#it was about time gustavo snapped. even if it's just a little. HE'S ALSO GOT FEELINGS MAN

[radaverse]

Ch II. On My Own - Page 8

Tower of Mistakes

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[lultimagoccia]

In the dead of night, an ocular shift throws things off-balance. While change is often impermanent, there are instances where the results can be jarring to those who feel the brunt of its effects.

...How do you feel about full moons, Peppino?

(M/A: Peppino is now able to change into Werepep! Common werewolf rules apply, but the start and duration of the magic anon is at the writer's discretion. Have fun!)

truthfully, peppino hadn't noticed the phase of the moon. he'd been so preoccupied in work, as he often was at this hour of night, to really pay it much mind.

didn't help he had this weird bite to fuss over now, which had been irking him since it happened. he really wished when customers called in an order, they'd remember to warn him about the presence of a BIG SCARY DOG on the premises! the one that had knocked him off his bike the other night had nearly ruined the entire order, sinking its jaws into an arm before he'd managed to wrestle it off, sending the brute on its way.

ALSO didn't help that they insisted their dog was a little angel who would never attack someone, seeming convincingly confused about his description of the thing as being massive and aggressive. people really seemed to think he was some kinda fool, easily led astray by their talk of the dog " being a small breed and a senior dog " and his description " not sounding like any dog they'd heard of before " and " maybe he should consider seeing a doctor because he probably just got attacked by a wild animal ". ridiculous! he'd lived on this island for many years, and never saw anything like that monstrosity.

and on top of all THAT bullshit, the tip had been absolutely lousy! definitely a home he was putting in his delivery blacklist. 

... though. maybe he should think about seeing a doctor. he hadn't been feeling so well, the dull ache of the bite gradually increasing to a burning pain that seeped through the muscles of his forearm, spreading throughout his body as he worked. he was used to coping with pain, thanks to old wounds and the natural discomforts of an aging body. but this was beyond the soreness of old joints, and it was only getting worse as the night wore on. he felt too warm, such that a sheen of sweat now glistened at his brow and his breathing had gotten noticeably heavier. 

he hated seeing the doctor. loathed hospitals. peppino prayed this was the sort of thing you could sleep off, pausing in the middle of his closing routine to lean heavily against the counter and rub his eyes. 

and that was when he felt – and heard – the first snap. His entire body went rigid, breath wheezing from his lungs as he scrambled to determine what had caused such acute, and IMMENSE suffering within his already miserable body. But before he could properly assess the issue at hand, it continued, causing him to slump heavily against the counter, fingernails scrabbling for purchase as he felt his very body itself, bones, muscle, change. 

he’d encountered many strange shifts during his time in the tower. and it vaguely occurred this might’ve been one of them, somewhere in his frantic and racing thoughts. But none of them felt like this. None of them hurt so badly.

he was on the floor before long, back arching as his miserable groans and cries of agony were smothered in his throat. couldn’t even call for help, because even his vocal cords were gripped by the same agonizing, pulling, twisting, breaking pain that overtook every other part of him. He became a stranger in his own form, experiencing every brutal second of suffering while being powerless to stop or understand it. The best peppino had managed was to drag himself across the floor towards the exit in a feeble attempt to get outside, and … and hope maybe gustavo had decided to come back or that someone, ANYONE would come to check on him. 

eyes fell shut with a shudder, air pulled deep into lungs and then –

A HOWL. the beast that now laid in his place pulled itself up from the floor, testing new and unfamiliar limbs as it stumbled forward a few paces, swaying unsteadily before it threw itself against the front doors, breaking them from their hinges as it raced off into the night.

[patches-bitsandbobs]

7/2/2023 - oh I know Brick ated the cheese. *contains mild spoilers for the end of the game!*

Peppino whistled a jolly tune, practically skipping to the kitchen. for once, he was in a good mood - with the destruction of the tower came a sudden, surprising bloom of travellers, who had come from far and wide to see what the fuck had generated the plume of dust. once the sight see-ers were done marvelling at his enraged handy-work, they'd stop by his parlour for a freshly baked pizza. even after the dust had settled, word continued to spread of not only the remains of the bricks, but also of his establishment, until it wasn't the tower people came to visit anymore.

the tourists had helped pay off the majority of his debts (in such a short time, too!), and slowly, he was beginning to fill up the tip jar with extra change. sometimes the others would help out with getting some extra funds (since they refused to leave), such as Pepperman taking quick sketch commissions, or Vigilante shooting out cans with his eyes closed (after Peppino got shot right in the ass, he made sure he stayed inside when Vig went out with the revolver. they usually split it, but the money had stayed on Peppinio's side that day). he had rebuilt his reputation with the towers fall, further helped along from Mr Sticks' (paid for) ads.

now, he had not one, not two, but three big orders to bake, and all three were to be done via moped delivery. and they all lived in the big city. the big city was where the big dosh was. his parlour was known in the big city now. it had been months since he'd taken the moped out for a spin; months since his last reason to go in to the big city. he was ecstatic.

but when he entered the kitchen, he saw Brick, perched on the counter, shaped like a square. literally; he was shaped like a solid square. Brick blinked at Peppino. Peppino blinked at Brick. slowly, Peppino moved to where the cheese was stored. when he opened the fridge, he saw it empty of cheese. he nodded to himself, once, his mood instantly falling flat. he looked back at Brick. Brick continued to stare back. there was nothing behind his eyes - no emotion, no guilt; only the pure bliss of cheese.

'Gustavo.' Peppino called. Gustavo instantly entered the scene, because if Brick was there, then Gustavo was never far behind. 'why did you let Brick in here.'

'oh! we were only popping in for a quick visit is all! I just got caught up with Vig; why, has something happened?' worry flooded Gustavo's expression. Peppino pointed at Brick. Gustavo looked at Brick. the worry morphed into confusion, because, yes, that sure was Brick alright. he wrung his hands. he said nothing about Bricks strange square-ness. Peppino expected distraught at the sight - perhaps even some anger on his part - but the lack of anything accusatory brought Peppino to half hearted splutters.

'I- you- are you-? ... Gustavo, he ate all the cheese.' the worry instantly changed to shock, Gustavo snapping his gaze to Peppino with horror. that only made Peppino the confused one. 'why are you- he's literally square shaped, Gus. like, come on. it's obvious.'

'but Brick would never do something so heinous!' Gustavo defended. Peppino's mouth gaped open. he could feel his sanity drip from his ears as he spread his arms toward Brick, as if that would help Gustavo see his shape better.

'he's a SQUARE. what do you even MEAN. he's LITERALLY a SQUARE.'

'what the fuck is going on in here?' Noise suddenly demanded, skateboarding into the kitchen. he skidded to a stop beside Gustavo, annoyed. 'we can hear you from the front, dipshit-'

'Noise, does Brick seem off to you?' Peppino asked, ignoring his comment. with a raised brow, Noise looked over at Brick. Brick snuffed a satisfied little squeak. he couldn't move too much, on account of being a square.

'... eh, he's still a rat.' Noise said after a short inspection. Peppino’s eye twitched.

'yes, but is he different.'

'uh, no?' Peppino’s glare could have melted through steel.

'you're fucking with me. both of you are.'

'what- no I ain't, he's literally a rat.'

'YES, I KNOW he’s a rat, but right now he's a SQUARE. he's square because he ate the CHEESE. he isn't NORMALLY a fucking SQUARE - he’s Round 100% of the time. he's usually a SPHERE.' Gustavo placed his hands on his hips, his own frown overtaking the worry as he levelled Peppino with a defensive sneer.

'now hold on a second there Peppino! do you even have any solid proof of this?' Noise joined Gustavo in the defence, his arms crossing.

'yeah! why'er you always picking on the rats, huh?' Peppino grit his teeth, grinding them in an attempt to soothe his growing frustration. it didn't help. oh I'm always the one picking on the rats, he bitterly thought. what about ME for once. the rats are always picking on ME.

at that moment, Fake Peppino walked into the parlour, heading straight for the fridge. he stopped dead once he saw the confrontation, tilting his head with a little hum as everyone turned to face him. Peppino deflated with elation, glad to see a familiar, smart, handsome, slightly freaky face. (when Noise asked Peppino why he didn't shit himself around Fake Peppino anymore, Peppino had responded that it was a bit of an ego boost to see himself in such a different light. Noise had called him "a right fucking weirdo", leaving it at that.)

'ah, finally, someone with sense,' Peppino sighed, waving at Pepper, who looked like a deer caught in headlights. Peppino pointed straight at Brick, determined to get at least one thing on his side. 'ain't it obvious that Brick ate the cheese? like, it's plainly obvious, right? that he's guilty of theft? you agree with me, right? like it's so obvious he ate it, and that these two are wrong, and I'm right.' by the time he was done with his speech, Pepper had crouched down into a fucked up little ball, his weird, spindly arms wrapped around his head. his eyes popped from his head; the pupils darted between the defensive left side, Brick, and the prosecutor's right side. neither party made a move to convince Pepper to their team.

'... Pepper?' he leered straight at Peppino. he slowly lifted his right leg. 'PEPPER.'

'man, you have got to stop picking on the rats, Italian. it's getting boring.' red filled his eyes, a look that could wilt flowers aimed Noises way.

'I'M PICKING ON THE RAT BECAUSE I'M RIGHT.' Pepper, still hunched low, gurgled with laughter.

'now now lads, let's calm down here! Peppino, are you out of cheese?'

'YES.'

'then not to worry; me and Brick will get some more for you! we'll be back in a jiffy!'

'but Brick is-' Gustavo took one step toward Brick. with an obnoxiously loud GULP, Bricks body did a flash of stretchy movements, before he returned to his oblong shape, all signs of his crime gone. the large rat hopped off the counter with a flourish of speed, allowing Gustavo to mount him. with a pat on the head, Gustavo gave the group a thumbs up, and the two of them jumped out the window.

they watched their silhouettes disappear down the path, Peppino flabbergasted, Noise bored, Pepper just glad to be there. with a big stretch, Noise kicked off, slowly rolling to the door without another word. standing to his full height, Pepper stretched an arm behind Peppino's back, opened the fridge, and grabbed a handful of frozen mushrooms. with a jolly grumble, he closed Peppino’s hung open mouth with his other hand, patting his head once. he, too, then left without a word.

it took a minute for Peppino's brain to regain function. with an irritated, exhausted sigh, he got to work on a pizza, grumbling the entire time about stupid rats.

---

I know I drew something like this, but I feel like I’m a lot more flexible with the written word. this was just plain fun to do too - I love writing bullshit for fun. I also headcanon that everyone calls Fake Peppino “Pepper”, both because it’s cute and because it’s easier than typing Fake Peppino every time

[pineapple-on-spaghetti]

Well well well, look who finally got off their lazy butt and made a masterpost for their Pizza Tower AU! I ended up doing sprite edits for most of the characters designs since that was easier than drawing a picture so I hope you guys don't mind that. Anyways uh, yeah, LET'S GO BABY- (Warning: Lots of text up ahead)

The main guys:

Peppino Spaghetti:

An Italian War veteran who owns a Pizzeria, which he opened to honor his father, who passed away due to illness when Peppino was a kid. He has crippling anxiety and is stressed out a lot, and is also in debt due to his Pizzeria not getting enough customers. Doesn’t typically snap or get aggressive, but if you keep pushing him, then it’s only a matter of time until he goes absolutely ape shit on you.

He is also blind in his right eye and has a scar over it as he was shot in this eye during the War.

Gustavo Cannoli and Brick the Rat:

A happy-go-lucky gnome who is the childhood friend of Peppino. Gustavo is very sweet, caring, and gentle. He helped Peppino open up his pizzeria, and he was his only employee for quite a while. He met Brick in the tower, and he ended up deciding to keep Brick, who has since become his good friend as well as his loyal steed.

Speaking of Brick, she is an albino rat who cannot see very well, which is why Gustavo is always holding some cheese on a stick whenever he rides her. She can follow the smell to help her get around.

Maria Biscotti:

A 14 year old girl who worked under Pizzahead for a long time. Her job was usually just tending to the Peppibot’s and the Peppino clone’s, which was pretty dangerous in terms of the clones as some of them were VERY aggressive, but she learned ways to deal with them and calm them down after years of dealing with them. She barely managed to escape from the tower when it began to collapse. She didn’t even know what was going on with Peppino invading the tower, and when the tower started to collapse, she was on the 5th floor. Luckily though, she still managed to make it out (Albeit with a few injuries), alongside her Peppibot assistant, who we will also get into later. But she became homeless for a while after that, at least until Peppino found her and took her in. Ever since then, she’s been helping him out at his restaurant and keeping him company at his house.

The Noise:

Theodore Noise, otherwise known as just “The Noise”, is an annoying little gremlin-bat who owns a TV network. Used to hate Peppino and constantly pestered/pranked him, and said pranks usually involve some kind of explosive. But he did show that deep down he did care about Peppino, as when the whole tower thing happened, he tagged along to help out. He still pranks and annoys Peppino sometimes, but they're on much better terms than they were before the Tower.

The Bosses:

Pepperman:

A slightly self-absorbed and annoying pepper who spends most of his time working on art. You may assume that, since he thinks so highly of his own art, he'd look down on the art that others make... And yeah, you're partially right. He will critique most other artworks that he is shown, but most of the time he's just giving some constructive criticism and will even offer to help others with their art.

He's also thankful towards Peppino for rescuing him from the crumbling tower (Even though he is still a bit bitter that Peppino beat his ass twice) and painted some artwork on the walls of the pizzeria, just to make it stand out a bit more so that it'll attract more customers.

And, 1 quick last fact about him: Taking inspiration from his demo versions, whenever he goes into his second phase, he will go from red to yellow.

The Vigilante:

A justice-seeking cheese slime who was put in charge of guarding the floor 2 key. Was tricked by Pizzahead into thinking Peppino was a wanted criminal, and thoroughly apologized to Peppino after finding out that wasn’t the case. Now the two usually see each other at Noisette’s Cafe and have small talk with each other.

The Doise:

A complete ripoff of The Noise that Pizzahead hired to try and promote his business, after asking the real Noise to do so and promptly being told “Fuck no”. Got dragged off the screen by a mysterious figure and was murdered by it at the end of the fight. If you try and replay his fight after this, he will just be lying there dead.

Pepin (Fake Peppino):

Pepin, aka this AU's Fake Peppino, was the first clone that Pizzahead created. And unlike the clones who came after him, who's bodies consisted of gooey dough and cheese, his body is made of soft felt and cotton, with a hard plastic head. He seems to have a strange obsession with making dolls, spending most of his time creating them. These dolls can be seen in the background of his bossroom and will come to life and mimic his attacks in his boss fight, basically taking the place of the clones Fake Peppino summons in the actual game.

For his entire existence, he was locked inside of his bossroom by himself, only ever being visited by Maria, who was his only real friend. She wasn't allowed to let him out, but she'd still occasionally sneak him out of his room behind Pizzaheads back and let him explore a bit. And ooo boy, once he got that first taste of freedom, he NEEDED more. He wanted to explore the rest of the tower outside of his small prison. Pizzahead soon took notice to the increased number of escape attempts from Pepin, and right before he went to lure Peppino and his friends into the tower, he entered Pepin's room and made a deal with them: “I’m gonna leave this floor's elevator key with you! If you can keep that Italian and his friends from getting it, then I’ll give you your freedom!”. Since he was so desperate to be let free, Pepin agreed, and when I say he nearly ripped Peppino apart, I mean Peppino was literally SECONDS away from getting torn into shreds. Luckily though, Peppino escaped just in time, much to the dismay of Pepin.

After the tower collapsed, he had gotten so much more than what he initially wanted... He was willing to kill just to be able to explore the rest of the tower, but now he had the whole world outside of the tower to explore. He should've been happy... But he wasn't. Without Maria there with him, he felt just as lonely and miserable as he did in his bossroom. He spent ages looking for his buddy, even returned to the ruins of the tower and rummaged through the debris to see if she was somewhere underneath, but it seemed like she was really nowhere... He was heartbroken.

Thankfully, Noisette eventually found him sitting near the remnants of the tower and convinced him to come back to her and her hubby's house with them. From there, he was eventually reunited with Maria, who now comes to visit him at Noise and Noisette’s house fairly often. (The only reason Pepin didn't go to live with Maria is because Peppino DOES NOT want anyone else living at his apartment. His dog, Maria and her Peppibot friend are enough)

Pepin is also a glass cannon when it comes to fights. He can ABSOLUTELY cause some bad damage, but his cloth body is very easily torn and ripped. I mean, his fights with Peppino alone left him missing a hand, part of his leg, and with a few torn open spots on his body. Luckily Noisette patched him up when she found him though.

Pizzaface/Pizzahead:

Pizzaface is just a robot that Pizzahead piloted, so not much about him. Pizzahead on the other hand, is the owner of the tower, and he seemed to have a very strange obsession with Peppino. Likely due to the fact that Peppino’s pizza is actually good/worth buying while his was extremely processed and disgusting junk. He tried everything he could to replicate the real Peppino’s talent by use of clones and robots, but nothing ever came close. After countless failed attempts, he got an idea: “Why try to replicate him, when I could just kidnap him and make him work for me?”. So, he lured Peppino into the tower by threatening to blow up his pizzeria, where he assumed Peppino would slip up at some point and be captured, and if he did somehow manage to make it to the top, then he would just deal with Peppino himself. Unfortunately for him, Peppino and his pals proved to be a lot more resilient than he originally thought, as Peppino stormed through the tower, beat Pizzaheads ass, and then caused the whole tower to come crumbling down. Pizzahead hasn’t been seen since then.

The side characters:

Noisette:

A gremlin-bunny who is the loving and slightly annoying wife of Noise. Owns a little, semi-successful Cafe in the city, and also owned one in the tower for a short time. Her coffee and latte’s are unmatched, and her food is pretty good too... As long as it’s not one of her experimental dishes. She also has a small side-business where she makes custom outfits for people who commission one, which is actually how she met Noise. He commissioned an outfit for his show, and when he went to collect it, the two started to chat and quickly hit it off. One thing led to another, and now they're married ❤️

Klanker: (I don't have a picture for this guy yet but he basically looks like a normal Peppibot) I made this guy because I feel like there aren’t enough Peppibot OC’s out there. Klanker is a slightly broken Peppibot whose defectiveness grants him sentience/a mind of his own. Originally, he was given to Maria so that she could fix him, but she ended up really liking Klanker and didn't wanna turn him into just a normal Peppibot, so she managed to convince Pizzahead into letting her keep Klanker around as an assistant, and the two have been best pals ever since then. As said before, Klanker is kinda broken, so he has a handful of issues that he and the people around him have to deal with. These include his voice glitching, him randomly lagging at times, his body randomly spazzing out, and him losing control of himself and just going batshit crazy for a few moments.

Pillar John and Gerome: (No picture because as of right now they look the exact same) John and his brother Gerome were the original owners of the tower. They watched over and cared for the tower for many years, preserving and protecting the unique yet dangerous magic that was present in it, at least until Pizzahead appeared and fucked everything up. Luckily John was freed from his curse after Peppino and his friends destroyed the tower, and the two are regulars at Peppino’s Pizza now.

Maurice:

Peppino’s twin brother. Exactly the same dude as he is canonly: A complete jerk who hates Peppino for practically no damn reason and berates him for EVERYTHING.

I don't really have anything else to say about him... He just sucks. I don't really know what I'm gonna do with him in this AU yet but I'm sure I'll figure something out.

Mr. Stick: Unfortunately, Mr. Stick was so unmemorable compared to everyone else that I legitimately forgot to put him in this AU. And I don't like Mr. Stick anyways so yeah.

Phew... Ok, I think I'm done. Hope you all enjoyed reading. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go 101% Pizza Tower on my switch! (And also draw some art for people who drew stuff for me recently)

[ghoulcouriersix]

Happy Together

Pairing: Female V/Gustavo Orta

Characters: Fem V, Gustavo Orta, Johnny Silverhand.

