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mewtwo24 · 8 months

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MAWS - An Allegory for Autism, too?

God like…there have been so many amazing posts about maws right now, and I don’t want to detract from any of them because I absolutely agree with how powerful an allegory the show is in regards to being an immigrant/alien.

But at the same time I just. I have been literally losing my mind at how autistic Clark feels. And at this point I can’t tell if I’m seeing things that aren’t there or he really is just so god damn ‘tism it makes his experiences of being othered two- and triplefold.

Like. Okay. He keeps acting on what he thinks is just or morally right in the moment, but sometimes struggles to see the social signals (or bigger picture) that might indicate somebody is deceiving him. If he does realize he’s being deceived, he does the right thing anyway even if it’s to his detriment--because he can’t accept looking away from a problem he might have resolved. Helping someone, no matter how difficult or unreasonable.

Okay.

When he’s trying to protect himself from Lois. He tells the truth in the most evasive way humanly possible, and because he thinks she’ll find him dashing from saving people he comes off as dissembling. He is convinced that he has charmed her to no end with his alter ego since he’s Such A Super Cool Strong Normal Guy as Superman, and that she couldn’t possibly be suspicious any longer because he told the truth. Lois wants to throttle him for lying. He has no idea as to why that is--and is openly surprised that she’s upset.

This is not even touching the fact that he lived for YEARS with Jimmy and literally destroyed stuff in front of him by accident, and never once thought Jimmy knew some shit was going on with him. Jimmy, being subtle and considerate, didn’t snitch because he was a homie. Clark does not notice in the slightest. ‘IT COULD HAVE BEEN THE SCREWS’ ASS.

This also not touching on the “How did you know you were bulletproof?” “I didn’t. I just knew you weren’t.” Despite pervasive signs that his powers weren’t operating as they should in that area. Despite knowing Lois was still upset with him and may not forgive him, could hurt him with what she knew.

Okay.

I'm going to put the rest under a cut because I never go on short tangents:

In a lot of New Age illegitimate medicine and psychological constructs, autistics are often conceptualized as people with ‘special powers’ or religious enlightenment in accordance with some manifestations of their disability. Clark’s superspeed and strength and heat vision can EASILY be seen as an extension of that. However, what I really want to talk about is the latest episode’s super hearing.

Most autistics have sensory issues, both with textures but also with hearing. A very common surprise for undiagnosed individuals, for example, is that they use music and headphones to stim in a more socially acceptable way. Particularly loud noises or constant loud chatter can cause distress otherwise, and having constant meltdowns/catatonia reactions isn’t feasible for survival.

Of all his powers that might be a weakness I think it is a fascinating--and honestly, deliberate--choice that speaks volumes (please pardon the pun). Because that’s the horrible thing about having sensory overload with your hearing; you don’t always have a choice as to what you’re subjected to. Ear-piercing alarms can flare at any moment, people can play what they consider harmless pranks, or day to day fighting to focus can make every sound feel like nails on a chalkboard from the overstimulation.

While Clark is able to distinguish voices if he knows what to look for, lack of sleep and rest tremendously weaken his ability to focus. I noticed that as the episode wore on, there was a distinct and exponential progression. At first, when he overdid it and didn’t sleep for a day or so, he still managed to operate without hurting himself or risking others. But as he kept pushing himself without rest to answer every cry for help, he grew progressively and sharply overwhelmed. He quickly became overstimulated by the mounting flurry of oncoming stimuli (e.g. the truck about to hit someone, dodging people around him, the relentless super hearing flooding in) and began to react in ways that were careless and random.

Though his powers appear supernatural and inexhaustible, we are forced to face the fact that he still possesses hard limits. Even if autistics seem more capable than NTs at points, there is a reason “high-functioning” became an obsolete terminology with which to differentiate people on the spectrum ‘who seemed to be above average’. Because just as we see Clark forcing himself to exert his superpowers until his body collapses to prove he is good, autistics also push themselves to be useful/helpful/amenable/inobtrusive in order to be accepted as something not other/monstrous.

