice.

It's Tardif – the lumbering mercenary carrying Damian's battered body on the crest of shoulders.

"You're looking a bit worse for the wear,” the plague doctor jeers, noting the appearance of the bounty hunter’s slashed cowl and the uncommon sight of his stubble underneath, “Run into some trouble?"

"Hrm," Tardif informs, kneeling down to rest a knee on the dirt road, looking over-encumbered, "I've staunch his wounds."

Para skitters over, inspecting the human-shaped lump on his back.

"So I see," the plague doctor says, "Decided to use my prototype, eh? I was wondering where it had run off to. Your application could have been better. He's … oozing."

Tardif grunts haphazardly, too tired to bicker. He knew he botched it up.

"Probably shouldn't move him too much," Para continues, assuaging what they can of the improper first-aid, "not that we have much of a choice.”

"Then let's be off," William suggests, Fergus held prostrate in his arms, "We're all in need of Hamlet and it's comforts tonight."

Silently they all agree, forming a single file line as they march towards the familiar, muted skyline of civilization.

—-

The flagellant gasps, shooting awake as if rising from the grave. The numbing haze of sleep is shed, the temporary mercy of oblivion exchanged for the bitter tidings of consciousness.

His flesh burns as if branded by fire, cut apart then reassembled, melted and yet not. It runs deep inside, the source tucked under his skin where he can't reach.

"Calm down. Yer safe now,” a gruff voice tells him, though he can't place whose.

The world around him is confused, mottled, spinning with indiscernible shapes as a pair of hands levy against his shoulders, pushing him to lay back down.

Damian is helplessly submissive to the insistent weight, overwhelmed by liminal sensation, his nerve endings firing off more explosive bursts of pain.

His bloodshot eyes blink, wild and derelict as they adjust, trying to make sense of the weaving silhouette before him, cloaked against a backdrop of sunlight.

"Did you see the Holy Light? How it shined down upon us,” Damian asks, looking upwards towards the ceiling of vaulted beams, the sunrays streaking in from the tall gothic windows.

After a sobering pause, the priest surveys his hands, flexing them open and closed, trying to decide if he truly had perished.

"Did it not take me," he remarks softly, a delicate realization that may shatter his illusion of calm.

"Not just yer head, but ye need yer eyes checked too," the voice says, reaching out to grip the flagellant's chin, angling his face to get a better look at his injuries.

Damian is compliant, letting the investigative hand turn him every which way, mediating his time until his sight finally returns.

Tardif wonders how long it will take him to realize he's been stripped of his bloody cowl, the nurses divesting him of it the moment he was brought in for treatment, that these touches the bounty hunter places against his jaw are more than just simple inspection.

It's difficult to keep his fingers placid, treading further into caressing rather than assessing his wounds, his pale face littered with more cuts and bruises than skin. He takes note of some of the bigger scars, one slashing down his lips, another across his forehead and over his cheek. The bounty hunter has to wonder if there is anywhere on his body that’s left unmarked.

Tardif takes advantage of the disorientation, amazed by how red the flagellant's eyes are, wants to attribute the unnatural pigment to another occupational hazard, but judging from the rest of him, now cleaned and bandaged up, he’s incredibly pallid underneath, almost colorless. The brute realizes then, just how much of him was caked in layers upon layers of vermilion. Passion has always been his favorite color. Seeing it drives the bounty hunter mad like a bull.

Blearily, the owner of the voice comes into focus, the studded helmet and chainmail unmistakable, a revelation that makes the flagellant recoil from him instantly. With a snarl, he slaps the offending hand away, favoring the side of the bed that's farthest from Tardif.

The bounty hunter sighs, derisive, taking the rebuffing outburst in stride.

"What do ye remember,” Tardif asks, pulling up a nearby stool.

“I remember you,” Damian scorns, growling like a feral cat cornered by betrayal.

The flagellant has never regarded him with such rabid distaste before. Even during their unfortunate mishaps at the warrens, this side of him is in a word: new.

Tardif shivers. He sort of likes the look of resentment on the fanatic's usual cheshire face.

"What is it ye remember 'bout me," the bounty hunter asks, tempering his voice.

He won't mention how his own memory is alive with the swing of that accursed flail, how Damian forced his hand, made them enemies, his wrist still bearing the marks of the chainlinks under his glove.

Tardif's words spark some sensibility in him, the flagellant going quiet as he searches his memory for an answer. The cutthroat brigand can tell he's come across some damning recollection, the widening of his flaming eyes gives him away, but the holy man is quick to conceal it.