Tags: Angst/Hurt, Comfort, depression, loss, death, grief/mourning, Johnny is a sweetheart deep down, best friends.

Summary: Cherry shows a piece of her past to Johnny, opening up old wounds in the process. Johnny shows his soft side even if it's only for a little while (this is NOT canon to Cherry's story just a little AU)

The drive up to The Columbarium is always a tough one. On typical sad days it always rains but this time the blistering heat of the sun makes Cherry's skin melt and stick to the leather of her car seat. The mumbling of the radio a pleasant distraction as the looming dread of those tall pillars comes into view. 

"The fuck are we doing here?" Johnny glitches into existence in the backseat making the woman jump.

"Just paying a visit, why are you back there anyway"

Johnny leans over, pointing to the flowers resting in the passenger seat.

"Don't wanna sit on em" 

"Well look at you being thoughtful for once" Cherry scoffs

"I know better than to disrespect the dead, you know me better than that" he declares as the car rolls to a stop. Her hands grip hard to the steering wheel.

"You can stay in the car Johnny I know this shit isn't your thing" 

"You're obviously here to see someone I'm not stupid, you need me and I'm here, always. You know that" 

Who knew this parasite that wormed his way into her head had a heart, even if he's slowly killing her, Johnny is.. something else. There's no romantic attachment but the idea of being alone, no Johnny to wake up to, his snarky comments or the fact he's always there when she needs him. All alone. That made a pit swill in her stomach. She knows at the end of the day it's either him or her but as the days pass by it's getting harder to make that fucking decision. 

"Thank you Johnny, really. I would" she pauses "I really need you" 

"Anytime kid" he then flicks out of existence with a smile.

Her lips itch for a cigarette as the anxiety builds in her stomach, anything to taste the burn of nicotine on her tongue as it fills her lungs full of cancer and satisfaction.

Peeling herself out of the car still fighting the urge for a smoke. Flowers in one hand anger in the other, she walks up the stairs, her heels clicking on the spotless tiles. The silence is deafening, feels like the whole world is zoomed in on her like this is some game. Such a fucking funny game.

She grips the flowers hard as the faint sound of crying comes into earshot. She rushes by quickly ignoring the tears already burning in the back of her eyes, rounding a corner the crying dies down as her destination comes into view. Biting her lip hard she stands face to wall.

"Hey Gustavo, I missed you" her lips twitch. 

Gustavo Orta, the man you always could rely on. Rest in peace.

She sits crossed legs facing the blue plaque. A lonely pot of wilting flowers lean against the wall along with half melted candles, she reaches out and touches the petals gently. Dry but soft.

"I'm sorry the heat got to you so badly, Gustavo would flip if he saw this" she chuckles through the pain as she collects the water jug next to the pot and watches the water slowly trickle down the flower into the soil.

She sets the new flowers next to old, the comparison between the two is too hard to ignore. One discoloured, brittle, starved the other fresh, lively, perky. It reminds her of herself in a way.

"Who's this?" Johnny squats into view pointing at the wall "brother, friend, boyfriend?"

"Husband actually" she looks at Johnny with a small smile and also a little humoured seeing him so taken back.

"You? Married? You don't look like the marrying type Isabella wait sorry Cherry" 

"No, call me Isabella please" she corrects him.

Silence falls between the two, it's awkward the kind of tense that you wish something would happen to break the ice.

"How'd he, you know, don't have to tell me like" he moves into a side sitting position.

"Some Merc zeroed him, had a hit on his head because of a rumour of all things. Saw him with a girl of the opposite family, dad got jealous and tried to have him killed but she got the bullet instead so they sent in a reliable Merc. Grabbed him when he was alone and yea. Had to go identify the body they fucked him up so bad. Not the way you wanna remember your husband's face" she falls silent as the tears threaten to break free.

"Shit, I'm sorry kid I know this sorta stuff I hard to go through, lost someone special to me too so you're not alone" 

"Doesn't get easier does it?" 

He replies to her question with a sorrowful head shake.

"I thought as much, he would've liked you, he had a thing for assholes with a soft center" she laughs as her head rests on his shoulder. He smelled like cigarettes with a mix of sweat and cologne.

"Of course he would've what's not to like about me, everyone warms up to eventually even you" he huffs out as laugh when she jabs his side.

"Wanna smoke?" She looks up at him, his eyes glued to the wall with an unreadable expression.

"Light em up, I'm itching for one. I can feel your eagerness too" she shuffles in her jacket pocket feeling the paper of the cigarette dancing across her knuckles.

Man did it feel good to have that burn in her lungs again, the sweet dull taste washing over her tongue like a tsunami. She remembers how Gustavo's lips used to taste. A kiss so hypnotic it drove her crazy. Soft dreamy hair she ran her fingers through every morning, his gentle touch that made her blush and squirm in all the right ways. She's a complicated woman with two sides. One reserved, hidden away the other outgoing, bubbly and loyal and it made her feel exposed the way he'd crack open her personality and see a side only he got to see.

"So tell me about him, what was he like as a husband?" his hand gently runs up and down her back.

"The best, the fact he had to run a whole gang under his belt but never raised his voice or his hand to me or anyone close to him, sure he got irritated, work got him down and he may have snapped at his members sometimes but he was always smiling and laughing while having that charming sarcastic personality. He was..the best I could've asked for" the tears break through the barriers and run down her cheeks. Dripping on her hands.

"Hey, no tears. We'll get the guy who killed your husband alright? He took something away from you, something important and yea we may have hated each other's guts at one point but Arasaka can wait. You're more important right now" his arm pulls her into his chest gently

"I've got you kid, it's okay. I'm here" he says soothingly as her hands grip onto his tank top. His chest is the perfect pillow to bury her face in and just let it all out. His arms wrap around her body tightly, covering her with his body.

"Thank you Johnny out of all the people's heads you could've infected I'm glad it was mine" she laughs while she wipes her tears away.

"You're welcome sweetheart, you owe me a new tank top though, got your snot n' tears all over me" 

"Yea I um maybe blew my nose on you while I was there" she bats her eyelashes at him in a puppy like fashion

"Disgusting, you're not crying on me ever again" he wipes at his shirt with a annoyed look in his eyes

"Fine, I'll just do it again when you're not looking. Now" she stands and stretches with a yawn "let's get the fuck out of here, I've let all my sad bitch out for the day" 

"I'm gonna nap in the car, think I earned it after all that" he glitches next to her with a smirk

"Okay. Deal. Now get your ass in the car before I change my mind"

"Will do princess" he salutes as he fades back into nothingness.

She quickly bends down, kissing her fingers and pressing it against the plaque. Saying goodbye will always make the hole of loneliness in her heart grow, threatening to swallow her whole but she's got shit to do.

"Sleep well baby, I'll be seeing you soon" she whispers, walking away from The Columbarium once again, Like history on a never-ending painful loop. Stay strong tomorrow is a new day.

End notes: thank you sm for reading my sad bitch shit. I promise next one is gonna be a lot happier and fluffier :3

[junjosekaimangalover]

Big Time Rush X Singer! Female! Reader - Vocal Covers - Part 1 - * Not A Request *

Disney/Cartoon Network/Nickelodeon Oneshots And Imagines

Nickelodeon X Reader

Big Time Rush X Reader

Entire Band X Singer! Female! Reader - Vocal Covers - Part 1 - * Not A Request *

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Author's Note:

I don't own the series Big Time Rush hosted by Nickelodeon nor do I own any of the boys from the band BTR ( Wish I did though ;) ), I only own my creative writing skills.

Please enjoy this oneshot~!

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Normal POV:

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Logan, James, Kendall and Carlos walked into Rocque Records as they were called in by Kelly for vocal rehearsals. Kendall and James entered first through the doors and took a glance at the posters that were old and new.

" I still can't believe we finally have our own poster! " Carlos exclaimed excitedly.

" Yeah I know, maybe he should finally get rid of these older ones that have been dead to the music world for years, like Boys City for example. " James stated.

" And Boys In The-...Who's she? " Kendall asked glancing over to the direction of a powerful beautiful singing voice coming from the recording room. The boys then shot over quickly to the recording booth to see a beautiful dark haired beauty singing Blank Space by Taylor Swift.

So it's gonna be forever

Or it's gonna go down in flames

You can tell me when it's over

If the high was worth the pain

Got a long list of ex-lovers

They'll tell you I'm insane

'Cause you know I love the players

And you love the game

The boys stared at the unknown female singer with mouths agape, completely dumbfounded as to who she is and why she was there.

'Cause we're young and we're reckless

We'll take this way too far

It'll leave you breathless

Or with a nasty scar

Got a long list of ex-lovers

They'll tell you I'm insane

But I've got a blank space baby

And I'll write your name

Cherry lips, crystal skies

I could show you incredible things

Stolen kisses, pretty lies

You're the king baby I'm your Queen

Find out what you want

Be that girl for a month

Wait the worst is yet to come, oh no

Screaming, crying, perfect storm

I can make all the tables turn

Rose gardens filled with thorns

Keep you second guessing like

"Oh my God, who is she?"

I get drunk on jealousy

But you'll come back each time you leave

'Cause darling I'm a nightmare dressed like a daydream

So it's gonna be forever

Or it's gonna go down in flames

You can tell me when it's over

If the high was worth the pain

Got a long list of ex-lovers

They'll tell you I'm insane

'Cause you know I love the players

And you love the game

'Cause we're young and we're reckless

We'll take this way too far

It'll leave you breathless

Or with a nasty scar

Got a long list of ex-lovers

They'll tell you I'm insane (Insane)

But I've got a blank space baby

And I'll write your name

Boys only want love if it's torture

Don't say I didn't say I didn't warn ya

Boys only want love if it's torture

Don't say I didn't say I didn't warn ya

So it's gonna be forever

Or it's gonna go down in flames

You can tell me when it's over

If the high was worth the pain

Got a long list of ex-lovers

They'll tell you I'm insane

'Cause you know I love the players

And you love the game

'Cause we're young and we're reckless

We'll take this way too far

It'll leave you breathless

Or with a nasty scar

Got a long list of ex-lovers

They'll tell you I'm insane

But I've got a blank space baby

And I'll write your name

Gustavo and Kelly clapped for her as she finished her last verse of the song, she then took her headphones off of her head and placed them on the microphone stand.

" That. Was. Brilliant ( Y/N___ )! You were amazing in there. " Gustavo said to her.

" Yeah, that's some talented pipes you have ( Y/N___ ). " Kelly added on.

" Gee thanks guys. Is there any more rehearsing and recording that I need to do for you two? " She asked them.

" No not at the moment ( Y/N___ ) but later we will do some more cover songs and experiment with some of BTR's songs and go from there. For now, take a lunch break. " Gustavo replied.

" Okie dokie then. Oh hey, is that them over there? " She asked. Gustavo turned around and gave them a look as in ' Get out now! '.

" Yes that is them but they'll be right back. Kelly, keep her here! " Gustavo turned back around to the female singer and smiled politely and then quickly raced them out of the recording booth. Kelly nodded and smiled as well.

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

In the hallway:

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

" Gustavo, what is going on and who is the new hot chick in the booth? " Kendall asked Gustavo.

" Yeah and why is she going to sing OUR songs? Is this Kat Krew all over again? " Carlos asked Gustavo as well.

" No Carlos this isn't Katz Krew all over again, thank god. That TALENTED young lady in that booth is Miss ( Y/N___ ) also known as Angela Rose, she's my newly signed female singer who is now an official member of Rocque Records and there is just one thing I would like to cover with you dogs about her. " Gustavo stated.

" And what's that? " James asked him.

" STAY AWAY FROM HER FROM NOW UNTIL THE END OF TIME! " He shouted his reply to the four boys from Minnesota.

" Why? " Carlos asked.

" Because she is actually one of the rare good considerate people who DO NOT give me a major headache and I want it to stay that way! " He spat back towards the boys.

" But Gustavo we are both from the same record label and managed by YOU, we are bound to run into her at some point in our lives and you can't keep us from meeting her. " James pointed out.

" Maybe not me but Freight Train can. " Gustavo snapped his fingers and out popped Freight Train looking muscular and strong as usual.

" Woah!! " The boys shouted as they fell backwards a little, losing their balance.

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

Your POV:

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

" Hey Kelly? Is everything okay back there? " I asked while placing my headphones on the microphone.

" What, you mean Gustavo? Yeah he and everything is fine, he just had to take care of something in the hallway. " Kelly reassured me in her reply.

" With the Big Time Rush Band? " I pointed at the exit.

" Yeah.... " She smiled nervously and I could only smile nervously as my reply.

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

Some time later because for some reason I'm being a lazy idiot right now:

At the Palm Woods:

Still Your POV:

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

I walked through the doors of the infamous Palm Woods where the home of the future famous was at, I could tell already that this would be a very magical journey from this moment forward.

As I gazed at my new surroundings I saw the check in counter. I walked over to it and placed my phone down on the counter for a minute while I tapped on the bell ring a couple times.

" Hello? " I called out.

" Hello, Welcome to the Palm Woods and how may I help you? " An older man in business attire came and greeted me.

" Yes hi, my name on the lease is Angela Rose and I'm here to check in to my apartment. " I said.

" Ah yes, Welcome Miss Rose. My name is Mr. Bitters and here is your room key, you will be staying in apartment J1. " Mr. Bitters handed me my apartment room key.

" Thank you, have a nice day Mr. Bitters. " I smiled at him and took my key card and headed for the elevator with my suitcases and other luggage.

As I pressed the up elevator button, I was then greeted by four very handsome young men that were trying to catch my attention. To say that I was surprised was a bit of an understatement.

" Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! " They said in unison to me.

" Oh Hello. I'm guessing that you must be BTR, the group I've heard so much about and who I saw in the studio this morning. " I said while pointing at each member.

" You've heard of us?! She's heard of us! " Carlos exclaimed to Logan.

" Well heard as in everything I've seen from what the public teen news says on magazines and TV about the four of you. " I smiled.

" So Gustavo hasn't mentioned us at all? " Logan asked me.

" Nope, not at all. I've only heard that you were signed to the same label and manager. " I replied back.

" Oh well that's no surprise. " Kendall chimed in.

" Why's that? " I asked cautiously.

" Gustavo Rocque has officially BANNED us from even getting anywhere near you. "

" Again why? "

" You see, he considers us to be somewhat of um......troublemakers. " Kendall replied.

" So you're walking trouble and after you cause some chaos by accident you usually spend the entire couple days trying to fix all of it. Am I right? " I placed my luggage down on the floor and pressed the up elevator button again and placed a hand on my right hip.

" Yes just about. " James said.

" Well, walking trouble is something I can handle. I grew up in a house with 2 VERY annoying sisters and 3 dumb clumsy brothers so I can fix anything in an instant. Also..... " I walked over to each of the boys and they stared at me nervously.

" Noooo one tells me who I can or cannot be with in my life. Not even a person who can destroy my career in 20 minutes flat. " I waved my finger back and forth to them as I made my statement.

I headed back to the elevator and heard a bell ring as the doors finally opened. I picked up my stuff and headed inside the elevator. The boys followed me a little and stood outside.

" I look forward to being your future friend and neighbor, perhaps something more lies in the future for us. Who knows? " I winked at them as the doors slowly closed.

This was going to be so much fun~

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

Maybe I should make a story out of this, let me know in the comments.

This fanfiction belongs to me so please don't steal it or I will report you.

[unofferable-fic]

Do You Fear the Devil? (Loki x Reader): 4 - Milk or Sugar?

Summary: You are one of the many working women roaming the streets of Whitechapel when a madman begins to murder your comrades one by one. The attacks are so gruesome, that the detectives can only describe his work as that of “a devil than of a man”. Loki Laufeyson is a Metropolitan police detective and surgeon who is assisting on the case. As more bodies pile up and you and your friends fear for your lives, the police remain well and truly stumped. When Detective Laufeyson turns to you for help to find the murderer, you must face your fears to save yourself… But who can you really trust when you are the prey being stalked at night by someone who calls himself Jack the Ripper?

Gif originally posted by isleoftom

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Victorian London AU

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Warnings: Descriptions of injuries/violence, gore, language, angst, lil fluff.

Word Count: 5,658

Previous Chapter    Next Chapter

Playlist: “Everyone Loves Oranges” — Abel Korzeniowski, “Born Unto Trouble” — Bill Elm & Woody Jackson, “Minnesota, WI” — Bon Iver, “All Gone (Alone)” — Gustavo Santaolalla

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A/N: Also available on AO3. I managed to churn this bad boy out in about four days after thoroughly researching the murder of Annie Chapman. Hope you guys enjoy it, because it was a nice slight change of pace from the other chapters. Thank you very much to those or commented, read, and left likes. Seeing feedback and such genuinely makes my day. Happy reading!

8th September 1888, 6.30 am.

Despite his haggard appearance and fatigue, Loki made it to Hanbury Street in good time. Along the way, PC Barnes provided him with everything they knew so far, and Miss Y/L/N also informed him that the victim was known to them, but mostly to Miss Maximoff. He appreciated the update, even if it was a struggle to keep his eyes from drooping shut.

You are in for a long morning, he reminded himself as they arrived on the scene. Pull yourself together before you draw unnecessary attention!

His first thought was on the massive crowd that stood before him. It must have been several hundred or so strong, and he turned to PC Barnes in displeasure. “What do you expect me to do with all of these people here?”

“Shit,” James mumbled, placing his hands on his hips. “Stark sent Wilson to get more men to contain it.”

The doctor scoffed. “And they are clearly doing a wonderful job of containing it.”

“What the hell do you expect? You know how understaffed we are.”

“Well then let’s make this quick.”

With PC Barnes clearing a way through the throng of agitated people, Loki emerged on to the crime scene with Y/N at his side. Sgt Rogers, PC Wilson, and two other constables were doing their best to control the bystanders, but there was only so much they could do when it continued to grow with each passing minute.

“I’m going to stay with Wanda,” Y/N said, gesturing to her friends, who were sitting  against a fence, as far from the body as possible. “I’ll be just over there, not that you shall need me anyway… I would hardly be useful to you.”

“I would imagine that you would be far more useful comforting your friend right now,” he offered her with genuine sympathy. “If you are needed, we shall call upon you.”

“Of course, Doctor.”

He gave her a brief once-over when her back was turned before he joined the inspectors who stood around what he assumed was the victim. “Gentlemen.”

“Ah, Dr Laufeyson,” Inspector Stark greeted him. “Sorry to keep you from your beauty sleep.”

“Luckily I am blessed with an appealing appearance, so no harm done.” Only then did Loki notice Chief Inspector Strange standing beside him. “Oh, Strange, back from your holiday already?”

“It would seem that violent murders have a tendency to cut them short,” he replied, looking grim. “The Chief Commissioner has put me in charge of this case—”

“Co-charge,” Stark added swiftly, wagging a finger between the two of them. “Co-investigating, co-parenting, kinda like a marriage.”

Dr Laufeyson raised a brow and looked between the two of them in amusement. With a slight laugh, he spoke. “Right, of course. Co-inspecting. How innovative.”

Chief Inspector Strange narrowed his eyes at his comrade, his brow furrowing in concern. “Are you well, Doctor? You look quite rough around the edges.”

“Now that you mention it,” Stark began. “You do look more rugged than usual. Not sleeping?”

“Somewhat,” Loki dismissed them, turning his attention back to the body. “I did not sleep well last night. But regardless of my exhaustion, I need to see to this body urgently, Inspector.”

The older man snapped back into action. “Of course. We need you to work as quick as you can this morning, if you wouldn’t mind. The crowd is getting…frisky. Bad frisky.”

“Her name?”

“Annie Chapman, confirmed by Miss Maximoff over there.”

“When was she found?” he asked, squatting down so that he could begin a quick examination.