(Please note, by the way, towards the end of the newest episode--his power comes out in a flash of blue, overpowering light as the last of his strength begins to wane. A surefire sign that he was truly at the end of his endurance before he’s knocked unconscious.)

The fact that Clark starts to learn how to listen in for people so fast, but also doesn’t think to tune them out (if he can) adds even more to the first point too. Because he can’t turn it off in full, it means he has no way to ignore people who are hurting no matter how small--and for him that places the cognitive burden of making a choice. And he can’t choose not to help people.

Okay.

Clark’s incipient refusal to discover more about himself, the sheer overwhelmed look he had as a child--but also as an adult--at the prospect of having to rewrite and re-evaluate everything he thought he knew about himself. There is no excitement, no positive anticipation. When he chooses to face it, it’s because he perceives a kind of responsibility to better understand/control his powers to help more people. And it’s because his friends support him that he ever finds the will to do it. He has no desire to acknowledge or define his otherness head-on. (Once again, he can only act with courage on behalf of others and/or to ultimately win their acceptance.)

GOD. AND. AND how he tells Lois how much she made him “come out of his shell” and forced him to face the world, to stop living in his formerly simple bubble. How autistics instinctively hate breaks in routine and the unknown and the horrible ordeal of change, especially if they have trauma linked to it. But he was trying because yeah, as people we need new and varying stimuli to be happy and healthy. To be alive is to change, whether one likes it or not.

How part of the reason Lois is so dear to him is because she makes him feel capable and safe when he has to face the truth of his difference and change. (THIS IN THE CONTEXT OF THE LATEST EPISODE. “CLARK, JUST TRY TO BE NORMAL”. I’M EATING MY SHIRT. THE ENDLESS OSCILLATION BETWEEN HIS DESPERATION TO BE NORMAL BUT ALSO STRIVE FOR MORE, AND HOW LOIS ANSWERS BOTH THOSE WARRING CALLS WITHIN HIM JUST BY BEING HERSELF.)

SCREAMS.

Okay.

The most recent episode being a direct result of Lois and Jimmy’s acceptance of his alter ego Superman. Because of course Superman is the preferred variation of himself. Everyone loves Superman. Everyone finds him cool and heroic and dazzling. Jimmy gets social media acclaim that he enjoys from it. Lois has a Cool Guy Boyfriend, and she told him outright she thinks he’s amazing in the last episode when he complained about being weird.

Why go back to being Clark? Under the unending burden of his new super hearing, he seems to be so drowned in voices that he forgets a very important one: Lois. She loved him as Clark long before Superman existed, the lumbering gentle giant who always treated people with dignity and respect was more than enough for her to fall in love. And that’s why it’s so poignant, but also so unbelievably devastating when she asks him to be normal in the newest episode.

Because what she was trying to say was “Please stop overexerting yourself, you’re hurting yourself. This is only going to end badly if you don’t rest and think about how you want to move forward. You’re enough as you are. You’re enough as Clark Kent.” She was trying to tell him that Superman isn’t all that matters, that Superman is a person with feelings and needs and vulnerabilities, just like anyone else.

What makes this miscommunication so powerful to me is that it’s clear Clark’s ability to differentiate has become confused ever since Lois and Jimmy accepted him. How much of him is Clark, how much of him is Superman? Before, when he had decided Superman was too much for him to handle and something that needed to stay hidden, he knew how to behave day to day. But now that the aforementioned operating precept has been dismantled by their acceptance, what is his blueprint now? To be freed of his chains, but to be too afraid to leave the cage--he becomes so openly and rapidly lost. It was easier when he didn’t have to choose or think about it.

Okay.

Like. I can see how it could be construed as a result of his inexperience, right? He’s never met intergalactic beings, so how would he know? He only just unlocked his powers as Superman, so of course he’s clumsy about it. He wasn’t a born fighter or a trained one, so of course he’s going to be a little green when he’s in combat.