“Why are you here,” Damian deflects, turning the tables, his pale brows pressed into an inquisitive "v," of accusation.

Why is he here?

It's a good question, one the bounty hunter could have dodged entirely if he simply left before the bloody fool woke up.

“Wanted to make sure draggin' yer sorry ass wasn't a waste,” the brute tells him, standing up from his seat.

Tardif hates having a debt to repay (would rather die than carry that weight on his conscience), but the flagellant had once again stuck his nose in where it didn't belong, made him compromise his carefully crafted code, his rules of survival.

The bounty hunter tells himself it doesn't matter anymore, that they're even now, a life for a life.

Seeing no other reason to stick around, the somber mercenary takes his leave.

He doesn't expect Damian to call out his name.

Tardif pauses, waits.

The flagellant is bereft, clearly surprising himself, his voice ostensibly compelled.

"Tardif…," he says again, slower, quieter, before trailing off into silence.

Damian doesn't know what to say beyond that, praying that this one word would be enough to keep this cold unfeeling man by his side a little longer.

There’s a beat, an echo that alerts Tardif to the company of the nurse, her heels making a loud clack against the stone as she enters the medical ward. The bounty hunter is sure she’s the same gossip that leaked his own evaluation, passing it on to every ear in Hamlet that would listen.

Tardif admits he wasn't the easiest patient to deal with. Knocking over medical equipment and refusing treatment, not to mention the destruction of property and the allegations of assault gives him the distinct feeling that her motivations were personal.

He growls at her as she steps up to Damian's bed, the nurse returning his glare briefly.

"Checks,” the nurse explains, skimming over the medical chart hanging at the foot of the mattress.

"As you can see, I'm fine," Damian insists, trying to wave her away.

"I'll be the judge of that," she declares, reading over the notes, "ruptured eye socket, retinal artery occlusion resulting in acute blindness, internal hemorrhaging, massive abdominal trauma … the list goes on. According to your papers, there’s a lot that’s not fine with you.”

Having made her point, the nurse sets the chart back into place, Damian still adverse to the idea of her wasting time on facilitating his recovery.

"Tardif," Damian calls, nearly frantic, trying to chase the man's receding form as the nurse pries at him for a full physical appraisal, "Come back to visit me later. There's something I want to give you."

The bounty hunter doesn't answer, already bound for the exit, but the flagellants' plea reaches him whether he wants it to or not.

He passes William on his way out, brushing shoulders with the man as they mirror each other in the hall.

The ex-lawman doesn't stop, bound for the same room, the same patient Tardif had just come from.

There is something moderately distressing about his presence here, an instinct telling the bounty hunter to stay close by. Going with his gut, he sidles up against the stonework just outside the doorway, eavesdropping in on the conversation.

"William, hero or not, I must remind you that we do not permit animals beyond the front door,” the nurse reprimands.

"My apologies,” William replies, sheepishly rubbing his beard, “I heard dogs can do wonders for the healing process."

"Yes, I’ve heard the same,” she says, frowning critically, “please see to it that you remember this rule from now on. It's important for sanitation."

“Yes, yes of course,” he says, rubbing the nape of his neck, bowing bashfully as she departs.

"William,” the flagellant greets, putting on an uplifting smile, “to what do I owe the honor?”

Tardif finds he's grinding his teeth again. It’s beginning to become a nasty habit.

How easily he's been forgotten, replaced.

"Fergus wanted to see how you're doing," the houndmaster says with a smirk, the adorable mutt's wet nose pointed up, her tail wagging.

"Did she," Damian laughs, leaning over to pet her gray mop of hair, masking the throb of pain that comes with performing the gesture.

The furball startles them both, delightfully impulsive as she jumps up onto the bed to lick his face.

"As you can see, Fergus is back to her old self again," William chuckles, letting the old girl smother the flagellant in affectionate kisses.

"I knew she would," Damain says, folding his hands over her ears, "She would not have recovered so quickly if not for your care as well."

"I can't tell you how grateful I am for what you did," Willam says, as sincere as ever.

“Think nothing of it," the macabre healer replies, the two men sharing an emphatic look of respect.

Fergus turns around in Damian's lap, her paws stepping on and over his legs to sit herself down on them, looking quite pleased with her recent accomplishments.

Tardif hates the look of that damn smile, gentle and effortless, how it only seems to show itself around William, so unlike the half-crazed grins the flagellant usually fixes him with.