“A little before 6 am,” Chief Inspector Strange elaborated, looking at a small notepad. “By a man called John Davis. He came straight to the station to report it and we came here as quickly as we could.”

“I do not think your speed would have mattered. A quick glance is all I need to confirm that she is unfortunately beyond all medical help.”

With the little time he had before the body would need to be removed, Loki got to work and performed a quick examination. Annie’s left arm was placed across the left breast, while her legs were drawn up and skirts pushed above her waist, revealing a pair of red and white stockings. He turned his attention to her face, which was swollen and bruised, and turned on the right side. Between the front teeth protruded her swollen tongue, a clear sign to him that she may have died of asphyxiation. A bloodstained, white and red neckerchief that matched her stockings was tied around her slit throat. Upon closer inspection, he noted that it was dissevered deeply, with the incisions through the skin being jagged and reached right round the neck. This attack was as vicious as the one on Nichols, and, upon recalling the abdominal wounds inflicted on the previous victim, Dr Laufeyson quickly checked Chapman’s stomach and found a large gash inflicted by a knife. Though still connected to her body, her intensives were removed from her gut and placed on the ground over her right shoulder.

“Her throat is slit,” he said to the inspectors, without removing his eyes from the body. “But I do not think that is what killed her. Look at this.” He pointed to her protruding tongue. “My guess is that she died by asphyxiation. No sign of a struggle… She must have entered the yard alive. Look here.” He noted the fence above her head. “There are some small drops of blood on the fence, but not enough to imply that her throat was slit while she was alive. Rigor mortis has yet to set in, but the body was quite cold. This could be due to the cold weather, but it is hard to tell. The time of death may have been at about 4.30 am. Then again, I cannot be sure under the circumstances.” With a deep breath, he stood up, not wanting to let his eyes wander to her destroyed abdomen any longer. Even with his profession, he found it difficult to handle.

As Strange took notes of his findings, Stark pointed out some more details to Loki. “Her belongings are scattered around her and the yard too, so I don’t know how that goes with your theory of no struggle. We have yet to question the neighbours on whether they heard any disturbance.”

With a swift look over the items that were strewn about, Loki shook his head. “The ones by the bodies seem purposely placed to me.”

“Like they were arranged?”

“Possibly. It could have been a surprise attack as well. That would not give her a chance to fight back.”

“There was something else of note,” the Chief Inspector began before he ushered the men to a nearby water spigot. “So, let us say that you’ve just murdered a woman, slit her throat, and stuffed your hands into her intestines… Wouldn’t you urgently want to wash your hands of the blood? This spigot is perfectly clean and shows no signs of being used this morning by someone with bloody hands. Why not use it?”

“Why stick your hands in a woman’s intestines in the first place?” Inspector Stark replied. “The guy is probably bonkers beyond belief. If anything, this is just further proof of his audacity. He ran off, quite literally, red-handed.”

Strange nodded in agreement, though visibly put off by the notion. “I should also mention that we found a leather workman’s apron in the yard. It seemed out of place, so I thought it was a curious thing.”

Loki nodded slowly, glancing around the scene again. “The more information, the better, Chief Inspector. But I think I have done all I can here. Chapman needs to be taken to the Whitechapel Workhouse Infirmary before this crowd gets any bigger.”

“I shall send for an ambulance, Doctor. We should also have a word with Miss Maximoff — until we can contact Miss Chapman’s family, she is the closest thing we have to any information about her character or people who may want to hurt her.”

Stark nodded. “Noted. We shall see to it. How about you accompany myself and Wilson to the mortuary, Dr Laufeyson, while Strange sees to the women?”

Loki and Stephen both agreed, mostly just eager to have Annie moved out of the public eye. PC Wilson was sent to fetch an ambulance, and it wasn’t long before one was wheeled to the scene and the body was hidden away it a battered old coffin. The doctor threw a cautious glance at Y/N and her friends while Chief Inspector Strange explained to them what the next steps were. They appeared apprehensive, and Loki hesitated for the briefest of moments before taking his leave.

Upon arrival at Brick Lane, shortly before 7 am, Stark let out an audible groan. Loki looked at him curiously as they pulled up outside the infirmary. “What is the matter?”

“Look who is here to receive the body.”

Loki looked at the gates and immediately set eyes on Robert Mann, the same employee who had taken part in the unauthorised stripping and washing of Mary Ann Nichol’s body. “Oh, for God sake…”

“I’m not having this,” Inspector Stark immediately declared and approached the man. He looked him up and down with narrowed eyes, while Mann appeared thoroughly put off by the stare-down. As Loki and Samuel approached the pair, Stark made his instructions clear. “Considering Dr Laufeyson was apparently misunderstood before, I am going to put this in black and white for you boys. This body is not to be touched, other than being carefully placed in a room, until my colleague has completed a full post-mortem examination. Is that clear?”

“As day, Inspector,” Mann replied with a gulp. “Crystal!”

“I would certainly hope so. I would hate it if you lot were to lose your jobs, or if more women were to die because of your mistakes.” With a grin he gave the worker a hard pat on the shoulder and let them carry the coffin into the mortuary.

“Damn, Stark,” Wilson sighed. “It’s not often that I see you let loose on someone.”

“I suppose it is a rare occurrence.”

“I would usually comment on your out-of-character reprimanding, Inspector,” Dr Laufeyson began, taking off his top hat so that he could wipe his brow. “But with lives clearly at stake, one cannot allow room for silly mistakes.”

“Right you are, Doctor.” He looked to PC Wilson and continued on. “Do me a favour, would you? I would rather you stayed here and act in my stead. You are in charge until we return.”

“We?” Dr Laufeyson repeated.

“Yes, we. Look, I need to go assist Strange in questioning the women. It shan’t be an easy experience for young Miss Maximoff, of that much I am certain, but they are a little more familiar with you than they are with us. Your presence might make it easier.”

“Have Rogers do it,” Loki suggested, not entirely eager with leaving the body and having to be in the women’s company when he looked a mess and needed sleep. “Or Barnes.”

“I already have Rogers and Barnes in charge of speaking with the residents on Hanbury Street. C’mon, Doc. We’re short on men enough as it is, and I want to make the process as easy as it can be for the girl. She’s basically still a kid who just saw her friend’s intestines strewn out on the ground.” While Loki was visibly hesitating, Stark tried to ease his worries. “All I need from you is two hours. Then you can come right back here and perform the post-mortem, that sound alright? Wilson will be here to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

He could hardly go against Stark’s wishes given that he was his superior, and Loki knew that. Despite the fact he would much rather do his job and be done with it, he also wasn’t overly eager with the idea of the inspectors blundering their way through an interview and hassling Miss Maximoff more than necessary. His mind briefly drifted to the thought of seeing Miss Y/L/N again, and he was immediately perturbed by the fluttering sensation that made its home in his chest. He wasn’t sure whether he hated it or liked it.

Give yourself a break, man. So she is an attractive woman — it is not like you have met any of them before. Get on with it and stop making a fuss.

“Fine,” he relented, putting his hat back on. “If you insist.”

“I insist quite strongly, so thank you,” Stark replied, before saying his goodbyes to PC Wilson and returning to Commercial Street Police Station. They quickly made their way to one of the more comfortable back offices where Strange was already speaking with Wanda. Natasha and Y/N sat by her side, offering support whenever the younger woman needed it. The four of them were sat around an interview table in the centre of the room, on which there were a number of cups filled with tea, a kettle, and a few plates of biscuits. As the two of them entered the room, Strange paused the interview to offer them a beverage, which they both accepted.

“I hope you are not giving the young lady too much hassle, Chief Inspector,” Stark teased, sipping from his cup as he took a seat next to him. “I have heard you are not the best with delicate issues.”

“I am doing just fine, thank you,” the man replied, somewhat miffed by the accusation.  He turned his attention to Loki, who was shrugging off his coat and hat and hanging them by the door. “What is Dr Laufeyson doing here?”

“I thought the ladies would appreciate his familiar face while Miss Maximoff tells us all she can about Annie Chapman. You hardly expect them to stare at our ugly mugs all morning, do you?”

The women chuckled at that, and Natasha was the first to pass comment. “Give yourselves a bit more credit, boys. You are rather pleasing to the eye.”

While the group around him spoke, Loki kept his mouth shut and instead focused his attention on gathering a few cups, a plate of biscuits, and the tea pot from the table on to a tray. He brought it to the couch that sat to the left of the interview table where the group were gathered. When he set the tray on a nearby end table, he then carefully began laying its contents out before returning the tray to its previous place in the centre of the room.

“And you flatter us, Miss Romanoff,” Stark replied, always quick to give a flirtatious comment. “I request that you cut back on that before our heads explode.”

As Loki took a seat on the couch and began making himself a cup of tea, the chief inspector continued on with his complaints. “Should he not be attending to his duties at present?”

“I have been kind enough to give Inspector Stark two hours of my time,” Loki replied calmly, reaching for the plate of biscuits. “After which I will attend to my duties. Right now, I am to remain here and provide whatever help I can to our ever-complying ladies, here. Would any of you like some tea?”

He knew that Stark had brought him in to try make the atmosphere calmer and less professional. He had stressed before that they were on equal terms with these women, and while it may take Strange a moment to adjust around the arrangement, the women were a little more familiar with him. If his presence would bring them some ease and, in turn, progress the investigation, then so be it.

“I would actually,” Y/N answered, looking between him and Wanda. “It might help to wake me up a little.”

“Go and relax for a bit,” Wanda insisted, wiping the wet stains on her cheeks. She sniffled but pushed her friend on. “Natasha is here, so go sit down and have a cup.”

Y/N looked apprehensive at the thought of leaving her side even for a moment. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” She gave her an appreciate smile before Y/N retreated to the couch and sat on the opposite end to Loki.

He was quick to grab an empty cup and pour her some of the hot beverage from the kettle. “Milk? Sugar?”

“A little bit of milk, please.”

While the others continued on with their interview, Miss Maximoff providing whatever details and answering any questions about Annie that she could, Loki and Y/N were left to their own devices. When her tea was ready, he carefully handed her the cup and encouraged her to take as many biscuits that she wanted. The others paid them no mind, and the doctor had been prepared to sit in comfortable silence until his companion broke it.

“I’m sorry they made you come in here to humour us.” He met her gaze to see her staring into her tea. “I’m sure you would rather be doing your job in the mortuary.”

What was she apologising for? Did she really feel guilty over such a thing? “I may be of more use in the mortuary, but Stark thinks my presence would make this whole thing go a little smoother.”

“I thought he just wanted you here because you have a handsome face?” she replied, a teasing smile slowly stretching across her face.

Oh? Did she call me handsome?

He could feel his own lips mirroring her expression. “I do believe he referred to my face as familiar as opposed to handsome, but it is nice to know that you think that of me.”

Though she laughed at his observation, he noticed the small tint of red in her cheeks. “My apologies.”

“It is quite alright. I would hardly refuse a compliment, especially when it is true.”

She let out a laugh and shook her head. “Your arrogance knows no bounds, does it?”

“Not particularly. But to answer your question, Inspector Stark thought my being here might help conversation flow easier. After all, the three of you are a little more familiar with me than you are with our dear inspectors.”

Y/N sat there and nodded, pulling her legs up under herself as she got more comfortable. “I think you helped us relax a bit. I know Wanda seems better than she had been earlier.” She sighed. “She could have done without seeing what happened to Annie, but I guess it was unavoidable.”

Loki sipped on his tea before offering his thoughts. “It is grim business to be involved in, and certainly not for the faint of heart — though I would not peg any of you ladies as such — but it is always harder when it is someone you know lying on the pavement.”

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?” he asked, momentarily confused.

“This,” she pressed. She met his eyes now, gesturing around herself. “All of this. You have to witness such gruesome things on a daily basis, most of them up close too. You have to bear witness to how vicious and violent people can be. Does it not horrify you when you see what we do to each other?”

Loki was known, especially by his living patients and colleagues, for having a silver tongue, the ability to string together words, and to talk himself out of anything. It was a proficient skill that he had trained just as much as his medical knowledge. This was, however, not a question he was asked often. Sometimes, PCs Barnes or Wilson may jest and make their usual exclamations such as “that’s nasty! How can you look at that without throwing up?” and he usually dismissed them with a sarcastic quip about how he loves the sight of lacerated organs. But he knew those men, and he did not know much about Miss Y/L/N. Still, he knew by her tone and the events of the day that her question was a genuine one that she wanted to understand. Even though she worked a difficult job and probably saw her fair share of unpleasant sights in Whitechapel, she wanted to better understand how he did what he did. It was clear that her question came from a place of confusion, distress, and genuine interest, and this was a new interaction for him. He didn’t have the urge to reply with dismissive sarcasm or disinterest. Despite the fact he knew very little about this woman, he still wanted to talk to her because she wanted to listen.

Regardless of the anxiety that came with talking to someone about such a personal matter, he was somehow willing to explore it. He barely knew Y/N, and maybe that was the reason why he did it.

“Of course it does.” He paused, carefully keeping his tone level and focusing on the still hot cup in his large hand. “In my experience, you eventually become somewhat desensitised to the horrors you witness. It never becomes wholly manageable, but only a little easier to deal with as more time passes. It is definitely something for only a few lucky people to do, but there are still days when I witness something so… nauseating that sleep eludes me or I turn to a strong whiskey to forget.”

“That certainly doesn’t sound easy,” she said after a few beats of silence between them, the other people in the room forgotten. “You must be very passionate about medicine to be in this line of work.”

“I suppose I am.”

“What made you want to become a doctor?”

He felt her eyes on him again, and turned to meet them, momentarily transfixed by their vibrant colour. He smirked. “Eager to learn more about me, are you?”

“I don’t exactly get the opportunity to ask doctors questions such as these,” she chuckled, opting to grab a biscuit and munch on it. “Usually I just experience a very swift visit with the doctors who check in on all the women that work at the brothel. We hardly get on the subject of how we ended up in our respective professions while they are making sure we’re not pregnant or ill.”

“A fair point,” he agreed and fiddled with his cravat in an attempt to loosen it. “If you must know, I have been fascinated with anatomy from a young age. That, and I liked the idea of helping people.”

“You do not exactly come across as the helpful sort.” When he raised a brow at her, she quickly elaborated. “Ah, that’s not exactly what I meant to say—”

Her mild awkwardness amused him. It was a vast change from the challenging woman he had previously encountered. Loki wouldn’t exactly be himself if he wasn’t eager to poke fun at her for it. “Well, colour me well and truly offended.”

“Dr Laufeyson—”

“It is Loki,” he cut her off, using the lull in conversation to take a biscuit for himself. “Just because you have offended me does not mean that you must start calling me by my title. As stated previously, we are on level playing terms.”

“Loki,” she began again, treading carefully. “What I meant to say was you don’t exactly express an obvious air of concern for others. You definitely seem intelligent and knowledgable and show a genuine interest in your craft, but caring was not a characteristic I would have chosen for you.”

He chuckled bitterly. “You are not the first person to say that to me, darling. And I am sure you shan’t be the last.”

“I wasn’t finished my point.”

“Well, don’t stop on my account.”

“Look, I meant what I said; you didn’t come across as someone overly concerned with others. But then again, you showed up here with the intention of making us, well, more specifically Wanda, feel at ease. You didn’t necessarily have to do that. And not that it’s a big deal, but it was nice of you to make me tea as well. I’ll admit that I didn’t expect even these little caring gestures from you, but I can see now how you would become a doctor so that you can help others.” She finished her explanation and then shrugged. “It makes a little more sense to me now.”

“You seem to be quite good at reading people.”

“Yes, well with a profession such as mine, you more of less have to learn in order to stay safe. It’s something I’ve had to practice over time, but I think I have made a fair go at your character.”

Before he could stop himself, he was suddenly replying with a joke. “And here I was thinking I was doing well to stay mysterious and aloof.”

“You can certainly do better, Loki,” Y/N joked back, and he felt glad that he hadn’t put her off. “Let’s just say that I am certainly right about you being a stuck up, arrogant toff.”

“Ouch… You wound me, my dear.”

“I aim to wound, Doctor. Speaking of...” She pointed to his cheek and winced a little. “Are you alright? I noticed earlier, but felt that Bucky annoyed you with enough questions about your wellbeing.”

His smile faded, and he suddenly recalled how he had acquired the cut on his cheek the night before. He turned his head and looked down at his hands for a moment so that the wound was no longer in her line of sight. He offered a small laugh before he answered. “I will be fine. Robbing is not exactly uncommon around here.”

“I know, but it’s hardly a pleasant experience either!”

“It is nothing I have not dealt with before,” he said, hoping she would simply drop it. “I can handle myself well enough.”

“If you say so.” If she was curious, she let it go for his sake. “At least I just wound you metaphorically.”

“Well, perhaps you would diverge from your wounding to instead humour me.”

“Humour you about what exactly?”

“By telling me how you come to your profession.” When she laughed at his suggestion, he frowned. “Well, it is only fair considering you asked about mine.”

“Yes well, I certainly didn’t chose my profession because I liked it,” she admitted, folding an arm cross her breast, a motion that did not go unnoticed by him. “I think we are both in very different positions.”

That much was clear to him as well. They were currently sitting on opposite ends of the spectrum when it came to work. Loki was no fool — he knew well that most women turned to prostitution out of desperation as apposed to personal preferences these days. Whitechapel wasn’t an area known for its flourishing opportunities. But he couldn’t help but wonder about Y/N and how she came to be in this position. Much like her friends, she was relatively young, younger than Annie Chapman had been anyway. At the same time, he supposed they were all simply women who found themselves stuck in a situation that was less than ideal. It was obvious to him that the reason she found companionship with Natasha and Wanda was their mutual understanding. “I preferred to not make any assumptions.”

“I’m sure your assumptions would be mostly correct.”

He hesitated for a moment before asking his next question, though he felt like the answer was clear already. “Do you have any family that could help?”

She stiffly shook her head before nodding to the two other women. “They would be the only family I have. My parents died quite suddenly, so I didn’t have much choice.”

“I’m sorry,” he offered weakly, well aware that his words would do little. “Were they ill?”

“Tuberculoses.” Her eyes glazed over as if she was no longer in the room or thinking much about their conversation. “It’s one hell of a thing.”

A sensitive subject, it would seem. Perhaps it would be best if I didn’t push that further...

“What about you?” she asked after taking a swift gulp of tea, eager to forget her own memories. “Any family or other Laufeysons floating about?”

“No,” he answered quickly before he could stop himself. She was looking at him quizzically, but he merely repeated himself. “No one of note. It’s just me.”

“At least we have something in common,” she offered, but there was a clear note of sympathy in her voice, one that caused him to look down at his cup again. “Although it’s not a great thing to share.”

“I suppose not, although I am quite content with my own company.”

“All the time?”

“Well with company such as me, how could I not be content?”

She chuckled at that, and he was glad that she found his arrogance amusing rather than annoying or distasteful. “I wish I could feel that way about being alone sometimes.”

“You unfortunately have to learn to manage when it is unavoidable, Y/N.”

“As long as you’re not forcibly excluding yourself, of course.”

He paused, irked by the insinuation, mostly because he knew it to be true in his own circumstances. While he was teased by his colleagues for being a loner, it wasn’t a lie. Bar his patients and his colleagues with whom he worked, he rarely socialised with anyone else. It wasn’t entirely self inflicted, but he had resided himself to that way of life, and he was happy with it. Wasn’t he?

They sat in comfortable silence for a little while, each of them finishing their tea and once again realising the dire situation with which they were so tightly bound. Even when lighthearted conversations could be had, it seemed that the murders and their horror were inescapable. They were both in the thick of it, but Loki couldn’t help but wonder how Y/N felt about it. Yes, they were both hunting the same monster, but said devil was hunting only one of them.

After a while, she spoke again, exhaustion evident in her voice. “My mother used to say that life could be a right load of shite sometimes.”

“Elegant,” he noted. “But also true. It can be tough.”