But that’s the thing for me. It’s not that he doesn’t always have the time to re-evaluate, or strategize, or notice he’s being deceived. He just has such an unwavering sensibility, this one-track sense of “I am strong. So I must protect. And to do that I need to act.” And a lot of times this is as far as his thinking goes. And if that isn’t the most autistic shit imaginable, I’m really not sure what is.

The overshot clumsiness of his movements and occasional awkwardness, how he’s learned to smooth that over by being helpful to people or meek to be accepted. Like. I swear to god this show is going to kill me.

So much of the reason he tanked so badly in this episode was because he was using a broken coping mechanism to its absolute extreme. And instead of listening to his bodily and mental signals that he could no longer sustain helping every single person in the world, he just forces himself to push through. He’s so desperate to prove he’s a good person and belong, he doesn’t notice that it’s literally destroying him from the inside.

The mask that is Superman, and the unmasking that is the mindful and imperfect Clark Kent. That everyone adores Superman and wants him to fulfill their every need, no matter what it costs him to be that person. The fact that the moment they learn he’s an alien or see the raw extent of his power (pushed to unsustainable limits in desperation) he becomes a horrible, inhuman threat and a monster. The fact that it’s his friends and his family who see him unmasked as Clark and love him just as he is, that they care little for what Superman can give them because Clark is already enough. That they love Clark precisely BECAUSE he is somebody with weaknesses and flaws and imperfections, that adore his quirks and endearing fumbling.

The horrific reality that the more he leans into his masking out of desperation to be accepted, the more he estranges and incites violent rejection in the people around him. Even if he wants to do the right thing, he is so staunchly and too openly opposed to the malice of others that they hold grudges from the stark, exposing contrast. How choosing to be Superman can endanger and estrange the people who love Clark, isolating him even further. And yet when he is unmasked and acts like himself, he is hardly ever taken seriously or people take advantage of his meekness/willingness to help.

The first episode. When he just keeps chanting ‘be normal be normal be normal’ and the more pressure he puts on himself, the more he hyperfixates and the less his actions align with his intentions. The way he can never do both and can only manage to sustain one at a time. The core conflict that’s ever present; the desire to be ordinary under the reality that you are extraordinary, with the agonizing knowledge that you never had the choice to live under so much difference and scrutiny.

The never-ending autistic battle of being socially acceptable to the detriment of your greatest virtues: your passion and your honesty. To be left feeling empty and drained despite your success, no closer to self-satisfaction or feelings of human camaraderie. The reality of being always forced to choose between one bad option and a worse one, that the only choice you have is what you’re willing to sacrifice. That people will toy with your vulnerabilities no matter how desperately you try to conceal them, how your weaknesses will be a game or a spectacle to the rest of the world.

How one has to wonder to what degree the Superman witnessed in Lois’ memory capsule was pushed to the very brink. Or the pointed lack of context: what brought him to such extremes, what could inspire so much indifference to the pain of others? How, while it is frightening, he is a person just like anyone else--who possesses the potential for raw good and raw bad. Why is it that everyone so easily believes that his potential will be negative? Why is it so difficult to have faith in someone who is trying so hard to be good?

The irony of Clark’s predicament, that the sincere fulfillment he feels upon helping others is precisely what inspires fear in those who insist on their comparative self-serving normality.

“What’s your angle!? What’s in it for you?” “Trust me, kids. Nobody puts on that big a show of being good. Unless they’re hiding something…All he wants is to pull cats out of trees? Yeah, I’m not buying it.” “He’s not normal like you and me….If he really wanted to hurt us, what could we do about it?...Just him having a bad day could spell the end for us…Well, not all of us share your faith.” “You want to be number one? You don’t get there by writing fluff. You go for blood. That’s something Perry never understood. Do you?”