It's infuriating how soft Damian's tone becomes, the same friendly camaraderie the two displayed at the warrens played out for him here again. The flagellant never relaxes for him like that, never looks so relieved to have him near.

"There's something else," the houndmaster admits after a long, awkward pause, his brown eyes averted as he wrings his hands together nervously.

Curious, Damian waits for the man to finish his thought.

"I wanted to apologize," the ex-lawman sighs, the statement seeming to exhaust him after speaking it aloud.

Damian shakes his head, offering a consoling smile, "William, there's no need–"

The Scotsman keeps his expression firm, holding up his hand in a silent interruption, "No, not just for my own actions, but for theirs as well."

The implications hit Damian far more than expected, the holy man's expression going sour. He scowls, scarred hands gripping at the hound’s fur coat before leaving off, smoothing out the coarse pelt with shallow stokes, trying to occupy his thoughts with something more pleasant.

"I … I do not hold you responsible for them,” Damian concludes, the words grinding like stone, “but I appreciate it nonetheless.”

"I'll be adding a few extra coins to the collection plate when I visit the Abbey to pray for your recovery," the bearded man remarks, hoping to alleviate the mood.

Damian’s eyes widen in shock, quick to correct the man's flawed methodology, "While I am not one to deter holy devotion, there are others who–"

"Yes,” William interjects, “there may be, but I still want to.”

An affirming smile follows, one that the priest's struggles to contest, the rebuttal dying in his throat.

“You’re … very kind, William,” Damian praises, accepting his compassion more easily than not, “Thank you.”

Tardif is going to throw up.

The insistent tap of an impatient black heel gives privy that the nurse has returned, a tray of dressings in her hand as she stands waiting for the houndmaster to depart.

"I really must insist you take her outside," the nurse maid utters, her grimace one of disapproval as she spots the paw prints on the once pristine white sheets.

The shaggy dog barks in objection, Fergus perfectly content to stay where she is.

The nurse flinches at the aggressive yip, releasing a cry of exclamation.

"Apologies, miss. We'll be going now," the Scotsman says, "Be well Damian. Fergus looks forward to seeing you back on your feet again."

"I appreciate you coming to see me,” Damian replies, giving Fergus a final pat on the head, “May the Light watch over you both.”

"You too my friend," the houndmaster says, calling Fergus to his side with a whistle and a snap of his fingers. The four legged beast whines a sassy reluctant yelp, but ultimately obeys her master's orders.

—-

As William descends the steps leading back into town, a loitering shadow calls out to him from the dark.

"Past visitin’ hours ain't it," Tardif remarks, an aggressive edge to his voice, a whetstone sharpening a knife.

His soliciting shape emerges from the obscure recesses of the building, coming into view with the same off-putting energy that he brought with him to the mission.

"It's the least I could do for the man who saved our lives,” the flaxen vigilante snaps, his attempt at being cordial slipping by the second, “That being said, would it kill you to show some gratitude?"

"Never asked to be saved," Tardif barks, agitated that anyone would suggest he would need saving in the first place. It reeks of poor taste and bad memories.

"Maybe so, but you need not ask for such a thing for it to be given," the Scotsman argues, his fists clenching, amazed by the gall of this erring brute.

The air of contention between them rises, an electric spark of rivalry that has the two heroes staring each other down, on the verge of beating their respective faces in when Fergus intervenes.

Her forepaws tap against the bounty hunter's belt buckle, standing on her hind legs, sniffing at him and wagging her tail.

The steadfast hound has never been this openly affectionate with him before. Her jowls had a reputation to maim so Tardif is justifiably cautious when he reaches out to pat her on the head.

The old girl doesn’t give him the chance, her tongue eagerly lapping at his hand before he can move too far.

Things suddenly click together inside the bounty hunter's head. It’s the blood. Damian's blood.

Tardif is still slick with the scent of him, even more so after carrying the flagellant all the way back here to the Sanitarium only to watch over his bedside and man-handle every curve of his exposed face.

Inadvertently, it seems the flagellant had saved him again.

The sight of his best friend’s disarming behavior drains the fight right out of William. He shakes his head at such petty ridiculousness, too old for jealous suitors and back alley brawls.

"Take from my advice what you will, but we should all make good use of the time that we're given," the ex-lawman says, "Who knows how long any of us have left on this rock; especially here, especially now.”

Tardif holds his gaze, stone-faced behind that helmet of his, idly petting Fergus.