“The sooner I realised that fact, the better off I was.”

The conversation drifted after that. It never returned to the former depth with which it had begun, but Dr Laufeyson was somewhat relieved to instead speak of things that held little meaning. He always hated small talk, but on this occasion it was welcomed. It did him until the interview had ended and the women were escorted back to the White Swan by Chief Inspector Strange. Inspector Stark thanked Loki for his cooperation once again before the pair of them made their way back to the mortuary.

It was here that they made several unpleasant discoveries.

The first of which was that in spite of PC Wilson’s presence, two nurses had stripped and washed down Annie Chapman’s body after being instructed to do so by the Clerk of the Workhouse Guardians. Dr Laufeyson was so angry that he very nearly flung the clerk on to the street. He had never seen Stark as exasperated before, and his superior’s similar reaction helped to validate his own anger. After a lot of shouting, damning, and cursing, Dr Laufeyson was allowed to carry out his post-mortem. Stark sat in the room with him, grumbling about the idiocy of the mortuary’s employees.

“It is as if they are trying to tamper with the investigation,” he ranted, massaging his temples. “I swear, Loki, my brain is this close to exploding.”

“Shall I perform your post-mortem as well then?”

“Ha, ha, ha. Very funny. I just can’t believe they would do this again…”

Stark kept talking, but Loki zoned out as he turned his attention from Anne’s neck wounds to the large gash on her abdomen. He opened her up to survey the damage inside. What lay waiting (or rather, not waiting) for him both baffled and startled him.

He felt the blood drain from his face at the sight.

Stark was still rambling, but he couldn’t her any of it.

“Stark?”

“… if they’ve tampered with the evidence—”

“Stark?”

“—I swear, Strange won’t let me hear the end of this—”

“Stark?”

“—I shall tell that wanker that the only one who can boss me around is me—”

Loki couldn’t help but run out of patience. “For God sake, Stark!”

The inspector threw his hands in the air and spun around to face him. “What?”

“Her womb is gone!”

Silence engulfed the room.

Stark stood frozen on the spot, his face twisted into an expression of dread and confusion. “Her… womb?”

“Is gone,” Loki finished, turning his attention back down to the disfigured body. “He cut it out.”

In fairness to Stark, he did come to the doctor’s side so that he could peer at the damage himself. He was silent for a long moment, his eyes scanning over the wound. “What the hell are we dealing with?”

“A man with anatomical knowledge,” Dr Laufeyson pondered, unable to pull his gaze away from the mess of mangled flesh and muscle on the table. “A doctor perhaps?”

As he spoke, Inspector Stark’s voice held every ounce of hatred that the man possessed. “This isn’t a man, Doctor. He is beyond that. Whatever we are dealing with, it is more like a devil.”

Despite wanting to remain hopeful to some extent, when Loki studied the work done by the murderer, he couldn’t help but feel the dread that Stark was expressing. The brutality with which this woman’s life was stolen was now as clear as day. This was way out of their comfort zone. Far beyond it.

This was otherworldly.

This was evil.

And they were not ready for it.

Taglist: @heysliver @lisalisa007 @ava-royal @eloisemacguffin @tvdplusriverdale @trickster-grrrl @mellow-mischief @arttasticgreatnessoftheawesome77

[pengychan]

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 9

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[Tag with all chapters up here.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: Okay, sorry for the wait on this one! Life happened. As in, death happened and messed things up a bit, as a death in the family tends to do. But I think I'm back on track. Art at the end of the chapter is by @senoraluna

***

“All right, I’m writing this.”

“No, you’re not.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because your handwriting is too obviously not a grown-up’s.”

“You’re not to grown-ups either.”

“But we’re close enough!”

“We can fake it!”

“More or less.”

“We can try.”

Miguel huffed, crossing his arms. “Imelda is your sister. She’ll recognize your handwriting.”

“Not if we make it look like Héctor’s! We have seen it before. Let us try…”

They did try, all right, but none of their attempts came out looking even remotely like Héctor’s handwriting. Soon enough they were leaning against the fence with utterly defeated expressions, scattered pieces of paper around them and Dante snoozing contentedly across all of their laps. Miguel sighed, reaching to scratch his ears. They weren’t even sure if Héctor and Imelda knew each other’s handwriting well enough to recognize it, but they couldn’t risk it.

“We might have hit a snag,” he conceded.

“Maybe Cheech can do it?” Óscar suggested.

“Cheech can’t write,” Felipe droned.

“He can read.”

“Barely.”

“He’s always getting Héctor to read stuff for him.”

Silence.

“... Gustavo can write.”

“He’d never help us. No one is supposed to know it anyway, except for us and Sister Sofía and--” Miguel sat upright suddenly, eyes wide. “Padre Ernesto!”

“What?”

“Where?”

“No, no, he’s not here, I mean-- he will help us!”

“... He will?”

“I’ll ask him to try writing it! He just needs to see Héctor’s handwriting.”

The twins exchanged a glance before looking back at him. “He’s a priest.”

No he’s not, Miguel thought, but of course he knew better than saying it aloud. He had promised Ernesto that his secret was safe with him, and he would keep that promise. “So what? He said that if one isn’t sure about taking the vows, they shouldn’t do it. He’s on our side!”

“Wouldn’t faking a message amount to, you know…”

“Forgery?”

“That too. I was thinking more of ‘lying’. Does the Bible say forgery is a sin?”

“You mean, forgery specifically? I’m not sure, but if we check--”

Miguel shrugged and stood, causing Dante’s head to drop down on the ground with a dull - and quite hollow-sounding - thump. It didn’t stop him from wagging his tail furiously, thumping it against Felipe’s leg. “So what if it is? He can absolve himself,” he said. “Perks of the job. I think,” he added, and he sprinted towards the parish without waiting for a reply.

***

The English lessons had turned, if possible, even more boring.

And utterly useless, too, now that he had read what he’d been meant to read. But Father John was clearly glad for the company, so Héctor supposed he could endure it just for a little while longer. Especially since he had seemed so upset the previous day; he hadn’t wanted to talk about it, and Héctor knew better than prodding, but it was clear something had unsettled him greatly.

Even so, there were limits to what he could take, so he’d claimed to have a headache - he had made a point to show an uncomfortable expression when walking in, so that it wouldn’t seem to have come entirely out of the blue - and excused himself, heading towards his own room.

Only to see Miguel stepping out of the hallway leading to it, glancing around. Had he come to look for him? Probably, yes. He’d neglected him lately, and he was… sorry about that.

Well, time to make up for it

“Miguel!” Héctor called out, smiling. It had been some time since he and Miguel got to spend some time together, and he’d missed the chamaco. He’d missed their lazy afternoons without much to do, when they would just practice with their guitars, or Miguel would watch him writing a new songs, occasionally providing help with the lyrics.

He was almost as good at it as he was at playing, and Héctor planned to help him write his own songs when he was a bit old--

Miguel almost jumped in the air as his voice rang out, and turned, blinking at him for a moment before he gave a very, very wide smile. If not for the fact he was still mulling how how they had seen each other relatively little later, Héctor might have noticed something suspicious about that smile.

But he didn’t.

“Héctor! I wes, er. Looking for Padre Ernesto. Have you seen him?”

Actually, come to think of him, he hadn't - and as much as he liked him, he was rather relieved he did not. It wasn't that he was jealous that he seemed to have become Miguel's hero in a matter of weeks, but... all right, yes, so maybe he was a little jealous.

Had it coming for hardly speaking to the chamaco these days. Here's the chance to make up for it.

"No, I haven't. But hey, get this-- I was thinking of a new song! I have yet to write it, it's only sort of stuck in my head right now, but I think you'd like it. How about we got over to Cheech's, get our guitars, and try it out?" he added.

Until not too long ago, Miguel would have jumped on the chance; they would have made their way to Cheech’s place, laughing and joking, and then they would have practiced playing and singing until someone came looking for him, or for Héctor… or for both. Sometimes la Madre Superiora herself would come looking for them, and they would put up a contrite expression at her tirate, struggling not to smile at each other. Not this time, though.

"Great, great! We'll do that later. Got to find Padre Ernesto," Miguel said quickly, sprinting past him and around the corner. "Keep up the good work!" he heard him yelling as his footsteps faded away - leaving Héctor to stand there on his own, utterly confused and more hurt than he wanted to admit to himself.

It felt like the closest he’d ever had to family was slipping away from him, and he didn’t know what to do.

***

“You stole--”

“Borrowed.”

“... Right. You borrowed Héctor’s songbook because you want me to try doing his handwriting?”

“I want you to succeed at doing his handwriting!”

“Couldn’t you just write in upper case like last time? It worked.”

Miguel blinked. “Oh. I… er… I want it to look more authentic.”

Ernesto raised an eyebrow. “I get the feeling you didn’t think your brilliant plan all the way through,” he muttered, causing the boy to huff and cross his arms.

“Because you think all of your plans through,” he muttered, raising both eyebrows. That left Ernesto unsure whether to kick him under the table or grab him by the neck to shake him a little, given that Sofía was right by and listening, but in the end he opted to smile with clenched teeth.

“Fair enough,” he growled, shooting a glance towards Sofía. She was listening with her chin in hand, clearly not having caught the meaning behind Miguel’s remark. Granted, it would take quite a leap of logic and imagination to do so... but it was still a risk he didn’t want to take. He’d need to have a serious talk with Miguel about watching his words, remind him he held his life in his hands, and if he didn’t listen--

The thought of the pistol hidden away in his room flashed through his mind, and suddenly he could smell gunpowder, and taste bile. He quickly went to wipe his lips with the back of his hand and looked down at the songbook. Anything not to look at the boy. “... All right. I’ll give it a go.”

“Gracias!” Miguel exclaimed, then, “Sofía, about Imelda’s handwriting, would you try--”

“I’ll do it,” she said, and shrugged when both the kid and Ernesto blinked at her. “I practiced. I can fake the handwriting of every nun in town, and working on Madre Gregoria’s.”

“... Dare I ask why?”

“I consider it an insurance.”

Making a mental note to be careful not to leave samples of his handwriting within her reach, Ernesto looked back down at the songbook - though to be honest, he didn’t pay as much attention to the handwriting as he did to the words, and the notes. He hummed the beginning of one of the songs, low enough not to be heard and Christ, it was good.

Héctor had so much talent for songwriting that letting him join the church and never use it for anything would be a crime against music itself. Not that marriage was a much better trap, in Ernesto’s opinion, but at least it wasn’t mutually exclusive with secular music.

“Do you want me to slip the note in her room?” Sofía was asking, snapping Ernesto from his thoughts. He looked up just on time to see Miguel shaking his head, and grinning.

“Oh, no,” he replied. “I have a better plan.”

Ernesto and Sofía exchanged a quick look before glancing back.

“Define ‘better’,” he said.

“Define ‘plan’,” she added.

Miguel grinned. “No need to be worried! I’ve been working on this with Óscar and Felipe.”

“Now I’m terrified,” Sofía said drily, getting a shrug out of him.

“Don’t worry, all will work out,” he grinned. “Here’s what you need to write…”

It wasn’t that much of a great plan, all things considered, but Ernesto had to admit the niño was right on one thing: without a shove in the right direction, it was entirely possible that idiota would just never confess a thing. And that would be stupid, really.

If that songbook was anything to go by, he knew how to use words.

***

“What. Is. That.”

“Miguel’s dog. I… I think,” Sofía managed. One talent-- fine, one of several talents she prided herself to possess - was a  knack for keeping a straight face in the most unlikely situation. However, the sight of the Xolo pup chewing up his own leg, a flower crown stuck around his neck and a letter tied to his furiously wagging tail was almost too much even for her.

“What-- why--” Imelda groaned, and rubbed her temples. “Where do those flowers come from?”

The answer was ‘probably the cemetery’, but Sofía knew better than saying as much aloud. “Maybe he got his head stuck by accident. And, uh... There’ something tied to his tail.”

“I see that,” Imelda muttered, making no move to get it.

“... It might be something important.”

“This is far too stupid.”

“Would you bet on that?” she asked, and Imelda had no time to reply. The next moment Dante seemed to finally realize there was something stuck to his tail and began chasing it, spinning frantically and snapping his jaws at it. Both Sofía and Imelda were on him the next moment and the letter was saved, if at the price of muddy robes, slobbery hands, and petals everywhere.

By the time they pulled back, the slightly damp letter firmly in her hand, Imelda was scowling… and Sofía couldn’t stop laughing. Now that was off to a great start.

“I can’t see what’s so funny,” Imelda grumbled, unfolding the letter to read… and immediately going very still, her eyes the only thing that moved as she scanned the page.

Knowing exactly what it read - it was Héctor, there was something he needed to tell her, would she meet him at the bridge at four? - Sofía feigned curiosity. “What does it say?”

Imelda recoiled, and immediately crumpled the letter in her fist before looking at her with a grimace. “Nothing of any importance,” she muttered, and turned to leave without saying another word, leaving Sofía alone in the small vegetable patch that seemed to refuse growing anything that year. With a sigh, she turned to look at the puppy currently flopping and rolling into the remains of the flower crown, leaving pools of drool on the petals.

That didn’t seem to have gone well. Or maybe it had.

With Imelda, sometimes it was hard to tell.

***

“Ah, Héctor! What have you got there, amigo?”

Padre Ernesto’s voice rang out suddenly, causing Héctor to nearly shriek and jump out of his skin. He turned quickly, face burning and crumpling the letter in his fist. “Nothing!” he exclaimed, knowing full well that he wasn’t believable at all. Padre Ernesto raised an eyebrow.

“Looks like a letter to me.”

“No! I mean, it is-- a note-- to remember--” he looked over Padre Ernesto’s shoulder, to the crucifix on the wall. “... Jesus.”

“A note to remember Jesus,” he repeated, deadpan.

“Yes-- I mean-- to remember to pray to him, you know? And-- and I’m late!”

As he rushed past him, Héctor felt like an idiot. After all, Padre Ernesto was perhaps the only person he could turn to for advice right now… but his heart was beating so fast, his thoughts in turmoil, and he felt he could explode if he dared open his mouth to say anything of the message he’d just read.

I know there is something you need to tell me. See me at four at the bridge.

***

It’s something about the Revolution. He’s got to be, something must have happened. It must be urgent, or else he would have sent the message the usual way.

Of course, it was hard to believe that. The way the message had been delivered - tied to a dog’s tail, really? - wasn’t the only unusual thing about it. The handwriting was different, too - but it would only make sense if he used a different one for his anonymous messages to her, after all.

What if it wasn’t Héctor?

The thought struck her suddenly, as she stood alone on the wooden bridge crossing the stream. How had she not thought about that possibility? Was if someone else - someone who had found out what they were doing to aid revolutionaries - was trying to lure her away?

The answer - she had wanted it to be Héctor - was tucked somewhere in the back of her mind, but she ignored it and looked around. If no one came within five minutes she would leave, and take the long way around in case anybody was waiting for her to pass by--

“Imelda…?”

Hearing Héctor’s voice was more of a relief than she was willing to admit to herself. With an inward sigh, Imelda turned to see him walking up to her, looking… more than a little sheepish. “Héctor.” She nodded, and said nothing until he stopped - a few respectful feet from her. She looked up at him, because he was ridiculously tall, crossing her arms and forcing herself to ignore the acute awareness that they were entirely alone, with no one in sight.

To say it was breaking the protocol was an understatement… but then again, certainly he had something very important to tell her. “What is it you need to tell me?”

“Well…” Héctor hesitated and oh, that was not a good sign. Something in her stomach clenched and fluttered at the same time. “I needed to tell you that… that…” he cleared his throat, struggling to get words out. “Well…”

“Did something happen? Is this about the revolutionaries?” Imelda blurted out, almost without thinking, looking for an answer that would feel safe and make sense. He seemed taken aback, his skin reddened, but after a moment he nodded.

“Oh! Yes, o-of course!” he exclaimed. “So, uh… there were some instructions for…” he hesitated. “Some instructions. Well, you would know, I mean...”

Yes, she had found the note - they needed some food, and she would make sure they’d have it, even if they had little of it to begin with. “Yes. I will find a way,” she promised, then hesitated. “Was that… all?” she asked. When Héctor nodded without looking at her, it was a relief… but something she dared not name ached. She ignored it, and turned to look at the stream. It could run fast and deep when it rained, but there had been no rain in some time and there was little water flowing, slow and steady. It made the bridge itself almost entirely useless, really.

“... Was it real--” she began, but didn’t get to finish the sentence.

“Hey! Isn’t this where you convinced me to eat mud cakes?” Héctor exclaimed, just a bit too enthusiastically. It was a very obvious attempt at changing subject, and Imelda hated such nonsense… but this time, it felt better to play along. Safer. What would she even ask, anyway?

“It was a little further downstream,” Imelda replied. She looked ahead, in the direction of the water’s flow, and a smile curled her lips. She could still remember it - a bunch of kids on the stream’s banks, playing in mud left behind by a small flood that had since ended. She still remembered putting together that mud cake. “... Did you really think it was chocolate, or were you just trying to humor me?”

“Oh, I believed it!” Héctor exclaimed, reaching to put a hand over his heart. He’d always been kind of cheeky upon occasion, but this time there was a dramatic flair to the gesture that made her wonder if Padre Ernesto was rubbing off him. “Absolutely and wholeheartedly!”

She laughed, leaning her elbows on the wooden railing. “Are you going to have to confess to lying now,” she asked, resting her chin in her hand. Héctor grinned sheepishly.

“Maybe,” he admitted. There were a few moments of silence, peaceful and nowhere as tense as the previous one. Imelda found she didn’t mind it at all; it seemed to natural. She let her gaze wander across the water again, saw a fish jumping quickly out of water and back in.

“... My parents didn’t like me playing with you,” she recalled, smiling a little. “Or any other of the orphans. They said you had lice.”

“I did have lice,” Héctor pointed out.

“We all had had lice at some point,” she reminded him. “My mother went through my hair with a fine comb for what felt like ages.”

“Heh. If you think that was bad, we all had to shave, remember?”

“Oh, I do. You cried,” Imelda quipped. To her amusement, Héctor turned slightly redder, rubbing his arm in the way he always did when self-conscious.

“I looked like a vulture,” he muttered, making a face. “Bald head, sharp beak…”

Imelda blinked. “Beak?” she repeated, turning to look at him, and her gaze fell on his nose. She let out a laugh. “Oh! That. It’s better now than it was then,” she told him, turning back to look at the water below them. “You grew into it.”

“You look good too,” Héctor blurted out. If not for the fact it left her stunned, she might have even found it amusing how his expression turned into utter horror in a second. “I-I mean…” he stammered. “No! I mean-- yes you do but-- I-- you… uuuugh!”

With a groan, he leaned against the rail and burrowed his face in his hands. “Oh God this is hard,” he muttered against his palms.

Around there, time seemed to have come a to a standstill. Under the shining sun, there was no sound - not even the song of a single bird; even the murmur of the stream was very far away. Wrapped in a sense of utter unreality, Imelda stared.

“Héctor…?” she called out, barely hearing her own voice. She tried to think of something to say, anything, but as he turned to face her, her mind drew a blank. He swallowed, and gave her a look that was both terrified and determined.

"There is something I need to tell you,” he said. “Imelda, I--”

“Brother Hector! Sister Giselle! What is going on here??”

In the space of a breath, Imelda felt two things: relief, and an almost irresistible urge to bash Padre Juan’s skull in with a shoe.

“Two novices, out here alone!” the gringo was going on, his face almost purple. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Father John,” Héctor said quickly, stepping forward. “The fault is mine-- we just met, she was returning and… we were talking about old times.” He smiled, and suddenly he seemed perfectly at ease. Imelda almost smiled. There he was, the cheeky little liar she remember when they were kids. “Easier times, with fewer worries. We were children together, you see. We began talking - neither of us meant to be inappropriate. We didn’t think of it.”