The unbearable but inevitable fact that being autistic is a perpetual experience of loss. If you are not selfish or egocentric like the rest of the world, you are naive and weak. If you exhibit an ounce of self-centered desire or emotion, you are something that must be eradicated for the greater good. No amount of good that you accomplish can ever balance the scales of what has been lost or spent to sustain you, because at the end of the day your life is considered one without value. It is irrelevant that entire military regimes have collectively decimated and endangered thousands for their so-called “results”, because you as a sole actor are so much easier to blame and trample.

The enduring fact, especially in a culture so absorbed in easy answers and harsh binaries, that the human mind does not care for the struggle of truth.

Anyway if you need me I’ll be clawing at the walls thanks

#my adventures with superman #maws #i just haven't been able to stop thinking about this #its like the newest episode made it impossible to question any longer #i hope this made sense to someone???? other than me #is it obvious that this weeks episode made me cry a little haha #stares into the distance So Normally #the way experiencing maws clark kent can be something so personal...

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anxresi · 4 years

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Amity’s Amends

Story: After the events of 'Understanding Willow', Amity knows she has a lot to make up for. And she'll start tonight, right in front of four people who have been the bane of her existence for too long. Get ready for a roasting, s'mores optional.

...............

Amity Blight arrived home that night after her adventure inside Willow’s head, full of more hope and determination for the future than she ever felt possible.

Her initial skepticism of the Earthling Luz Noceda had long since disappeared, and now the two could honestly even describe themselves as good friends. Maybe even more, if the way I blush whenever she hugs me is anything to go by. Just like my favorite ships in those Azura books we both like...

The young witch quickly dispelled all thoughts of frivolous romance from her head, using the same methodology she would dispel one of her enchantments if it got out of control. That’s for the future, if it happens at all. Right now I have other stuff to take care of…

She burst through the front door, half-expecting her strict parents to meet her there with the standard ‘where do you think you’re been?’ or ‘your darling brother and sister would never stay out this late’.

Whereas she dreaded such searching questions before, now an odd mixture of defiance and resilience made her itch to hear them, just so she could show off her new steadfast attitude.

Alas, there was no Mr and Mrs Blight in sight. They’d taken the night off (again) to mingle with the VIPs their family relied on for its ‘prestigious’ reputation, so her long-awaited confrontation with them was just gonna have to wait until later. Goodie. Gives me something to look forward to.

In the front room however, were two other people Amity wanted to put straight on a few things… along with a couple of surprise guests. Erica and Edmira Blight, her ‘dear’ siblings, sat on the couch with her so-called best friends, Boscha and Skara. They seemed deep in conversation, but the intense chat soon faded to a whisper the moment Amity strolled through the door.

“ Mittens!!” Edric was the first to greet his little sister, grabbing her by the shoulder to give her a light noogie. “We were wondering where you got to! I was just about to send out a search party… or at least, borrow mom’s crystal ball to track you down.”

“Great to see you, sis!” Emira smirked at Amity in a non-too genial way. “And look who’s here too! Your besties, Boscha and Skara. They came over because they tell me they’ve been worried about you lately… and I must say, me and Edric have been as well. So think of what you’re about to hear as an ‘intervention’, if you like.”

“Amity, you’ve changed! You don’t insult the other losers with us the way you used to, you don’t let us tell you how to dress, and we’ve even caught you hanging out with that Earth creature!” Skara stared at Amity unblinkingly, as if unwilling to let Luz’s dreadful name pass her lips.

“Yeah, exactly! And after all the bad stuff you said about Willow, I can’t believe you defended her today! Almost like you were... friends or something, but of course that can’t be the case.” Boscha sniggered to herself, like the mere notion was just impossible.

Amity listened to all this ‘selfless’ advice until it was over, with her arms firmly crossed and her left foot tapping on the plush carpet. “So, you’re all here today out of the goodness of your hearts, to tell me I’m hanging with the wrong crowd and I should act more like everyone else here?”

“Yeah, Mittens. I mean, we love Luz and all but…” Edric gave his opinion, hesitantly.