William can only sigh in return. He swears having a conversation with this thick-headed ruffian is the equivalent to talking to a brick wall.

"Time for us to get going," the houndmaster says, clicking his tongue for Fergus to follow, heading in the direction of the barracks, “Good evening to you, Tardif.

The bounty hunter grunts in reply, letting the vigilante go on about his way, trusty wolfhound in toe.

The churlish brigand had been so thirsty for a fight. To this day, it remains one of the few ways in which Tardif can blank out his mind, free it from earthly shackles of doubt and regret, but here he was left to wrestle with these emotions despite how badly he wants them to end.

He debates on whether or not he should go back inside, if it was better to let the idiot rest for the duration of the night. The flagellant would need it in order to clear his head of the metaphorical clutter, the deep-set radical delusion (if such a feat were possible).

No matter how long Tardif stares up at the faded menagerie of stars on the horizon, it doesn’t give him the answer.

{End Chapter}

[cablesproducer-blog]

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[shadowsong26fic]

Coming Attractions!

First Monday of the month (and year!!), which means it’s time for a Coming Attractions post!

(This has been crossposted to my new Dreamwidth fic archive here.)

So, overall analysis--I didn’t get as much done as I would’ve liked, either over the past month or the year as a whole, but I think I did produce some decent content, so there’s that!

Precipice:

Yep, I’m super behind where I wanted to be, lol…Arc Six took me almost the whole year, damn. Uh. I think what I’ve learned from this experience is next time I plan out an arc, however plot-necessary, that is going to be 99% fluff, I need to re-evaluate my life choices and not do that because this is really super not in my wheelhouse. Not on that kind of sustained level, at least. Saw is also not particularly easy for me to write, so hiding in the other half of the plotline wasn’t really an option either. It probably didn’t help that I changed where I was going with that half partway through (in my original version, he was actually behind the bombing/kidnapping attempt, but then I realized that that made absolutely no sense while he still has custody of Jyn…). Ah, well. At some point, I should probably sit down and reread the entire arc because maybe the finished product, with some distance from the uber-frustrating process, won’t feel as forced/not-good as it does to me now…

Anyway. Now that my whining is out of the way...there’s one more chapter in this arc! It should go up sometime in the next couple days. Featuring the Jedi reuniting and comparing notes; and Padme finally reading her parents and sister in on a few important details. And then we get to Arc Seven, which has had like five working titles over the past month, and I still haven’t settled on one, lol…This arc will pick up roughly three years after Arc Six, and involve more Infernalis, a key turning point with Luke and Lavinia, and Anakin and Leia probably going to Jedha to achieve a specific milestone. (Because I decided to stick closer to canon than Legends on this particular topic and I don’t want to straight-up invent a planet…should be fun!)

As I think I’ve mentioned before, after Arc Seven, (which I’m guessing will be roughly 15 chapters; as amusing as it would be to end these first seven arcs on Chapter 75, there’s way more to cover than I can fit in nine chapters), I’m going to split the fic into another document. Partly for length/convenience--this thing is going to be over 200k by the time I’m done with Arc Seven, I’m 99% sure--and partly because there’s something of a tone/focus shift for arcs 8-14. Also, there’s a longer timeskip than usual--six years between Arcs Seven and Eight. (Which, if you’re counting, you can probably guess what’s behind the shift… :D )

Also, as per usual, I’ll probably do a couple bonus fics this year--not sure when, exactly, or under what context, but I like bonus content.

Other Fanfic Projects:

I’m hoping to actually get back to Distaff and/or Auxiliaries and/or Phoenix!Verse this year. And put out some more Valdemar AU, probably--I do still need to write, at minimum, Hera, Obi-Wan, and Ezra getting Chosen--maybe some more Handler AU, too. Plus an AU outline or two--finishing Let’s Go Steal a Crossover; adding more to Ventress and Her Tiny Time-Travelling Conscience; a few other concepts kicking around in my head...

In terms of other long-form/fulltext projects, I am participating in SWBB again this year, but I’m now finding myself without a plot. I was going to do either our faces like a mirror or the Untitled ObiAniDala AU Epic, but over the past few days I’ve come to the conclusion that these are both massive undertakings and I am vanishingly unlikely to finish even a rough draft of either by the time said rough drafts are due. So, as much as I’d like an extra Incentive to finish OFLAM before the new Clone Wars episodes air and potentially Joss significant chunks of it, this is not going to be it.