“Oh.” Padre Juan hesitated, taken aback. Those unnervingly pale eyes shifted between the two of them, and he didn’t seem to take any notice of how Imelda had refused to lower her gaze. “... Of course,” he finally said, his expression and tone softening. “Omnia munda mundis.” Everything’s pure to the pure. “I do understand you meant no harm or blasphemy. However, it would be best to respect--”

“Of course, of course,” Héctor said quickly, nodding. “My apologies, Father John. The fault is mine - I did not think it through when we began to talk.”

He nodded, and looked at her. “Well then. The incident is closed. Shall I escort you back?”

Imelda gave a demure smile that hid her thoughts, half of which involved a blunt object and the gringo’s face. “If you please,” she said.

For the entire walk back, Padre Juan talked to Héctor of nothing but the upcoming celebrations for Easter, and said nothing at all to her as she followed them in silence. It was a relief.

And it was also incredibly frustrating.

***

“So you didn’t tell her.”

“I almost did, but--”

“But you didn’t,” Padre Ernesto muttered, leaning back in his chair. His head connected with the wall behind him with a dull thud, and he ran his hand through his hair. Had he been a bit less flustered, Héctor would have noticed he seemed the very picture of frustration.

“Yes. Father John got there just as I was about to tell her, and…” he sighed and looked down. The thought of the trouble he almost got Imelda into made him feel ill. She may have been the one to ask him to meet, but he was the reason why they had lingered there for so long: he’d just lacked the courage to get on with it right away.

As far as seizing moments went, he was a complete failure.

Unaware of his thoughts, Padre Ernesto grumbled. “Ugh, that gringo. Lectured you for being on your own with a woman, didn’t he?”

“Sí.”

He made a face. “Oh, of course he wouldn’t like that,” he muttered. For one absurd moment, Héctor wondered if he knew - but of course, that was impossible: he’d only told Imelda and Sofía that he was a convert, with no mention at all about his inclinations.

The thought he may have confessed as much did not cross his mind.

“Well, to be entirely fair, it’s what… most priests would say,” he pointed out, and shrugged at Ernesto’s unimpressed look. “You’re, uh, one of a kind. I am sure Padre Edmundo would have said the same in his place. Maybe not has vehemently, but--”

“It doesn’t matter what someone else would have said. He keeps sticking that pointy nose where it doesn’t belong, and I'll have none of that in my parish. Should do something about--”

“Maybe it was for the best,” Héctor said quietly, gaining himself several moments of silence and a look of pure disbelief. He squirmed a little. “I mean, maybe… maybe it would have been a mistake. Maybe it’s just not a good idea and I should just forget about it, take my vows-- she’ll take hers and--”

“And possibly regret a missed opportunity for the rest of your lives?” Padre Ernesto cut him off, and stood. “No. As your friend--” he paused, and blinked, as thought he’d just heard those words coming from someone else’s mouth. He looked back at him, frowning a little. “... We are friends,” he added. It somehow sounded like a statement and like a question at once.

Despite all the thoughts still storming in his mind - all that had just happened, Miguel slipping away, that war that threatened to strike Santa Cecilia any moment - Héctor smiled. “Of course.”

The oddly confused expression on Padre Ernesto’s face melted in a smile of his own, and he put a hand on his shoulder. “Great! Then take some friendly advice - don’t just give up. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life wondering what could have been.”

That was… sound advice, really. The same he’d given him before, but maybe he needed to hear it again. “Right. I will tell her. Just… not right away. I’ll wait for--”

“The right moment, of course,” Padre Ernesto agreed, and it was reassuring, really. When he left his office, Héctor felt a lot better.

He never noticed the scowl on his friend’s face as the door closed behind him, nor he was there to see him storming out a few minutes later, heading for the chapel.

***

“Padre Juan. We need to talk.”

His words echoed in the empty chapel, causing the gringo to wince, snapped out of whatever bullshit prayer he was uttering. He glanced up, and one look at his face seemed to make him go, if possible, even paler. But it only lasted a moment: the next, that insufferable posh expression was back on his face.

“I am praying, Father Ernest. Whatever you have to tell me can wai--”

“Now, Juan,” Ernesto snapped. The posh expression was gone in an instant, wiped away like chalk from a blackboard, leaving behind something not far away from terror that he struggled to hide. He stood, slowly.

“If it’s something so urgent--”

“It is. We can discuss it here, or in the sacristy where we know no one will listen. You choose, Juan. And fast.”

“My name is Father Jo--”

“When was last time you confessed yourself, Padre Juan?” Ernesto cut him off. “I think I know the answer. I’d like you to tell me.”

Oh, that hit him like a blow. Padre Juan recoiled, and immediately glanced down; the look of shame on his face was unmistakable, as was the conflict going through his mind. In order to keep up his stupid act, he would have to lie… and of course, that was a sin.

“I… perhaps the sacristy,” he mumbled in the end, suddenly so meek, and Ernesto nodded before heading there with quick steps. He could hear Padre Juan walking after him, more slowly; by the time the door of the sacristy closed behind them, he seemed to have aged a decade… and his gaze kept resting on everything in the room except him.

“Very well.” Ernesto crossed his arms, revelling a little in the fact he could tower over him. “Easter is coming up.”

“I am aware.” The attempt at putting up a mask, again - at changing subject. “And I must say, this town’s fixation with pagan fetishes is positively barbaric. This whole… business of making an effigy of Judas just to burn it--”

Nope, not this time. Ernesto wasn’t going to let him turn the conversation away from the real issue there. It was time to knock the gringo off his pedestal. “Do you plan on taking part to the Eucharist on Easter, Juan?”

“I-- of course, how could I not--”

“Then you need to confess yourself, do you not? Last I recall you coming to confession, you rudely left midway.”

A very, very heavy silence followed. Now the color of chalk, Padre Juan kept his gaze fixed on the floor and said nothing; his eyes were wide and fixed, his hands gripping the crucifix hanging from his neck so tightly it was a wonder the skin of his fingers and palms did not break.

“I… did not…” he choked out, and finally looked up at him. The look on his face was suddenly so lost, so pleading. If he’d seemed aged by a decade when they walked in, now he looked all the world like a lost boy. Ernesto sighed, and put on his best Patient Padre voice.

“This charade has been going long enough, hasn’t it? I know it was you and you know that I know. Don’t lie to me and add another sin to the list. As the parish priest, I have a duty to--”

Father John Johnson burst crying. It was eerie, really, how fast it happened: one moment he was standing before him and the next his features twisted and he fell on his knees before him, still holding onto the crucifix and sobbing his heart out like Ernesto had just shot a baby in front of him.

It made things just a little awkward.

“Huh. I, er.” Ernesto shot a glance to the door, wondering what would… well, anyone think if they found them like that, but thankfully no one burst in, and he just crouched in front of the sobbing gringo. “Padre Juan?”

“I’m s-s-sorry,” he choked out, words almost unintelligible. “God forgive me-- have mercy on t-this… s-s-sinner…”

All right, never mind knocking him off the pedestal. I changed my mind. He can stay on it.

Except that it was too late to take back what he’d said, so he’d have to suck it up. “It’s fine, you’re fine. Calm down. Let’s just-- finish the confession, sí? Then I give you absolution, you calm down, and we have a chat about what is going on with Hé--”

“Penance,” the gringo half-whispered, blinking away tears and trying, so hard, to stop sobbing. “I need-- I need penance.”

“Right, yes, I’ll give you-- I don’t know, some Hail Mary to say and--”

“It’s not enough, never enough! I deserve-- I need-- I tried! I tried every prayer, every penance!” With another sob, Padre Juan looked up a at him through a veil of tears, pale face all blotchy and red, streaked with tears. His nose was the color Ernesto’s old man’s would get halfway through his second bottle of the evening. “I try so hard to-- to make it stop! I am so sorry-- so ashamed-- I tried everything, prayed every saint, and I still feel this u-uh-unnatural lust!”

No chance I can hit him in the head and make him forget the past ten minutes, is there?

Ernesto groaned, running a hand through his hair before he stood and held out a hand. “Get up,” he said, only for the gingo to shut his eyes and shake his head, shrinking away from his hand. Ernesto clenched his teeth, drew in a deep breath, and forced himself to keep his voice even. “... Father John. Please. I am trying to help.”

He had no idea if the surprise of being called his actual name by him for the first time was what snapped him out of his hysterics, but either way, he did snap out of it. He stared up at him, blinking back tears, before he nodded and he stood - shakily, without taking his hand, but he did stand. Ernesto tilted his head towards the desk in the corner.

“Sit. I’ll get you something,” he added, and when he came back less than a minute later he was almost relieved to hear a shade of his usual petulance in his voice.

“Is that holy wine?”

“It hasn’t been blessed. It’s just wine,” Ernesto muttered. Truth be told, all of the holy wine was just wine since he wasn’t a real priest and his blessing didn’t count for shit, but that was a detail Padre Juan was better off not knowing. He poured it in a couple of glasses and pushed one towards the other man before sitting across him. “Drink.”

He did, if with shaky hands: emptied half the glass in a couple of gulps and, when he put it back down, both his hands and his voice were a bit firmer. “I-- thank you,” he murmured, without looking at him in the eye.

“No problem.” Ernesto drank as well. He’d wanted to confront him about his obvious desire for Héctor, tell him to back off and stop trying to get him to stick to vows he clearly was not meant to take only to keep him away from women, but he suspected that might just break him again now.

“So, uh. You. Never indulged.”

Padre Juan seemed to shrink in his seat and nodded, eyes downcast. “Never. But the thoughts… they are there. I’ve been fighting this for so long-- I want to heal, I truly do. I… it cost me everything before, but I found a new meaning to my life, a mission. I… I can’t lose it all again.” His eyes filled with tears again, and he rubbed them with a sleeve, almost angrily. “I should be able to… I was only a boy when…” he let out a long breath. “... I am a grown man now. And yet I am just as lost as I was then.”

Ernesto nodded. “Let me see if I can help.”

The gringo looked down. “You… it is kind of you to… perhaps I misjudged…” he swallowed. “Are you not disgusted?”

Ernesto de la Cruz, who had seen, felt and done so many things that would probably give Padre Juan a heart attack - don’t think of the barracks don’t think of the barracks - shrugged. If that guy who beat himself up to that extent over thoughts he never acted upon knew anything about him, he wouldn’t say he’d misjudged him. He’d be more likely to physically pick him up and dump him in holy water. And maybe he’d keep his head under it. “I am here to help,” he said in the end. “Like the shepherd with the, uh, black sheep.”

Padre Juan blinked.

“... Right. Lost. The lost sheep.”

“That’s better.”

“Can we go back to your confession?” Ernesto asked, a bit more pointedly than it was strictly necessary, and the other man immediately looked down at his glass.

“I… I showed no sign of this… perversion, growing up,” he murmured. “I was not interested in girls as I grew - not even to look at them and laugh with other boys, as boys do, but… everyone assumed I was just being the son of the Past--” he trailed off, seemed to hesitate, and finally sighed. “This is… not a sin, I supposed, but I’d be grateful if you told no one regardless.”

“Won’t tell if you don’t.”

“Huh?”

“I mean-- the secret of confession is sacred,” Ernesto said, and took another swig. “Go on.”

A nod. “Right. I am-- a convert,” he said, entirely unaware that Ernesto knew it very well. “My family was not Catholic - they-- we were Southern Baptists. My father was the Pastor - a pillar of our community, in a small town not too far from El Paso.”

“El Paso, huh?”

He seemed to recoil a little. “... Yes. I am from Texas.”

“You mean northern Mexico.”

The comment caused his lips to curl into a pale ghost of a smile. “... I have heard that one before,” he muttered, and drank a little more wine. “Everyone assumed my disinterest in girls was simply… me being the Pastor’s son, thinking of duty and duty only. I was meant to follow my father’s footsteps. I helped at the church since I was old enough to walk, studied hard, and everyone expected me--” his voice broke, and he paused. “... My apologies,” he muttered, reaching to wipe his eyes. Ernesto refilled his glass, saying nothing, and he drank just a little more before he went on. “Things… didn't turn out the way they were meant to.”

Ernesto nodded, his lips pulled into a tight line. He knew something about life plans going to hell; how the future he had imagined for himself - singing and playing for crowds, traveling through Mexico and then maybe the world, beloved wherever he went - had been put on hold, and maybe taken away for good, once he’d been drafted into the army.

He’d played from time to time to lift spirits, sung along with other soldiers, but soon enough the gunshots and screams and blood had become louder than the cheers - ringing in his ears for hours - and music had been lost. Only now, in that small town, did he get to enjoy it once more.

This war ruined everything. This is not how I was supposed to go, not where I was meant to be.

He emptied his glass and went to refill it. “I understand. Sometimes--” goddamn Victoriano Huerta “--God decides otherwise.”

Padre Juan lowered his gaze and sighed. “I still don’t know if it was God’s plan or the devil’s interference in it, but what I know is that, when I was five-and-ten, things began to change. I began having… thoughts… about a dear friend of mine.” He lifted the glass, downed all the wine and, under Ernesto’s surprised gaze, he held out the glass for more. He raised an eyebrow, but filled it again without saying anything. As long as it kept him from sobbing like a baby again.

“My family… I had a notebook they gave me. I was meant to write my failings on it, every day, to better reflect on them. So I did-- I was ashamed,” he added, his voice thin, and he looked up at him. “And so scared, you cannot imagine.”

Ernesto thought back of his old man in one of his bad days, and tried to imagine his reaction if he’d known of some quality time he had spent in a back alley with a bricklayer who worked just a few houses away, when he’d been eighteen or nineteen. He made a face. “... I think I can,” he said slowly. “Must have been horrifying.”

“But I was determined to find a cure, to resist - whether it was a trial God put in my way, or the devil tempting me, I would get through it. I prayed, and punished myself for my unholy thoughts, until… until…” his voice broke, and he shut his eyes.

Well. At that point, it was an easy guess. “They found out.”

A shuddering breath, and Padre Juan nodded. “... The notebook should have been private, between me and God. But… they noticed something was amiss. I returned home one evening and… my siblings were not there, nor were the servants. Only my parents, sitting in the living room… waiting.” He swallowed. “They were pale as death, and so quiet. I knew that they knew as soon as I lay my eyes on them, before I even saw the notebook in my mother’s hands. My father stood, and I--” His voice shook, and his left hand reached beneath his right sleeve. “I fell on my knees, begged for forgiveness. It was… not enough.”

Ernesto said nothing, but he reached to pull up that sleeve, and the gringo did not stop him. Across his forearm there was a long, thin, raised scar. “... Didn’t hold back, did he?”

“It was my fault,” he said plainly, pulling the sleeve down again. His expression was almost serene, disturbingly so. Did it make him feel better, taking on all the blame? Was it that horrifying, admitting that some things were simply beyond his control? “I was foolish. I tried to raise my arm to shield myself of the rightful punishment.”

Ernesto leaned back on his chair. It took him an effort to unclench his jaw. “I’m amazed they didn’t kill you.”

“They said they would, if I ever returned.” A long, heavy silence followed. With a deep breath, Padre Juan reached up to rub his face. His voice was firmer, now, almost emotionless. “They did the right thing.”

"Like hell they did."

"Father Ernest! Language!"

“You were fifteen.”

“Almost sixteen - almost a man, and a dangerous one at that. You know what-- sodomites are like. They must have worried I could harm my sisters, my little brother. Infect them.” His voice shook again. “I’d have died before I allowed a such thing to happen.”

Ernesto suspected Padre Juan was as likely to harm a kid as he was to spread his arms and take flight, but he said nothing. He got away with a lot while being considered an eccentric but charismatic young priest; however, saying anything that would go against the Catholic Church��s stand on the matter was too dangerous for his cover. So he just nodded for him to go on.

“... There isn’t much more to say. I left and…” Another pause, one that told Ernesto that there was more to that story than what he was about to hear. “Well. I found refuge in a church in El Paso. Father Joseph took me in,” he added, and smiled. It seemed the fondest smile Ernesto had ever seen on anyone’s face.

“A Catholic, huh?” he muttered. That was something they had in common, it seemed, running into priests while wandering aimlessly. Only that he didn’t think John had to shoot this Father Joseph in the head to put him out of his misery.

“Yes. He was a Jesuit, and cared for me like a son. He taught be about the only true Church - our Church," he murmured. His hand went to the crucifix hanging from his neck. "This was a gift from him, and I felt so unworthy, but promised I would deserve it. As soon as I was well enough, I went to seminary,” he added. He paused and emptied the glass. This time, he did not ask to have it filled again. “Perhaps he was too kind to me, too forgiving of my… defect. But I owe everything to him, and the Catholic Church. It gave me a new path, new purpose. I decided I would repay all of that by taking the vows, and travel to educate the still pagan masses on true Catholicism - spread the teachings that saved me.”

Fighting back an urge to break the bottle over his head - weaker than usual, yes, but it was still there - Ernesto nodded. “I see,” he said. Idiota, he thought. “... Is it all?”

“Huh?”

“This is meant to be a confession. Any more sins?”

“Oh. Right,” Padre Juan had the good grace to look and looked away. “I… I really have misjudged you, in my… in my pride. I suppose that is my second great failing. Father Joseph did warn me I was too prideful.”

Ernesto nodded, quickly considering if he had enough cheek to reprimand anyone over their pride and coming to the conclusion that no, he did not. He came close enough, but… no. “I see,” he just repeated. He was about to utter the formula for absolution when Juan spoke again.

“I am sorry, for… for that woman. For what I told her,” he managed. “My advice followed the scriptures, but lacked compassion. I was shown compassion when in need. I should have, too.”

Well. That was… some progress, at least. Unexpected, but not unwelcome. Ernesto smiled. “No worries. We fixed that oversight.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I still don’t think you should have gone there with the intention to--”

“Nu-uh, having none of that,” Ernesto cut him off, lifting his hand. “Your confession, not mine. If that will be all, I’ll give you absolution and--”

“No… no penance?” Juan asked. He somehow sounded relieved and somewhat disappointed all at once, and Ernesto shook his head.

“You gave yourself enough penance. And it didn’t work, did it?”

“... No. But how else am I to heal this perversion?” he asked, anguish plain on his face.

“Well… let me have a think. We’ll work something out,” he said, and as Father John Johnson nodded - doubt and hope battling on his face - Ernesto spoke the formula of absolution, not realizing he’d forgotten to even tell him anything about staying away from Héctor

***

[Back to Part 8]

[On to Part 10]

[terribleco]

Garry Jones Interview

When I was younger, Garry Jones was one of the kids down my local park who was always out and about, always down for a skate, and always interested in more than just skateboarding. He contributed towards this very blog on many occasions donating footage, photos and even old cameras! His interest in photography proved to be something he had a great talent for, and now he is one of the UK's most prominent skate photographers: having snapped official shots of the Team GB skaters, and photographing some of the world's best skateboarders at Street League London and the European X-Games. I asked him some questions where he talks about photographing Tony Hawk, Jamie Foy, and of course, everyone's favourite northerner Joxa.

Those behind the camera sometimes don't get much recognition, so for anyone who doesn't know you - tell me a bit about yourself.

For sure, I'm Garry Jones - photographer from Coventry. Moved away for a few years to study my undergraduate but eventually came back to Coventry. Without sounding too much like a profile on a dating app: I'm 28 years old, and recently just completed my Masters Degree. I shoot photos of everything from beer brands to shoes but my main focus these days is working in the music industry, portraits and making album art. Saying that occasionally I get to shoot skateboarding also. 

How did you first get into photography?

Not sure exactly when I decided I wanted to be a photographer, it was just always a notion I had from being a kid. Skateboarding influenced me pretty heavily: I had this Blueprint poster, can't remember the skater, but he was silhouetted doing a FS Krooked down a handrail and flashes going off behind him. I used to always stare at the poster figuring out how it was taken. My first steps into the photography world was in secondary school, using a darkroom where I learnt quite a lot to prepare me going forward.