The reason for this is that, for OFLAM, I have to do a lot of buildup if I want the ending to pay off. Plus, I have a whole bunch of white space to fill in during the eight years between when Bo comes back to Sundari after the civil war ends and when she leaves to join Death Watch. …most of which would involve that buildup. I mean, I could probably finish the first chunk, which covers Bo-Katan’s experiences while she’s on the run/actually during the civil war, but that doesn’t feel like a complete story to me? (Also, 95% of it would basically be Bo-Katan and miscellaneous OCs, with a brief appearance by Pre Viszla and maybe Jango Fett will turn up? Anyway, I’m not sure that kind of setup is appropriate for challenge purposes.) So I’m reluctant to do that.

(The title for this project, for anyone who’s curious, comes from Vienna Teng’s “Antebellum.” The first verse doesn’t entirely fit, but all the rest…)

As for the Untitled ObiAniDala AU Epic, it, uh. Look, the timeline diverges 25+ years before AOTC. I actually have a lot more of the plot worked out for this one, but it involves a) a crapload of worldbuilding and b) a primary-focus courtship narrative, which is also not super in my wheelhouse. I can do it, I just don’t think I can do it in the couple of months I have, you know? Especially since about half of what I’ve written so far deals with the backstory around the breakpoint, mostly focusing on Bail. The other half does deal with the main plotline, but…yeah.

So, yeah. I’m working to come up with a new concept that is simple enough for me to finish in time but engaging enough to keep me Invested without wandering off into too many recursive AUs, lol. One possibility would be to turn my Bail Unfucks the Timeline AU outline into a fulltext fic, but it doesn’t really have an ending, even in my head…ah, well. I’ll pick something, hopefully soon, and get it done. I do pretty well when I’m working to an externally-imposed deadline, at least…?

Anyway. As a bonus, some teasers for OFLAM and the Untitled AU Epic!

Satine wasn’t in the main audience hall, or our father’s old study. She was, as it turned out, in the little cramped closet of a room she’d always liked, when she was doing homework or writing letters or whatever she decided she needed privacy for.

I took a breath, wondering exactly what I’d find--if she’d changed as much as I had, if she’d…

I shook it off, raised my hand, and tapped on the door four times quickly, then twice slow, just like I always had. To let her know it was me.

I didn’t wait for her to answer, because I couldn’t bear the suspense anymore. (Also, I had never really waited for her to answer, why start now?)

Satine had half risen behind her desk, even paler than usual, and--stars above, her face was a little leaner, her eyes a little darker, but that was my sister. Still my sister, my beautiful, charismatic, powerful older sister.

My Duchess.  -- our faces like a mirror

“Look, you need someone to break into places, I’m your guy. And Ahsoka fits into ventilation shafts,” [Anakin] went on, before Obi-Wan could actually object. “I may not have tried anything as complicated as an Imperial prison, but I can do this. And you’re gonna need all the help you can get.”

“Face it, Obi-Wan,” Ahsoka said. “You don’t get to do the noble lone-wolf Tragic Hero thing on this one. You’re stuck with us.” -- Untitled ObiAniDala AU Epic [based on this prompt from @obianidalasuggestion]

Original Fiction:

Definitely hoping to do more in 2019 than I did in 2018. Starting with writing stuff outside of the big Summer Challenge on rainbowfic…

Goals:

Last year, my goals/New Year’s Resolutions were:

1. Keep up with Precipice updates, complete Arc Seven by the end of September. …yeah, this one, uh. Didn’t happen. 2. Write at least 15k of original fiction Closer to 2k…<.< it was a slow year all around, I think. 3. Update the Lux and Farglass Cycle archives. …nnnnope.

And here are my 2019 goals:

1. Finish Precipice and at least one full arc of Protectors/Precipice II. 2. Write at least 7.5k of origfic content. 3. Start posting OFLAM and/or Untitled ObiAniDala Epic AU. 4. Revive a semi-hiatused fic (Distaff or Auxiliaries or Phoenix!Verse) 5. Update Lux and Farglass Cycle archives, and transfer tumblr archive to DW. 6. At least for AU outline installments of some kind. 7. Complete BB submission, and keep an eye out for other challenges/exchanges/whatever.

[missimofficial]

TS4 Galaxy Legacy Challenge

Hello everyone, as promised, I present to you the new challenge I created. It’s based on ten of the galaxies within the universe with plenty of opportunity to mould it to something you will enjoy. I particularly like the tenth generation. I hope you enjoy it! I also have a PDF version of the rules. The hashtag is #galaxylegacychallenge Please tag me @missim-you-official-cc-finds or @missim-you-official so I can see.