What was your first "proper" camera?

My first DSLR was an Olympus e-410. I got it around the time I started college at the age of 16. That camera served me well: I shot my first events on it, and skate photos I was happy with. I think things got a bit more professional a couple of years later, when I jumped over to Nikon, and everything started to look a bit cleaner.

Tez Aldersley Varial Heelflip’s a yellow hazard in a Coventry back alley

Who were your influences growing up (skaters and photographers)?

Still to this day, there's not many "photographers" that really have influenced my work. If there is, it's more likely photographers that are my close friends that I work with, and they affect my work flow and style. It's skate culture, and the artists/documentarians within skateboarding, that have truly inspired me. 

Ed Templeton is the first, and probably biggest influence: everything he has done with Toy Machine, to his photo books that come out on Um Yeah Art (which is Thomas Campbell's publishing company). Greg Hunt: as a film-maker, always really inspired me with his work with DC and Alien Workshop. I always thought it was really amazing and always used to try and find interviews of him speaking about his work. 

French Fred and his documentation of my favourite brand Cliche really showed me what you can simply do with a black and white 35mm roll of film. Cliche really had such a cool visual aesthetic from their board graphics to the tour videos they put together, such a rad team also. 

Mike Blabac too: his photography of Danny Way, and his first photo book were insane, and to this day those photos are incredible. What I liked about Blabac was the fact he could shoot a really good portrait in a studio also, and had this really nice high contrast imagery which really has influenced my work even more recently as I did a transition into more portraiture work.

Who were the first pro/sponsored skaters you ever shot? 

Sponsored skater has to be Joxa, thinking back: me, you and Joxa used to head out a lot all over the place. Joxa was on Witchcraft back then, so it was always fun shooting with him, plus he's the coolest, most friendly dude. As for pro skaters: I was at NASS 2015 when the Birdhouse team came through on tour, and I had woken up a little bit worse for wear from the night before. I walked through the back entrance of the park and bumped into Jaws, shot a portrait of him with a fisheye and a flash, because I panicked and didn't have time to swap my lens. Later that day, I got to shoot Tony Hawk, which was insane, plus got to see Lizzie Armanto skate in person and she rips!

Tony Hawk with a FS Stalefish at Nass 2015

Who are your favourite photographers?

Hands down, my favourite photographer of all time is Ed Templeton. I love the way he documents the world around him. To go more outside of skating, Don McCullin is a British photojournalist who has work that needs to be seen either in a gallery or in the paper layout it was intended for. He documented the rise of the Berlin Wall, Vietnam and many other conflicts but his imagery is always so strong and tells the story like no other. 

I was always a fan of Lewis Baltz's work too: He explored the notion of how humans use space, the 'urban', focusing on the shape and form. It was a very matter of fact style of shooting. I have a complete obsession with anything to do with the documentation of the Beastie Boys, so Spike Jonze has to be in there. His latest book is amazing, and the Girl collab boards are so sick. Also a lot of my favourite photographers are my friends I work with, as they are inspiring people: Mike Massaro shot a photo of artist Caribou that I just love.

What format is your favourite to shoot? 

Ever since getting a medium format film camera, it's been my favourite. I really love shooting 6x6 medium format, so the frame is a square. Really tried to champion and shoot more film this year: in New York I shot a load of bands with my Bronica SQ 6x6 camera and fell in love with it all over again.

I saw you on BBC Sport taking pics in the background at the UK National Champs: Was it weird to see UK skateboarding being given such a huge spotlight? 

I was really fortunate to come on board with Skateboard England early on, and shoot the announcement photos of the skaters for Team GB. At that point, or maybe even before that, Neil from Skateboard England had really kept me in the loop and tried to get me on board. Saying that, Neil has been a big supporter of me shooting skateboarding, and is the nicest dude, giving me loads of opportunities over the past 18 months. 

To get back to your question, I wouldn't say it was weird, I would say it was about time. There's some really amazingly talented skaters in the UK, and the spotlight was being put on them deservingly. Hopefully we get to see the rest of this journey towards the Olympics soon. Add any of the guys and girls that were in that comp: if you go on their Instagrams, you can see how much they throw down, so everyone getting that moment of coverage is credit to them and their love of skating.

Alex Hallford at the UK National Championships last year

How did you end up taking shots for the European X-Games? 

There's really no crazy story behind this: basically I emailed and asked. Shortly after, I got a reply saying they would love for me to come over. Just goes to show, putting yourself out there and having a conversation with someone goes a long way! 

Which pros did you meet there? 

I met Felipe Gustavo the first year I went along, with a few others, but to be fair to everyone, even in practice people were really focused that year. Second year I went, it was way more mellow for some reason. On the first day, I showed up after getting off of the flight and got to chill at the park and hang with Jamie Foy, who was the nicest dude. We spoke about his New Balance shoe, and his thoughts behind it while Gustavo Ribeiro was just tearing it up in the background. Kelly Hart was there judging last year's comp, which was cool as we had met before at Street League London a couple of times, so I got to catch up with Kelly again.

What was it like shooting someone as gnarly as Jamie Foy skating? Did he land everything practically first go? 

At these big comps, the practice sessions are basically the guys putting their runs together: they are trying the same thing over and over again. Watching Jamie Foy just Krooked everything in sight super pinched was super gnarly, it was crazy to see that level of skating in person. On the other hand, there's Ishod Wair, who just flowed around the course adding bits on and improvised as he went: he's probably the best skateboarder in the world.

Leticia Bufoni with a BS Disaster at the European X Games in Norway

What was the difference in vibe between the European X-Games and the UK National Champs? 

At the X-Games, you can really tell it's a big TV style presentation, with music and competitions and loads of other stuff going on, plus there's all the other sports there. At the UK National Champs, everyone knew each other, and if you didn't know anyone, by the end of the three days you did and it was rad. Churchill was on the mic, so what else do you need? 

X-Games is that finished, high-end product that's been going for years, but I got to go to Simple Sessions' 20th event this year. Simple Sessions is this great comp run by people who do it for the love of skateboarding, and it comes across. Everyone has a really good time with loads of stories coming out of it. You see amazing skating at all of these events and I guess the difference in vibe is maybe down to what's on the line for these skaters who enter. 

With so many high profile photography jobs on the books, do you get any time to skate?

Once a year, me and the Ghost Town Social Gang (Andy, Lyle, Ryan, Paul and Chris), go to a far away land like Paris or Barcelona and have a week or so of skating, hanging out and beers. On the run up to that I attempt to skate, but it doesn't normally happen if I'm truly honest. Think I'm more of a documentarian these days, and see skating as more social than ever, hanging out with some of my closest mates and having a push about. 

Cov’s own Andrew Scott popping over a unique gap opportunity

Did you get to skate the X-Games course? 

Never got to skate it - saying that, I never have my board at those events, as I have to carry loads of camera gear and clothes for a few days. I wouldn't be able to skate it anyway: they have a schedule of who's allowed on the course to practice, and they break down the days so everyone gets time without it being hectic as the courses are only small. If you had all the men and women involved skating at once it would be chaos. I think you have to have the correct wristband to skate as there are stewards everywhere checking. I'm lucky I get pretty good access, just no athlete access! 

What has been your favourite park/spot to photograph? 

Favourite park to shoot was the first year Street League was in London, at the Copper Box Arena. Apparently, the course was awful to skate but it had the Union Jack done in concrete so up high the photos looked great. Also I have had some good times over the years shooting the vert at Epic/Creation: normally Jim The Skin is skating, so always get rad photos. The big Herbert 3 set in Coventry with the old cathedral in the background looks epic. I shot a photo of Tez Aldersley that I still love to this day of him kick flipping it.

Tez Aldersley floating a kickflip down at the Herbert spot in Coventry

Which skater (that you haven't photographed) would you love to get pics of? 

Arto Saari would be sick! I love his skating. Spanky would be pretty high up: been really enjoying watching his footage recently. The skater that takes top of the list would have to be the fastest man in skateboarding: Dennis Busenitz. Just a photo of him pushing or bombing a hill would be a dream shoot!

What advice would you give to any aspiring photographers out there? 

Just enjoy your photography. Put as much time as you can into it, and most importantly talk to people and make connections. 

One last note on this: educate yourself! Take time to learn about photographers before you. Look at different areas, visit galleries, study photo books, listen to lectures - it all helps and gives you a better standing when moving into the professional world.

Anyone you would like to thank? 

Firstly, I’d thank you Ade: all the lifts to parks years ago, and people I met through you, and the videos you made. 

In skateboarding: big thanks to my friends over at Skateboard England, and always a big shout out to Jim The Skin and Ride. Everyone at X-Games & Simple Sessions: you rule. 

Thanks to Andy Scott also, as he kept me in skating for years, he's the hype man. Vic Frankowski: always a supporter of my photography from Content (@hello_content). There are so many to thank, as I can’t do what I do without people giving me opportunities and their time. Love to everyone.

[newflanagansonthebloch]

Day 12, Part 2

After stuffing our tummies we’re back on the boat heading to our original port. We see the tallest buildings in Saigon. This is a city city-with sky scrapers and office buildings and new modern buildings. Like in Hanoi there is considerable construction and entire apartment parks that are owned by Vietnam’s richest man Vin. It seems as if he has a mall and large building in every major city. A car dealership too.

At port we meet our driver and enjoy the air conditioning. We would normally opt for a walking tour of some sort but not in this thick heat. Our first stop is the Central Post office which faces Saigon’s Notre Same Cathedral. The church was completed in 1880 and is constructed of all french materials and designed to look a bit like its Parisian namesake. It’s made of red brick from Marseille and is currently undergoing significant renovation. Typically however, it holds 4 Sunday masses including one in English. The post office is a remnant if french colonialism and was designed by Gustavo Eiffel (yes, that one!). construction began in 1886 and was completed in 1891. It’s still in use today and tourists can be found drafting post cards on the back table. Duong Van Ngo, a professional letter writer who speaks Vietnamese, French and English and has been employed with the post office since 1946 is also still there. A giant portrait of Ho Chi Minh is featured on the back wall. From outside the post office you can also see an old grey building which housed the US CIA and from where the helicopter in a famous a Vietnam War photo flew from.

From here we drive toward the Presidential Palace, now knows as Reunification Palace. A palace existed here when the French occupied the area since 1868 but South Vietnam’s president Ngo Dinh Diem commissioned a new structure be built in the early 60s. It shows. We see the offices and also the living quarters. The first president was ultimately assassinated in 1963 so the main inhabitants of this home was the second president and his family. The dining rooms both have two tables—one long rectangular one for eating western food and one large round one with a lazy Susan, with the correct cutlery for each. Large and real ivory elephant tusks can be found in the International receiving room. At this time there were two VPs-one internal and one for external affairs. The Ambassador room is the grandest with a giant layer ware painting composed of 49 pieces. Evidently it can take three months to finish just one piece with its 17 layers. We finish by seeing the bomb shelter basement complete with rotary phones and radio gear, which kind of reminds me of when we visited Churchill’s situation room in London. The art deco style makes me giggle a lot—you can’t help but think of the swinging 60s and then remembering this was a president’s home. It’s now called Reunification Palace because this was where Communist forces crashed through the gates in 1975 to end the war. Thuy also tells us that the original building didn’t have good Feng Shui and so a fountain was built in front—you almost never have a direct entrance to a building like this—it’s why there are screens in front of the entrances at the other palaces we’ve visited—you shouldn’t be able to see straight through! The “palace” is a nice break from the heat though as a nice breeze wafts through.

After the palace we make our way to Saigon’s most visited museum, the War Remnants Museum. The museum centers on the atrocities of the Vietnam America war and can be difficult at times to wander through. Inside you can see all the American guns, ammo and bombs used and more bombs as well as aircraft carriers and tanks are situated outside. Inside there are exhibits on the imprisonment of the Vietnamese by both the French and Americans. There is an exhibition on resistance from other nations, and there are endless photographs from the many photojournalists risking their lives to depict the war. The most difficult sections are about Agent Orange and it’s multi generational effect on those exposed. There is a section of artwork done by children on this topic I felt particularly moving. There is a lot to learn about the atrocities of what we did in Vietnam and how we did it, and a lot of disbelief that we did such inhumane things. The perspective of the museum is rather one sided as most exhibitions are here (like the Hanoi Hilton) but for me, this fact didn’t take away my unease on what the Americans did during this war.

After this museum and Kerran gawking at planes and tanks like a school boy, we have a little time to freshen up at our historic hotel which has been in business since 1925. At 6pm we meet our guide for the evening from Vespa Rouge, our two drivers and a pair of vintage vespas—green for Kerran and baby pink for me.

Our first stop is around the corner from the hotel on a bridge just near where we got the speed boat earlier that day. We start the tour with a pair of welcome cocktails that have chilli, Ginger, and lemongrass and are super tasty. From the bridge you can see then unfinished construction of the Saigon subway and one of the cities tallest towers complete with a helipad.

After our drink we hop on the back of our scooters (after our driver crowns us with the helmet—that’s literally what it feels like) and we go for a drive. First, despite the traffic this is not nearly as scary as one would imagine. The tour takes a scenic route around the city and through a local market which I really liked—seeing everyone in their natural habitat, no tourists etc. We stop on at an outdoor cafe in District 4 and make our way to a low table with plastic chairs. We both get Saigon Special beers and our guide orders us two types of clams—little ones and big ones with peanuts. We had a piece of black fish that was likely caught that day, and fried frog legs which taste just like chicken! This is clearly an off the beaten path local eatery and the food is goods. As we are wrapping up a street performer emerged in a midriff baring low neck shirt and jeans (a rarity for relatively conservative Vietnam) and she’s dancing in the middle of the street. This progresses to dancing with and swallowing fire. Again, not a tourist area!

We get back on our chariot-Vespas and take another scenic drive. Our next stop is in Distrixt 5, China town which is evident from the red paper lanterns hanging outside. This restaurant is full with locals and their families. Here we have another type of Saigon beer (some locals drink it with ice!). We eat chicken salad with banana flower, and a massive bigger-than-the-plate Vietnamese pancake stuffed with pork. Instead of rice paper you just roll this one up with giant lettuce and dip it the fish sauce. I am so full but it’s really tasty!

We hop on the vespas again to head toward our third destination. We drive on the highway and I spot a church with Buddhist style influence and LED colored halos on Jesus. We ride through a vibrant street of flower store after flower store. The alleys of Saigon are clearly where the magic happens.

Our last stop is a more upscale affair called Cafe Soi Da. It has a mini garden in it and a nice ambiance.There are couples with arms around one another. Kerran gets a really good pina-colada and I get an equally yummy ginger tea. We listen to a Cellist, Pianist, and Violinist play jazz music and three separate singers accompany them. Most of the singing is in Vietnamese, but one woman sings in french.

After this we board the bikes for the last time and they drop us back off at the Majestic Hotel. We snap a few pics before heading inside and packing our belongings before an early checkout tomorrow.

(More food pics in next post!)

[what-to-imagine-next]

So why I made this blog is to cope and rant and stuff

Yeah yeah I’m just a stupid teenager and my problems don’t ever really mean anything, especially when it comes to stupid high school drama, but I do have actual problems.

Here’s my stupid rant or what ever.

Two days ago I lost one of my best friends named Ahrlenny Wendy Hernandez, she was battling leukemia for little under two months, perhaps longer but that was when she was diagnosed, prior to that she had been in the hospital for a month ish due to having liver and gallbladder problems, she even got her gallbladder removed due to having stones. Anyways so she had missed out on a month of school and when she finally came back for little under two weeks, she was feeling extremely poor again. She went to the hospital and they did blood test after blood test after noticing an extremely low white blood cell count.

She called me and some of her our other friends in our chat and told us while crying that there was a massive chance of having leukemia. We reassured her and said it was unlikely and that if she did have it we would help her over come it and help her heal through out the entire process. The next evening, I get a group call in my a group chat with my little gang that included Wendy on snap chat. She is balling now, saying how she has it, Julianna and I once again reassured her that she would make it through this with us by her side over that call, then we told Sophia, Aileen and Raven that night, who then reached out to her to say the same as we did to her. We would help her heal, do cute stuff with her like videos for youtube about makeup and gossip and everything we could for her.

She started chemo, this was about a month and a half ago, maybe less. She was doing fine, the chemo wasn’t even making her sick nor throwup even. She even still had the energy to keep her streaks up the entirety of her poor health. She was texting us in the chat about doctor stuff. We would tell her the latest band drama and she would laugh or sass in a reply to what happened with us. It was simple enjoyable moments I should have paid more attention to.

We were told to tell certain friends in band about her having the leukemia, she didn’t want people to all know about it, whether fear of misjudgment or not wanting pity I’ll never really know. We told everyone we needed the very next school day. The day we told people, Aileen and I told people to make cards and such to give her when we were going to see her in the hospital for the first of two times. We got a white and purple orcid and two stuffed bear animals. But when we called the hospital that day after school she was in surgery for taking bone marrow out of her hip and we(Jacob, Aileen, my mother and I) decided to visit her the next day, though she said she wanted to see us either way. We wanted her to rest and promised it for tomorrow. We got an actualy card instead of some scratch paper, and had all the people who knew sign it to our best ability.

Aileen and I got picked up by my mom and we had the card, the flowers and the bears all with us in tale. We were excited to see her for the first time seeing for in about a week or two. We wanted to tell the tea irl now.

We got to the local hospital, asked for Ahrlenny Hernandez and put Aileen Martinez and Isabella Duncan for our visitors passes, though Aileen was Eileen and Martinez was Maritinez, but my name was spelt correctly haha.

We were then guided to Wendy’s room and go to see her cute, dumb, smiling face. Her Spanish only speaking family was there, her mother was talking to her sister, her Father was watching soccer on the TV and her little brother was as energetic as always. It seemed rather normal for them to be there.

We went over to Wendy gave her our gifts and our card, and one extra bad card that talked about being her plug from some kid in band once she got better, and for wendy to subscribe to his youtube channel. Werid plug but ight.

Anyways, it was pretty chill but Aileen and I were also pretty awkward around her family. We had fun, talked shit about some band kids, talked about what we would do after this all finished. Everything seemed so perfect, so calm, so hopeful.

I then got a text from my mom asking where we were as we had been in there for an hour, and she wanted to go home. We hugged Wendy goodbye for the second to last time ever. And went home. Then we kept texting in our snapchat groupchat, everything was going alright, chemo was doing it’s thing, it was looking up.

Three weeks later Aileen and I planned a sleepover on for February Second, where we planned to visit Wendy the next day and spend as much time as we could with her. We tried to bake cookies for her and her family, but at Aileens, she didn’t have butter, just this butter like spread, and no brown sugar just normal table sugar. We tried to make it work, but the batter cooked to odd for cookie like texture, so we tried to make two cookie loafs, the first one I messed up due to not baking it enough and the second one was pretty good if I do say so myself.

We slept pretty hard that night, and woke up to get our stuff together and go visit Wendy. My mom had work at 11:00am, and would give us a ride at 10:20am- it was 9:00am when she said this but my stupid ass read it as ten-twenty like in ten to twenty minutes. Rushing both of our selves ready we waited and then we realized the the wrong in my reading and waited.

We got to the hospital at about 10:45am, and asked for Ahrlenny Hernandez once again little did we know for the final time. We got to her room which had her(duh), her nurse, her mom, her dad, two aunts, and her little brother. It was p a c k e d. We went over to her, hugged her hello, and sat down near her bedside. She was getting chemo as we entered the room too. She had gotten pale but nothing near to looking deathly, she had lost some weight as well, and was eating a bad of sun chips and drinking water when she was getting the chemo.

I had a bag of mini-marshmallows and proceeded to eat about 4/5ths of the package, it stated to “have fun with your yum” but also to eat one at a time but little to late I was eating them by the handful. It was amusing to us three, even the nurse! So we talked and gabbed about the latest band stuff, like about gigs, fundraisers, drama, gossip and funny stories that she sadly missed. We were laughing and having a lot of fun. I told her about the cookie loaf situation which made her laugh, same thing happened when I explained that whole 10:20am not ten-twenty minutes. It was so fucking wholesome and fun, and I wish I got to savor it more.