PDF Download

The Idea

We all live in this beautiful world and it’s the same for the Sims, too. But what is beyond that beautiful night sky? Beyond the alien planet that many have claimed to have visited? Do you have a fascination with space and time? Inspired by the zodiac? This is the perfect challenge then!

The galaxies around the one within which we live are vast and glorious, but I haven’t got much knowledge about them. This is as much to learn about space as it is to have insanely fun Sims challenges. There will be ten heirs in total. There are numerous galaxies beyond those mentioned in this challenge, so you can expand your challenge if you wish.

CAS

Use the colours of the galaxies to set a colour scheme for each heir in CAS or use it more as a metaphorical approach for their traits, romantic interests or décor within their homes. It’s up to your own interpretation of how you see the galaxies.

Rules

For the sake of this challenge, I will be creating my own colour schemes, trait lists and ideal career paths, but you can edit them to your own hearts’ content.

Start your game with only a starter budget for your Sims.

No money cheats are allowed.

You may use MC Command Centre.

You can use custom content.

Spouses can be anyone, within reason or otherwise noted.

Play on a normal lifespan.

Elements like traits, colour schemes, ideal careers etc. are only a guide. You may edit them if you wish.

Name your characters whatever you wish.

Works best if your characters remain either alien or human rather than vampires. Optional.

If you undertake the challenge I would love to see it. Share your gameplay on tumblr under #galaxylegacychallenge so I can check it out. I will include my gameplay at @missim-you-official.

Inspired By

This challenge is one that has been stuck in my head for a while, but I never really got around to it because of study getting in the way. These are just some fun challenges I like that helped inspire me to work on my own challenge.

Star Signs Legacy (Zodiac) by Lifesimmerfan22.

Not So Berry Legacy by Lilsimsie.

Planet Legacy by Oxkenstead, Grnitefalls & Simbee.

Generations:

Generation One: Milky Way

Interesting Facts

We live here.

It contains more than 200 billion stars and capable of billions more.

It is a barred spiral type of galaxy.

It is 13.6 billion years old.

There is at least one supermassive black hole called Sagittarius A (which contains mass equivalent to 4.3 million suns) in the galactic centre, at a distance of 26,000 light years from Earth.

It grows by merging other galaxies, currently the Sagittarius Dwarf Spheroidal and material from the Magellanic Clouds.

The diameter is 100,000 ly.

The distance is 0 ly (because we’re here).

Colours

Blue.

Violet.

White.

Silver.

Description

You grew up nurturing plants and learning how to garden with your grandmother, so you have a very familial-oriented perspective in life. You were a clingy toddler and now that you’ve grown up, you have a strong commitment to a work-life balance. You always wanted children and would love to have a set of twins someday. You’ve worked hard, and you can finally afford that starter home you’ve dreamed of.

Traits

Family oriented.

Ambitious.

Clumsy.

Aspiration

Super parent.

Career

Doctor.

Additional

Master parenting, cooking, handiness and gardening skills.

Have a successful marriage. (This doesn’t mean you have to stay with the first person you meet, either. Have 8 failed marriages before you meet “the one” if you want).

Develop a great relationship with your loved ones.

Master the doctor career.

Generation Two: LMC (Large Magellanic Cloud)

Interesting Facts

It is known as the Satellite Galaxy.

When the clouds of gas collapse and create new stars, they light up the gasses and result in beautiful displays of vibrant colour.

The diameter is 14,000 ly.

The distance is 158,000 ly.

It is the third-closest galaxy to the Milky Way.

Colours

Orange.

Purple.

Pink.

Description

Your mother/father/other taught you everything you know, and you grew up nurtured in the best way that your parents could. Now people are simply drawn to you, your fun-loving nature and love for all. You don’t want the same 9-5 work that your parents had, so you aspire to follow your creative nature. Your passion can be misconstrued as arrogance; however, people want to be around you regardless.

Traits

Self-assured.

Dance machine.

Flirty.

Aspiration

Soulmate.

Career

Painter/Entertainer. Optional.

Additional

Master painting, singing & musical instrument skills.

Find “the one” later in life.

Run a karaoke club.

Collect all the MySims trophies.

Complete the painter or entertainer careers.

Generation Three: Andromeda

Interesting Facts

The diameter is 220,000 ly.

The distance is 2,500,000 ly.

Andromeda and Milky Way will eventually clash in 5 billion years.

It is a spiral galaxy like the Milky Way.

Contains a bulge of matter in the middle with a disk of gas, dust and stars with an immense halo.

It contains approximately a trillion stars as opposed to the half a billion in the Milky Way, though contains less dark matter, which makes it less massive.

Colours

Orange.

Red.

Gold.

Description

Taking after your parents, you grow up being a natural magnet for people around you, but you don’t like the level of commitment that comes with it. You’re a free spirit with a love for space and science, and you live a minimalist lifestyle, only having things you need. You’re close with your grandparents and collect elements to study at your home laboratory.

Traits

Flirty.

Non-committal.

Genius.

Aspiration

Serial Romantic.

Career

Scientist.

Additional

Complete the crystals, metals and elements collections.

Discover the alien planet Sixam.

Complete the scientist career path.

Complete the serial romantic aspiration.

Have a child with your second partner.

Generation Four: M82

Interesting Facts

It is 37,000 ly in diameter.

It is 11,500,000 ly in distance.

Also known as the Cigar Galaxy.

It is forming stars 10 times faster than normal galaxies.

It was originally believed to be an irregular galaxy but is a spiral galaxy side-on.

Eventually the gasses will no longer be plentiful and in tens of millions of years into the future, it will dwindle to a halt.

There is a mystery body of material within the centre that goes unknown as to what it actually is to this day.

Colours

Orange.

Aqua.

Red.

Magenta.

Description

You’re the life of the party, creative and bright. You love decorating in bright colours and dying your hair to whatever, depending on how you feel. Tattoos are a huge part of your life, with a fun experience or important meaning to you behind each one. You enjoy visiting festivals and live a life jumping from house to house, town to town.

Traits

Creative.

Active.

Self-assured.

Aspiration

Party animal.

Career

Painter.

Additional

Master painting and athletic skills.

Own a successful art store.

Decorate your child’s room with your artworks.

Complete the party animal aspiration.

Move house at least four times.

Generation Five: M101

Interesting Facts

It is 170,000 ly in diameter.

It is 20,870,000 ly in distance.

It is otherwise known as the Pinwheel Galaxy.

You can find it in the constellation Ursa Major in the Northern Hemisphere.

It is 70% larger than the Milky Way.

The light you see of it through a telescope has travelled for 21 million years, longer than human kind has existed.

There are at least 1 trillion stars within it.

Its total mass equates to 100 billion solar masses.

Colours

Cream.

White.

Silver.

Tan.

Description

You were born into a household of bright colours and patterns that your parents loved. Your consistent moving from town to town meant it was difficult to find friends, and you enjoy solitude above all else. You find it difficult to form romantic relationships especially, and now that you’ve moved out of home you want to settle into a stable home, career and be rid of the noisy colour palette. You still enjoy some pops of colour and love computer games.

Traits

Unflirty.

Loner.

Geek.

Aspiration

Computer whiz.

Career

Tech guru.

Additional

Master video gaming, programming, logic and handiness skills.

Adopt two pets.

Master tech guru career.

Reach best friend status with one other non-related sim (do not count pets).

Generation Six: M104

Interesting Facts

It is otherwise known as the Sombrero Galaxy.

It has a white, bulbous core surrounded by thick dust lanes.

It is considered to have a black hole at the centre of the galaxy.

It has 10x more than the number of globular clusters than the Milky Way.

It is 50,000 ly in diameter.

It is 29,350,000 ly in distance.

Colours

White.

Black.

Navy.

Silver.

Tan.

Description

Like your parents, you enjoy muted colours and can’t quite shake the gloomy feeling around you from the solitude of your childhood. However, you enjoy the more expensive things in life and this leads you down a bumpy path. You think that parenthood is overrated and would rather hire people to do those menial tasks for you.

Traits

Gloomy.

Kleptomaniac.

Materialistic.

Aspiration

Fabulously Wealthy.

Career

Business/Criminal Optional.

Additional

Master the business or criminal career paths.

Master the fabulously wealthy aspiration.

If in the business career path, master logic and charisma skills.

If in the criminal career path, master mischief, programming and handiness skills.

Hire a nanny and/or butler full time when you reach a high enough income.

Generation Seven: M51

Interesting Facts

It is otherwise known as the Whirlpool Galaxy.

It is 60,000 ly in diameter.

It is 30,000,000 ly in distance.

It contains infrared light, hydrogen and a number of young and old stars.

Colours

Red.

Gold.

Blue.