At some point her uncle and cousin showed up and barley said hello to her and just started watching soccer which was pretty sad and funny all in one second. Her two aunts when they showed up hugged her and gave her a stuffed animal and food.

As we were talking about all the things we wanted to bring up she even asked us what color wig she should get, purple or blue? She said. Purple always worked great on her.

I started to text our chat to invite them to say hi to Wendy at the hospital but they had work or family problems and couldn’t go, so I texted my friend Gustavo, he was friend with Wendy and in the same band we both played in. We convinced him to come and said he wasnt gonna walk, but said yes. At some point she was supposed to get up and do some walking around the area to keep her self moving and such, but I convinved her to stop at this little side room that had this airhockey machine in it.

Of course she and I played against eachother, and it was a lot of fun, but mid game, in which I was agressivly playing, she stopped cause she had gotten a phone call from her mother, turns out Gustavo had shown up to the room a L o T quicker than we expected and so we walked over to him and brought him to the air hockey room, made jokes and had fun, I still however was playing pretty aggressively and at one point she didnt even have to try and I was pretty much playing against myself. It was pretty funny as I even hit the puck off the air hockey table top a few times like an idiot.

We finally rested a little and then we walked with Wendy around about two or three laps around that part of the hospital. We got back to her room and talked for a little bit more. But my mom was saying I needed to get home to shower and clean my room. So we said our goodbyes and hugged her for our last time ever. Aileen and I where there for nearly seven hours, when we finally left. We got a ride from Aileens mom. And that was the last time I ever got to see Wendy’s smile and hear her laugh for the last time.

We still texted for the following weeks, she told us little over two weeks ago that she was finally let go to go home, but that she would have to go to LA or Sanfransisco for better chemotherapy, She said La as in Long Beach she has family. And we wished her luck like we always did.

About three to four days before her passing, on Friday or Saturday, she sent us an update, her last one. She said she went back to the hospital because she had fainted onto the ground. She got her blood tested and once again she had extremely low white bloodcells. She said that she was sent home and told to eat every 2/3 hours and that she would be fine. We had little communication the day or two before her death. Mostly silence. None of us noticed reall, just thinking she needed time alone or something.

Tuesday morning she passed away, I don’t know if she went painfully or in her sleep. I don’t know if she was home or at the hospital. I don’t know if it was the leukemia, the chemo or if she got sick from her family. I don’t know. All I know is that that day I was talking about raising money for her to my school counselor and for two hours after I got home I was getting notifications from many friends if the rumors were true.

I was in disbelief, no no no! I was thinking it was some sick disgusting joke. I hoped it was. It wasn’t, her cousin posted on his social media wishing a good rest finally after a fight she had with her life.

The next night was spent getting all the photos I could of Wendy, I made about five posts on instagram/snapchat stories and four on instagram that day about her. Who she is and was to me. I also spend that night calling people to inform them of our loss of a musician, a friend, a sister and a family member. I called my old band director even. So many calls, so many texts, so many fucking tears. It took till Wednesday night to know it was real, a gofundme made by her sister to raise for her funeral and rest. Its all real.

She was taken away in the blink of an eye, she fought hard but lost. And I fucking hate that someone like her lost, she’s so fucking strong. I never got to say my last I love you to her. No last goodbye. No last stay safe. Nothing. Everything taken from her, her family and friends all so quickly.

Stupidly enough drama about her death accured after, the day after we had found out, literal hours after we found out, one of my friends posted a story to her instagram stating how she loved Wendy like a sister and how she’ll miss her and someone who hated Wendy proceeded to ask her “did u tho” hours after most of us had found out.

Then today, Thurday the 28th of February, finally a moment of silence was made, no one in my class and in many others did not stop talking during it all. And apparently it felt rushed and disingenuous by the person who had made the announcement about the now passed 15 year old girl.

It’s all fucked. This situation. But fuck man I just wanted one more minute to tell her how lucky I was to have her as my friend. But I didn’t and no one did get that minute.

Goodbye my friend. Stay safe. Please.

P.S. the long instagram discription is one of my poster about her.

[ricardosousalemos]

Sun Kil Moon: Common as Light and Love Are Red Valleys of Blood

In retrospect, Sun Kil Moon’s 2014 milestone Benji was less of a breakthrough than a breakdown just before Mark Kozelek became definitively mean and petty. Even with Benji’s life-flashing-before-your-eyes earnestness (the repentance! the forgiveness! the laughs! the tears!), its lessons seem to have gone unabsorbed. Common as Light and Love Are Red Valleys of Blood comes in at 130 minutes. This is after two Sun Kil Moon albums—2015’s Universal Themes, 2016’s Jesu/Sun Kil Moon—that left no one thinking, “I wish these were twice as long.” Kozelek knows that Common as Light isn’t an easy sell. In a particularly forgettable number called “Seventies TV Show Theme Song,” he admits, “All I know is this reminds me of the theme to ‘Barney Miller’/It wasn’t intentional, just adding a song on the record for filler.” It’s not the only lyric on here that simply describes what the music sounds like, or dares you to stop listening. These are by-and-large the most confrontational songs Kozelek has ever put out, but strangely they’re also some of the more exciting ones he’s written since developing his post-Benji spoken word style.

While recent records have found Kozelek lambasting his vinyl-collecting fans and putting the fear of God in the minds of bloggers who miss his Red House Painters days, here Kozelek directs his fury more broadly. He makes three things absolutely clear: he hates iPhones, he hates Twitter, and he hates the twentysomethings who read Twitter on their iPhones. If there’s a theme to this record (the way that, you know, acting in a Paolo Sorrentino film was the theme of the previous Sun Kil Moon LP), it’s that the world is fucked, man, so get off your phone and respect your elders (especially Mark Kozelek). Many songs attempt to reflect Kozelek’s anger following mass shootings to varying degrees of profundity. The awkwardly chipper music in “Bastille Day” creates an effect not dissimilar to Smash Mouth playing the intro to “All Star” on loop while their singer threatens the audience. This mode, as one might imagine, doesn’t add up to a particularly moving collection of songs.

It does, however, make for some surprisingly great moments. In “Philadelphia Cop,” which slowly evolves into a eulogy for David Bowie, Kozelek lands a bitter jab: “If you’re a man in charge claiming you’re a staunch feminist, then give a woman your job or shut the fuck up, Queen Bitch.” In the well-meaning “Lone Star,” he helps save a suicidal woman’s life and tries to convince North Carolina officials to amend their transphobic bathroom laws. The slow, ominous “Sarah Lawrence College Song,” finds him performing a small gig for a group of college students, which obviously leads to him berating them for how much their parents pay for tuition. He replies, “That’s what Walmart pays me to use my music in commercials,” but quickly changes his tone: “Maybe I can go to their school one day too, ‘cause they all seem like really nice people.”

Many of these songs follow similar patterns: Kozelek snaps and sympathizes in the same breath. When he jokes with his colorblind building manager that he wants his tiles “gray… like your hair, man,” he comments just a second later, “Hey, I got a little gray too, I’m not picking on you.” The reason why similarly quotidian story-songs like “Gustavo” or “Jim Wise” hit so hard was because they resulted in double portraits: You learned more about Kozelek through his observations of others. On Common as Light, Kozelek fills the whole frame, increasing the humor and anger, but sacrificing the subtlety. If the diaristic style he developed on his last few releases has been generously compared to novelists like Karl Ove Knausgård or James Joyce, then these songs feel more like Larry David or, at their most vulgar, “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.”

Curiously, Kozelek plays a ton of synth here—a foreign sound for any Sun Kil Moon record. “I’ve found that when you put an instrument in someone’s hands that they aren’t used to playing, interesting things happen,” he noticed in a recent interview. A lot of this does sound new, which is becoming more difficult as he becomes more prolific and the world catches up with him. Phil Elverum cited him as an influence for his upcoming Mount Eerie album, and you can hear pieces of “Carissa” in “Ravens,” just like you can hear “Sunshine in Chicago” in “Okkervil River R.I.P.,” or “I Watched the Film the Song Remains the Same” in Father John Misty’s “Leaving L.A.” Kozelek’s work continues to ripple outward, even as he retreats further and further into himself. Just last year, a pitch-perfect parody made the rounds, mimicking Kozelek’s style to the point of tricking a few people into thinking a new EP of his had surfaced. The irony is that those pensive, guitar-based songs already sound completely outdated—representative of a different Mark Kozelek from a different time. Such is the nature of his work. Kozelek has always been his own most restless listener, and part of his motivation is simply to keep himself interested in making art, whether that means changing his band name, starting his own record label, or turning his own songwriting process into his muse. “Maybe you’ll hear it and think, ‘I prefer your older songs,’” he sings in “Seventies TV Show Theme,” “Well, maybe the world has changed and I’m not that songwriter anymore.” In spirit, Common as Light resembles his classic work more than he’s willing to admit. After all, his previous epics Rollercoaster and April were emotionally exhausting listens, unfolding with the intensity of a man trying to pack everything he knows into one record. As disorienting and overwhelming as any of Kozelek’s defining albums, Common as Light patiently reveals more of the artist to anyone who’s still paying attention.

[pengychan]

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 3

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[Tag with all chapters up here.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: “I mean being a Catholic priest only takes years of study and training how hard can it be” -- Ernesto, probably.

***

“We have to keep going.”

“Santiago, we don’t even know which way he went…”

“Then we split up and keep looking!”

“To regroup where? And what if we meet enemies? We’d be easy prey-- Chago, wait! We lost him. We can’t keep looking blindly for--”

“Then go back to the barracks. De la Cruz is out there somewhere. I’ll find that traitor myself, and hang him with my own hands for what he did to Beto,” Santiago snapped, and turned his horse to face Nando, a scowl on his face. It caused the other man to rear back on the saddle, but Santiago didn’t see him, not really.

All that he had before his eyes - all that he’d been seeing, even behind his own eyelids when he shut them - was Alberto’s body on the ground, the blood and brain matter splattered on the rocky ground, carrion birds already beginning their descent… and the tracks of two horses leaving. 

They had found Beto’s horse not too far away, wandering lost, but Ernesto de la Cruz was nowhere to be found. He’d fled like the coward he was, after shooting a man from behind.

He didn’t have to do it. He was giving him his back, he could have stunned him if he so wanted to escape.

“Chago, listen,” Nando spoke again, reaching to put a hand on his arm. “There is nothing more we can do now, and you need to be reasonable,” he said, and sighed. “I know he was your friend. I am sorry it was you to find him.”

Santiago almost snapped back, but he suddenly found he had no strength to. He had to swallow before he spoke. “His mother is waiting for him at home,” he said, very quietly. “How can I go back and tell her Beto is dead if I don’t at least avenge him? I promised Raquel I’d look after him, and now…”

“It is war, Chago. She knew death was a real possibility.”

Of course they all had known that, but it had seemed such a distant concept when they’d signed up - Alberto with the eagerness of a man who wants to prove something, and Santiago with a sense of duty that compelled him to follow his friend as he always had. And even afterwards… death in battle, or even in a skirmish, was one thing. Being shot in the back by a deserter was worse. It was unfair. It was personal.

“I should have been the one on patrol with him,” Santiago murmured. He would have been, normally, but the day Alberto had died he’d been assigned to some other menial task, and Ernesto de la Cruz had been chosen to go with him instead. Beto - who had waved at him before going off, telling him he’d see him later - had liked the man, but Santiago had never quite warmed up to him; he recognized a coward at heart when he saw one. He hadn’t trusted him but even so, he’d never thought he’d kill Beto in cold blood and flee.

“It wasn’t your fault that you weren’t,” Nando was saying, a hand still on his arm. Santiago nodded, but in truth he’d hardly heard him.

I joined the army because he had, but now he’s gone and I can’t do this on my own.

But he would have to, of course. He’d have to brush it off the best he could and keep marching on. He didn’t have to like it; he just needed to make himself keep going through the motions until the right moment came, until he could finally get his hands on Beto’s murderer - because he would, come what may. He couldn’t allow himself to doubt that for one moment.

De la Cruz couldn’t get away with it. He wouldn’t. Maybe not today or tomorrow or the day after that, but someday Santiago would face him again.

And that day, Ernesto de la Cruz wouldn’t get the luxury of a quick death.

***

When it was time to thank God for his food and whatnot, Ernesto barely needed to pretend; he hadn’t had a proper breakfast in so long he was ready to personally thank everyone, from God down to the hens who had laid the eggs, and the nun - Sister Sofía, was it? - who had put the dish in front of him.

If anything, the hard part was focusing on the prayer with that delicious smell distracting him, and trying to make himself pause and chew instead of guzzling it all down in seconds. After the first few bites, he found that easier.

“Where are Gustavo and Brother Héctor?” Ernesto asked after swallowing another mouthful. It occurred to him that the novice would likely live there as well - he hadn’t bothered looking around much after being led to his room the previous day, and he’d have expected the sexton to have showed up by now.

Sister Sofía shrugged, and dropped another couple of eggs on his plate. She was a good deal shorter than him, thin as a twig and nothing much in the way of looks, but as he wolfed down the extra eggs Ernesto thought he could kiss her on the mouth right there and then if it weren’t so likely to land him in trouble.

“Gustavo showed up earlier, but he was absolutely useless here, so I sent him off to feed your horse. Brother Héctor is helping Chicharrón at the cemetery. His joints aren’t what they used to be, and he needed some assistance straightening up a tombstone. Not that he’ll admit it. He’s probably grumbling that Héctor didn’t need to show up at all right now, while watching him do the heavy work.”

Ernesto raised an eyebrow, trying and failing to picture the beanpole he’d met at the church’s steps lifting anything heavier than a basket of laundry, but he didn’t ask. “Chicharrón?” he asked instead.

“The old grave digger, Padre. You’ll meet him today, I wager.”

“I’m guessing that’s not his real name,” Ernesto said. For a moment he kicked himself for not giving a fake name, or asking the dying priest for his own so that he could use it. But then again, he suspected that might have led him to fail to respond when called, which would have probably been rather suspicious.

Unaware of his thoughts, and pouring some more water in his glass, Sister Sofía shook her head. “No, but good luck getting the real one out of him. No one knows.”

“Must be embarrassing, if he’d rather be called after fried pork,” Ernesto muttered. Sister Sofía laughed and so did he - only to realize his mistake when she spoke again.

“It’s good to see your headache is gone, Padre.”

For the second time in a minute, Ernesto felt like kicking himself really hard. He’d come out of his room mumbling that his head hurt, so that he could get out of saying the afternoon mass, but breakfast had been so good he’d simply forgotten to keep the act up.

No matter. I can claim it spiked up again. I just need to be careful now.

“It is slightly better,” he said, and put the fork down on the plate. “It was all delicious, Sister.”

Sister Sofía smiled. “Oh, I’m glad,” she said, and went to take his dish off the table, standing close to him. Very close. Close enough that her arm brushed against his own, startling him a little and causing him to look up. Still, nothing showed on her face. “Anything else, Padre?”

Nothing a nun can give, but thanks for the reminder I’ve gone too long without a woman.

“No, nothing,” Ernesto said, a bit too quickly, and stood. “Is… is there a schedule, or…?”

“This is about the time people come in for confession.”

“Oh, great. I mean-- I’ll be in the confessional in a few minutes,” Ernesto said quickly, and left, heading to his room - he needed the Bible, plus pen and paper - before she could ask anything else, acutely aware of her gaze fixed on his retreating back.

***

They will come collect everything tonight. Keep the back door open. Ensure no one is there.

The note had no name on it, as always. It was safer that way; if she and whoever was keeping direct contact with the revolutionaries kept ignoring other's identity, they could be sure that information could never be forced out of them under any circumstances.

The notes, always written in the same handwriting, came inside the collection box, and Imelda always made sure she'd be the one to collect the offerings for the orphanage - or, if not, that Sofía would do it. She, at least, could be trusted to be discreet.

... Well, no. Not really. But on such serious matters, she knew when to keep her mouth shut.

After giving a quick look around - the church was empty aside from a few people waiting by the confessional and, she assumed, Padre Ernesto inside said confessional - Imelda held the note over a candle, and let it burn. The small piece of paper quickly turned to ashes, the smell easily covered by incense burning, and she went to look for Sofía.

She found her in the sacristy, getting the purple robe out of the closet and ready for the afternoon mass.

"He's bigger than Padre Edmundo was," Sofía muttered when she saw her walking in, eyeing the robe. “Broader shoulders, deeper chest. It's going to be a tight fit."

"I can just hear the sorrow in your voice," Imelda said, holding back a smile, then lowered her own voice. "They'll come to take the weapons and ammunitions tonight."

"Your friend wrote you, huh? Ever wonder who it is?"

"It's not relevant. Have you found out anything about Padre Ernesto?"

Sofía shrugged. "He's got a cleft chin. Still like him best without the beard."

Imelda forced herself to hold back an exasperated sigh. "Anything else?"

"I'm almost positive he puts something in his hair to keep it that glossy. It can’t be natural."

"Are you making a point to annoy me?"

"I want to see how far I can push it before I make you curse in a church."

If not for the fact she had the basket with the offerings in her hands, Imelda would have smacked her. Maybe she should consider using the basket. "Anything of any relevance?"

"He's got a healthy appetite. And he seems rather out of his depth," she added quickly when she noticed Imelda's eye twitching just a little. "He almost began eating without a prayer. He's like a fish out of water. But that's likely because he just arrived."

Yes, Imelda had to admit that was a likely explanation. Still, with all that was going on, having a perfect stranger at the helm of the parish unnerved her. She'd feel safer once she knew something more about him. If only Héctor had taken his vows already... no. She wouldn't allow herself to think of that. "Nothing that gave any indication of where he stands?" she asked instead.

Sofía rolled her eyes. "That's hardly something you tell a stranger over breakfast. Give me time, Imelda. I'll crack this one and give you answers."

"It might be worth having a look at his room."

"I told you, I need time to--"

"Without him in it, Sofía," Imelda said drily, getting herself a laugh and a hand on her shoulder.

"You worry too much. He's just a priest, from way out of town and probably fresh out of the seminar. At worst, we need to be careful around him as we are around most others."

Imelda hated to admit that maybe she was worrying too much, but... well, maybe she was worrying too much. She sighed, and nodded. "All right. But if you find out anything--"

"You'll be the first one to know," Sofía reassured her. "And if there is any reason to, we'll search his room. I think I know where I can find a spare key."

"Gustavo?"

"Gustavo the Disappointment. Though to be fair I was expecting little, so being let down wasn't a long drop."

Imelda's lips quirked upwards. "I believe I heard you saying never again, though."

That gained her a solemn nod. "I did. But if it's to get that key, so be it,” Sofía said, and gave a long sigh. “I did commit myself to a life of sacrifice, after all."

***

Ernesto hadn’t bothered to confess himself in a very, very long time.

Even when he had to, it had simply been… something he had to do. It wasn’t always easy, because apparently he was supposed to confess to wrongdoings - and he couldn’t think of any, he had good reasons for everything he did - or actions that he regretted, which was… rare.

For his first confession as a kid, prior to his first Communion, he’d flipped through the pages of a Bible and taken note of sins that sounded especially impressive: just because it was something he had to do, it didn’t mean he had to half-ass it. He wanted it to be memorable.

He hadn’t understood most of the words he’d read, and the priest inside the confessional had been quite confused to hear a nine-year-old confessing to fornication; much later on, Ernesto would muse he had simply been confessing his main sin ahead of time. Back then, he’d fixed everything by adding ‘and I just told lies’ at the end of the confession. He’d had to say hell knew how many Ave Maria for that, but at least he hadn’t made the confession boring to listen to. Like, say, the ones he was listening right now, sprawled on the amazingly uncomfortable wooden seat inside the confessional.