Description

You were never very close with your parents but never lacked the finer things in life. You’re fascinated by smaller spaces and always wanted to live in a tiny house or apartment surrounded by books. You want to become a famous author and enjoy going to book club with your friends. Your childhood involved spending long hours with your imaginary friends, and now you want to share your stories with the world. Your nanny used to read you to sleep as a child, and you look forward to the day that you get signed by a major publishing house. You also enjoy writing to your friends and decorating your walls with photographs and postcards.

Traits

Creative.

Ambitious.

Perfectionist.

Aspiration

Bestselling author.

Career

Writer.

Additional

Master charisma, photography, wellness and writing skills.

Complete the postcard collection.

Complete the bestselling author aspiration.

Complete the writer career.

Move into a tiny house or apartment.

Generation Eight: NGC 1300

Interesting Facts

It is known as a barred spiral galaxy, where the arms do no spiral all the way into the centre but connect to two ends of a straight bar that contains a nucleus within the centre.

It is 110,000 ly in diameter.

It is 61,000,000 ly in distance.

Colours

Crimson.

Blue.

Silver.

Description

You were very close with your parents growing up and adopted the importance of caring for your wellbeing from them at a very young age. Like them, you have a raging imagination that they nurtured as you grew. They encouraged you to try many pursuits, your favourite being music. You want to embark on a journey as a musician, and you’re encouraged by the voices in your head. You often frequent karaoke nights and want to have an at-home music studio.

Traits

Creative.

Dance machine.

Insane.

Aspiration

Musical genius.

Career

Entertainer.

Additional

Master the wellness, singing, guitar, piano and DJ skills.

Master the musical genius aspiration.

Master the entertainer career.

Build an at-home music studio as you progress.

Start a karaoke club.

Marry a musician.

Generation Nine: Tadpole Galaxy

Interesting Facts

It is a disrupted barred spiral galaxy.

It is located within the constellation Draco.

It was disrupted by another galaxy 100 million years ago which created the tadpole-like shape.

The stars in Arp 188 are at least a million times bright and 10x hotter than our sun.

It is 280,000 ly in diameter including the tail.

It is 420,000,000 ly in distance.

Colours

Orange.

Gold.

Brown.

Description

You were close with both your parents and your grandparents as you grew up and you took inspiration from their dedication to their wellness. As a result, you dappled in gardening and creating beautiful spaces, but you have a quick to emotion response in life that often results in you being worked up. You combat part of this through caring for animals which led to the perfect career for you as a vet.

Traits

Hot-headed.

Cat-lover.

Dog-lover.

Aspiration

Freelance botanist.

Career

Vet.

Additional

Master the vet, pet training, gardening and wellness skills.

Care for your parents until they pass away.

Have 3 pets (doesn’t have to be all at once).

Run a successful vet clinic.

Collect all fish & frog types.

Have a garden.

Generation Ten: Hoag’s Object

Interesting Facts

It is a ring galaxy named after Arthur Hoag.

It is located within the constellation Serpens Caput.

It is unique and was mistaken for matter from dying, old stars.

It is 100,000 ly in diameter.

It is 600,000,000 ly in distance.

Colours

Blue.

Gold.

Description

You couldn’t imagine caring for others like how your parents do. You’re completely self-absorbed and you don’t care. You enjoy the meaner things in life and thrive off the considerable wealth you were handed from your deceased ancestors simply for existing. You’re a city slicker, with emphasis on the slick.

However, an issue with the botched paperwork from your deceased great-great-great-great grandparents in collaboration with the Landgrabs has come into the limelight and stripped you of all your wealth. Now it is your time to either make or break your way in life.

Traits

Snob.

Materialistic.

Mean.

Aspiration

Mansion baron.

Career

Any.

Additional

Lose all your wealth.

Start from homelessness.

Move to the city once you earn enough.

Aim to live in the most expensive apartment.

Master at least 4 skills and a career path.

[autolovecraft]

I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here.

In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here.

The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he vaguely wished it would stop.

He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives.

The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he planned to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation.

Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not heed the day at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. He was a scoundrel, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin!

He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner.

He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. He could not walk, it appeared, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside.

For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude.

Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. There was evidently, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but he could do better with four. You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. Davis died. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he had chosen it, how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol.

The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. That he was not an evil man.

What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles!

His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. Birch, but you always did go too damned far!

Only the coffins themselves remained as potential stepping-stones, and as he considered these he speculated on the best mode of transporting them. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant.

The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he planned to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible.

Birch. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, but you got what you deserved.