Miguel had been right: absolutely nothing of interest seemed to happen in that place.

“... And what’s worse, I have…” the whisper became fearful, getting up Ernesto’s hopes to hear something interesting. “I have lain with my husband, last night...”

Thunk.

“Padre? What was that?”

With his forehead resting against the wooden panel he’d let it drop against, Ernesto held back a sigh and a muttered ‘congratulations’. That was worse that the idiot who had confessed to stealing an apple, or another who envied the neighbor for his plump chickens. “Nothing, child. So, you slept. With your husband. Great. And...?”

“And… we did not… we didn’t do so in order to conceive. We know it is wrong, but we cannot afford another child!”

“That’s fair enough. How many children do you have?”

“Seven.”

“... It does sound like a good place to stop, yes.”

“I need your absolution, Padre.”

“What for? It’s your husband.”

“But we committed onanism!”

“That’s… what usually happens when it’s done right?”

“What?”

Oh, Ernesto thought, straightening himself. Wait. He quickly glanced down at the the piece of paper he’d scribbled his notes on, squinting. “Ah. Right. Onanism. That is concerning.”

The voice on the other side of the wooden panel turned anxious. “Can I have absolution?”

“Of course,” Ernesto muttered, turning the piece of paper on the other side. “Ego te absol--”

“No… no penance?”

Yes, start reciting the goddamn Holy Father and keep going until you die.

“... Say ten Hail Mary. Ego te absolvo a pa… pe… peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Next,” Ernesto sighed, rubbing his forehead as he heard the woman rising from her kneeling position outside the confessional. His head was really starting to hurt, so maybe he wouldn’t even need to lie about it later that day.Not that he planned to confess a thing either way.

After that confession nonsense was over with, he’d go out to have a walk. He needed to be out in the open again… and to check the quickest route out of that town, just in case.

***

“This… this is for me? Really?”

“Of course!”

“Made it ourselves!”

“Couldn’t make you keep using that old thing!”

“No offense, Cheech.”

“Please don’t chase us with a stick again.”

“Hmph. You can count yourselves lucky I just sat down.”

There was something oddly amusing in the protective way Cheech patted the old guitar on his knees, and if he’d looked Miguel would have seen Héctor - still sweaty and panting a bit, because pulling tombstones back upright was hard work - trying and failing to hold back a smile. But he wasn’t looking, all of his attention taken by the guitar Óscar and Felipe had just handed to him, white and shiny and with a skull motif on the head. It was the most beautiful thing Miguel had ever seen, let alone owned.

“You mean it? It’s mine?” he asked, his voice suddenly small, and looked up to see both twins grinning, clearly pleased with his reaction.

“Sure!”

“We said it, didn’t we?”

Miguel smiled, trying to ignore a sudden tightness in his throat. “Thank you! It’s… I just don’t know if they’ll allow me to keep it…” he muttered, barely daring to touch the strings. The sisters at the orphanage tended to frown upon personal possessions, saying it wasn’t fair for one child to have more than the others. But maybe, if he promised he'd let other children use it, and play it for them...

"Of course they won't," Felipe muttered, sounding almost offended.

"Imelda wouldn't let them," his brother added, causing Héctor to frown.

"Your sister is still a novice, chicos. She can't argue against a decision taken by one of the Sisters, or la Madre Superiora, any more than I could argue a decision by Padre Edm-- Ernesto."

"But she would," Felipe pointed out. That caused Héctor to smile a bit, a fond smile that he wasn't quick enough to smother.

"Oh, I know she would. That's exactly what worries me," he said, causing the boys to laugh a little and Chicharrón to scoff.

"Hmph. That is an argument I'd like to see," he muttered, throwing away the stick he'd been chewing on for his pet rooster to catch and, apparently, try to kill. Miguel was pretty sure Juanita wasn't right in the head. "Either way, these two pend--"

"Cheech," Héctor said, a bit warningly, but the old man waves a hand in dismissal.

"... These two are right. That guitar is yours. If those penguins--"

"Cheech."

"-- If the nuns try to take it from you, they're thieves," he finished, rolling his eyes at Héctor before looking at Miguel. "Just do as Héctor did when he was your age and leave the guitar with me, muchacho. I'll keep it at my place and you can come play it whenever you want. If anyone asks, it's mine."

"That's lying," Miguel pointed out, but he was already grinning from ear to ear, holding tightly onto the guitar. "Thanks, Cheech."

"Don't mention it. Better to hear your music than your whining when it's taken from you."

"Aww, he has a heart!"

"Soft as butter!"

".. Don't push it, kids," Cheech warned, but Óscar and Felipe just grinned before looking back at Miguel expectantly.

"Well, come on! Play us something!"

"Yes, we made it for a reason!"

"It probably needs tuning first, that is not our thing..."

It did need tuning, but Miguel took care of it quicky; when he gave a strum, the sound was perfect. For a moment he considered playing one of Héctor's songs - he wrote so many of them, he'd showed him his songbook once - but he knew he didn't like to let too many people know he wrote songs that were not about religion at all, so in the end he just went for something else entirely. There was that song he'd heard a couple of weeks ago from a few travellers, how did that go again...?"

"En el condado del Carmen Miren lo que ha sucedido Murió el Cherife Mayor Quedando Román herido"

"Otro día por la mañana Cuando la gente llegó Unos a los otros dicen: 'No saben quien lo mató'"

“Se anduvieron...  anduvieron…” Miguel's voice faltered, the next line failing to show in his mind, his fingers stilling on the strings. For a moment he felt lost, that odd sense of utter confusion when something you should know escapes you for no reason - but then another voice rang out and yes, those were the right words.

"Se anduvieron informando Como tres horas después Supieron que el malhechor Era Gregorio Cortez!"

"Wha-- oh! Padre Ernesto!" Héctor exclaimed, quickly standing upright - he'd been leaning on a grave, which he wasn't supposed to be doing. Not that Padre Ernesto seemed to care.

"Brother Héctor. My apologies, I couldn't resist," he said brightly, leaning against the low dry stone between the cemetery and the path he must have been walking on.

“You can sing!” Miguel exclaimed in awe. They really had been sent the best possible priest. “I mean-- you sing so well!”

Ernesto smiled, looking almost giddy at the praise. "Gracias, niño. It’s been a while since last time I got to really sing. This is one of my favorites,” he said, climbing over the low wall to step in the cemetery. Miguel blinked up at him as he approached.

"You know this song?"

"Who doesn't? He-- er," Padre Ernesto paused, and seemed to hesitate, but then he shrugged and he was smiling again, like it was nothing. "It's a very popular song up north near the border, but it makes sense it's not heard as often here," he added, and glanced towards Chicharrón. "You’re the gravedigger, aren’t you? I don't believe we have me-- gah!"

With a sudden screech, Juanita threw himself at Padre Ernesto in a whirlwind of fury and feathers. Padre Ernesto hurriedly stepped back just as Héctor yelled - “No, Juanita!” - and launched himself to grab the rooster. Still sitting on his chair, Cheech raised an eyebrow.

“Juanita doesn’t like him,” he noted, sounding oddly solemn and ignoring the confused look Óscar and Felipe were exchanging. Miguel would have pointed out that the rooster didn’t seem to like anyone he didn’t know well, but his attention was taken by Héctor’s struggle to contain Juanita. He’d managed to grab the rooster, who didn’t seem pleased at all but wasn’t struggling as hard as Miguel knew he could to break free.

"Sorry! Juanita is not always like this. I mean, he's often like this. Just not always," Héctor was saying, causing Padre Ernesto to blink.

"Juanita?"

"Yes."

"But it's a roos--"

"We know. Cheech wouldn't change his mind, though," he added with a chuckle, and to Miguel's relief Padre Ernesto laughed, reaching up to smooth back his hair. There had been a lot of protests from people visiting the cemetery, claiming that Juanita had tried to attack them as they paid their respects. Padre Edmundo’s calming words were the only thing that had kept some of them from trying to turn Cheech’s pet into dinner. It was good to see the new parish priest wasn’t adding himself to the rooster’s long list of enemies.

“Cheech, this is Padre Ernesto,” Héctor said, thrusting Juanita in his arms a little more forcefully than it would have been necessary. The old man huffed, but reached to stroke his rooster’s head to calm him down before nodding towards the priest. He didn’t try to get up from the chair, but that could be excused due to his wooden leg… as long as you couldn’t guess that he simply didn’t want to stand up.

“Juanita doesn’t like you,” he repeated drily. A slightly annoyed expression crossed Padre Ernesto’s features just for a moment before he smiled and shrugged.

“Then it seems Juanito and I--”

“Juanita.”

“-- Shouldn’t come too close to each other for our mutual safety, then,” he said, his smile a little sharper, and turned his attention on the guitar in Miguel’s hands. “That’s a fine guitar.”

“Of course it is!” Felipe piped in, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest.

"We made it!" his brother echoed immediately.

"The best guitar we ever made!"

"Also the first guitar we ever made."

"Which still makes it the best, though."

“Right!”

Padre Ernesto laughed. “You did an impressive job, then. It sounded really good. And you’ve got some real talent there, muchacho,” he added, causing Miguel’s chest to swell with pride. Héctor had said that, too, but Héctor was always nice and encouraging to everyone even when they were terrible at things, and it made it hard to tell how real his praise was.

“Thank you! Can you teach me the rest of the song? I could only memorize the first part.”

“... You’re playing it by memory?” Padre Ernesto blurted out, blinking, and Héctor chuckled, reaching to ruffle Miguel’s hair.

“As you said, Padre, he’s got real talent,” he said. It was something he would have never said in front of Padre Edmundo, because he would have definitely muttered something on how he should be mindful not to feed a child’s pride, as it was a deadly sin and whatnot. Padre Ernesto, however, just nodded in agreement and held out a hand.

“Would you mind?” he asked, and Miguel’s eyes went huge. All fear that someone would take away his guitar seemed very far away; he knew, instinctively, what that was about.

“You can play, too?” Miguel asked, handing him the guitar. He took it with a wink.

“Some say it’s what I do best,” he said, and gave the guitar a strum. The sound put a smile back on his face. “Now, it’s been a while, but let me see. Brother Héctor, care to join…?”

***

Gustavo hated horses.

They stank, they tried to bite you or kick you or worse and they always, always made a mess; Padre Edmundo’s donkey had been so much easier to look after than the beast the new priest had come riding on. But looking after it now was among his duties, even though it was clear the horse wasn’t especially fond on him, either.

It followed that, as he walked back to the church, he wasn’t in a good mood. What did help, however, was hearing music and singing coming from the cemetery, because he recognized at least two the voices.

Insortaron a Cortez Por toditito el estado: "Vivo o muerto que se aprehenda Porque a varios ha matado!"

Well, now that was a good chance to knock Héctor down a notch or two.The darling of the parish, and the darling of the orphanage before then - who did he think he was? The cemetery wasn’t the right place to play music with that brat who kept following him around and the old gravedigger who kept refusing to die. Héctor was so clearly good for nothing, but Padre Edmundo had been entirely blind to that.

Well, now the parish was under new management. What an unwise move, letting himself be caught; it would make for a rather bad first impression with the new priest. Certainly Padre Ernesto would see things his way.

Decía Gregorio Cortez Con su pistola en la mano: "No siento haberlo matado Al que siento es a mi hermano"

Almost giddy with anticipation, Gustavo walked the few steps that separated him from the stone wall and leaned on it with a sneer. “Giving spectacle in the cemetery, brother Héctor, really? I wonder what Padre Ernesto is going to sa-- Padre Ernesto?”

Under his stunned gaze, Padre Ernesto looked back at him in mild confusion, a white guitar still in his arms, pausing mid-twirl. At either side of him, the little brat and Héctor - who was holding that old guitar made out of scraps - stared at him like hares before a coyote. The old man was scoffing, the the two boys whose names he kept forgetting snickered.

“Oh, Gustavo! Care to join in?” Padre Ernesto smiled.

Gustavo opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Ignored the way Miguel was beginning to smirk, ignored the smile beginning to tug at the corners of Héctor’s mouth, and took a step back. His eyes kept shifting from the priest to the guitar in his hands, and then back to him.

“No, I. Er. I was just here to… to…” A bell rang, and Gustavo recoiled. “To remind you that the afternoon mass will be in a hour,” he blurted out.

The smile on Padre Ernesto’s face faded like a blown-out candle. “Ah,” he said. “About… about that--”

“We need to go and get ready!” Miguel - who, for some reason, was the main altar boy despite being nothing but trouble - exclaimed, and took the white guitar from Padre Ernesto to hand it to Chicharrón before he took off running. “Come on, Héctor! See you in church, Padre!”

No running in the cemetery, Gustavo should have yelled, and he normally would have, but now he couldn’t quite find his voice. He just stared at their retreating backs, speechless, and didn’t notice Padre Ernesto glancing at the church as though staring at a hangman’s noose.

***

Everything was going fine.

Mass was about to begin, he barely remembered how it was supposed to start off, the purple robe for la Cuaresma was uncomfortably tight - "We'll get Ceci to fix it up," Miguel had said, like Ernesto would know who the hell that was - he generally had no idea what he was doing, and he was rather sure he was about to throw up. But other than that, all was well.

All right, all right. No need to panic. I've got this. I can do it.

"... Are you all right, Padre Ernesto?"

Ernesto looked at Miguel, all prim and proper in his altar boy clothing, and smiled brightly.

Oh God I can't do this.

“Never been better,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it. “Where’s Brother Héctor?”

“Oh, he plays the organ. He’s really good, hear that?”

He did, yes; he could hear the organ playing, and a chant he recognized - the entrance chant. So, time to go out there. Ernesto drew in a deep breath, nodded at Miguel, and stepped out of the sacristy. Just as he did, everyone stood.

The damn place was crowded despite it being a Saturday afternoon mass, likely because that entire damn town wanted to have a look at their new priest; in different circumstances, Ernesto would have appreciated being at the center of attention. Now he could only focus on moving towards the altar, trying to look at no one at all, and the short walk seemed to last hours as he tried to remember what the priest always did at the beginning of mass.

He bowed to the altar, right? Right. And kissed it. And I think he incensed it and the cross. Miguel has incense, that has got to be it. All right. I got this.

He went through the motions mechanically, very nearly spilling the burning incense on the altar and on the Bible - in Latin, so entirely useless to him - but thankfully completing the task without incidents. He handed it back to Miguel, stared up at the cross, and swallowed. What was it that the priest always did no-- oh, wait. Right. He remembered that, at least.

Slowly, Ernesto crossed himself, knowing that behind him everyone else was doing the same. He spoke staring at the cross, trying to keep his voice firm. It came surprisingly easy, considering that he was beginning to regret not letting the army hang him.

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," he said loudly.

"Amen," everyone spoke as one behind him. So far, so good. Shame that he had absolutely no clue how to go on. He should have paid attention at Sunday school.

Ernesto looked down at the Bible, hoping to find a clue there, but absolutely not a single word made the slightest amount of sense to him. He uselessly scanned the pages, and he let his expression slip into panic for a moment, forgetting that he had his back turned to most of those present, yes, but not to all of them - and he completely missed the wide-eyed look Miguel was giving him. In the end, he set his jaw. What the hell, he would just do it his way, and hope for the best. Worst case scenario, he’d run for the back door.

“Brothers and sisters,” he said, turning and putting on his best smile. “Let me say it is a honor to be here with you all."

His words caused the parishioners to recoil, clearly taken aback. It was not how a mass was supposed to go - the priest, Ernesto knew, babbled in Latin with his back turned to everyone else almost all the time, turned around to administer the Eucharist, and then went back staring at the cross and babbling in Latin until it was over. Hopefully, they’d enjoy a change.

"I would like to once again extend my condolences for the loss of Padre Edmundo," he went on. His gaze wandered left, past a group of slightly confused nuns to Héctor, who still sat at the organ. "Let's... let's have a minute of silence to pray for him, sí?" Ernesto added, and bowed his head, hands joined. He shot a quick glance around to see that everyone was doing the same, a couple of people on the front rows wiping their eyes before doing so.

The change of pace had probably taken them aback, but if he played his cards right he could make it through that without raising too much suspicion - just a young, new priest from out of town breaking the mold for his very first mass there. They could think him eccentric, perhaps, but that wouldn’t be a problem, at least in the short term… and he had no intention to stay any longer than he had to.

With a deep breath Ernesto looked up, unclasped his hands, smiled, and began talking. And kept talking. He was good at it, and no one interrupted him, no one argued. Little by little, he found he didn’t have to fake confidence anymore. All was well.

As long as no one saw through his act, he’d be fine.

***

For several moments, Miguel could only stare at Padre Ernesto in stunned silence.

He was talking about God now, suggesting that they had the choir sing again because ‘he who sings prays twice’ - a quote from a saint, though now Miguel couldn’t remember which one - and he sounded really confident, convincing, and charming. Everyone in the church was listening intently, clearly surprised by the change from the usual liturgy but going along because, well, the priest would know.

Except that the man standing before him - the man who had saved him from drowning, agreed not to tell as much to anyone else and just taught him a song - was not a priest. He simply couldn’t be. No one else knew because they hadn’t stood where he stood now, they hadn’t seen the look on his face as he stared at the Bible... but Miguel had. He knew.

‘Padre’ Ernesto could swim, he could ride, he could sing and play and who knew what else, but he didn’t know a single word of Latin.

***

Father John Johnson found himself staring at the mass - no, the mess - unfolding before his eyes, speechless.

It had been a long journey to Santa Cecilia, as he'd been warned, but with God at his side he'd made it there unscathed. Tired, yes, and hungry and thirsty and burned by the sun, but he accepted it all gladly - especially on Lent. Jesus Christ had suffered far worse while fasting forty days in the desert; he could endure some discomfort as he carried out his mission to teach those people proper Catholicism, to free them of their ridiculous superstition and stomp out the pagan... rites they kept trying to mix with the Church's teachings.

He'd been travelling for the better part of a year now, going from town to town, from parish to parish, to that end. He wasn't always welcomed, but then again neither was Christ. He would endure, preach to those who’d listen, and carry on as every Jesuit should - prove he was worthy of the cloth he wore.

He was in the right. He could not be led astray, or frightened into giving up his mission; he wasn’t afraid of putting his life on the line. Salvation does not come for free, after all, and he would pay the highest price if need be.

Todo modo para buscar la voluntad divina.

When he'd arrived in town, there had been few people in the streets. Most were in church for the first mass by their new parish priest, a man had told him while glancing curiously at his blond hair and pale complexion; that was how John had learned that the priest he'd written to and was supposed to meet, Father Edmund, had died, and that one Father Ernest had just arrived to replace him. John had nodded, and murmured a silent prayer for him before he'd continued towards the church, following the directions.

Even though he usually stuck out like a sore thumb, his arrival had gone unnoticed; when he’d silently stepped inside the church to go stand in a corner, not one head had turned towards him. Everyone was staring, as though transfixed, at the priest… who was currently giving his back to the cross. And leaning on the altar with one elbow as though he was simply having a pleasant chat about God. Which, really, was exactly what he was doing.

In Spanish.

Good God, that was worse than any other place he’d visited. Even though those people kept insisting on mixing paganism with Catholicism in the most distasteful ways, at least the other parishes had known how to hold a proper mass. It seemed that he’d arrived just on time to help the people in that town; God had been wise to guide him there. There would be a lot of work to do, but all well worth it and desperately needed.

As that mockery of a function continued, John tiredly closed his eyes and allowed himself a long sigh, a hand reaching beneath his cassock where, in an internal pocket, he kept his Bible. He brushed his thumb on the worn-out cover, tilted back his head and opened his eyes, staring at a painting of Jesus Christ ascending to Heaven right behind the altar.

Lend me strength, he thought, not knowing just how many times he'd find himself repeating that plea in the weeks to come.

***

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