“...She’s just not right for you. She’s lucked out so far in her spell training, but when she crashes and burns she’ll take you down with her. Not a pretty sight.” Emira was a bit more forthright than her twin brother.

“Plus, she’s always with Willow. Ugh , instant popularity killer.” Boscha put her finger in her open mouth to illustrate her point.

“Also, what’s that other kid’s name? ‘Gas’, or something? He’s as much of a geek as the others, always going on about Earth stuff. If he likes it ssssoooo much, why doesn’t he just move there? And take those other two freaks with him?” Skara chortled at her joke, obviously thinking she’d said something hilarious.

Amity heard all this rudeness and bile aimed at her newest pals with the patience of a saint, but finally she could take no more. “ Excuse me , but his name happens to be ‘Gus’. Him and Luz are two of the nicest people I’ve met, so if you think I’m going to let you talk that way about them around me you’ve got another thing coming. If everyone in the Demon Realm was as stuck-up and conceited as you and Boscha are, believe me… I’d be on the first broomstick out of here with them! Now, what else was I going to say…”

Amity’s siblings and ‘friends’ sat there open-mouthed, unused to hearing such backtalk from someone usually so compliant, but she wasn’t finished yet. Not by a long shot. “Oh, yes. Sorry Skara, I am unable to attend your 15th birthday celebrations because of a prior… wait, I don’t have any pressing engagements. It’s just that you’re a total bitch, who I no longer want to be associated with. I set your butterfly free, too. Never mind, I’m sure there are loads of other brainless bullies out there you can hang around with, to make your fragile ego feel better about itself! Which brings me neatly to…”

If Boscha thought her obnoxious snickering was going to win her any brownie points from Amity, she was very much mistaken. “...You. I don’t know what you’re finding so funny Boscha, in many ways you’re twice as bad as Skara. You lead, her and me follow. At least, that’s the way it used to be. I hope you’re happy with this trio becoming a duo, because I am through . As for what you said about Willow, strange you should mention that as we were besties once, before I messed it all up. Now I’m trying to make up for it, by apologising a lot, attempting to be a better person and getting away from two horrible girls I only hung around with because my parents made me…”

To this last statement she gave a meaningful look at her quaking ex-pals on her couch. “...And I wonder who they could be.”

She turned around without missing a beat to her equally nonplussed siblings sitting nearby, but addressed them in slightly less harsh tones than the previous pair. “ Edric, Emira… you know I love you both dearly, even if your childish pranks do sometimes leave me wondering if you really are the older, more ‘mature’ brother and sister you claim to be. But please, stop trying to ‘encourage’ me by subtly putting me down. It’s not helpful, it’s just dispiriting. And please stop calling me ‘Mittens’. That was cute when I was a baby and couldn’t put my gloves on, now it’s just irritating and makes me think you don’t respect me. Lastly, you’ll be glad to know that by tomorrow, you’ll both stand out a lot more. I’m washing the green out of my hair! Brown is so much more my color, dontcha think?!”

At this juncture, and with everyone around her completely shut down by her searing outburst, Amity stretched and gave out a fake yawn. “Anyway… early start in the morning. You know how it is: the pressures of being top student never go away. Well, see you tomorrow brother, sister… and as for you other two, see you never . Ta-ta!”

She then made her way upstairs with a noticeable spring in her step, the only things on her mind being to work hard to achieve all her goals in life, being the best friend she could be to Willow to make up for years of neglect…

And the way her cheeks flushed whenever a certain Earth girl held her real close.

Oops. Here we go again.

.......................

Well, what do you think? I know this is very unlikely to happen... after all, they do have a lot of episodes to pad out. But hopefully, now that Amity understands how some of the more toxic influences in her life have been allowed to shape her, she can start confronting them and making her own decisions.Also, it's so obvious her and Luz are a future ship. Fight me if you disagree... kidding. ;)

#amity blight #luz noceda #owl house #the owl house #gus #willow #fanfiction #Disney

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ejzah · 4 years

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A/N: This chapter is based off of season two episode “Bounty”. Again I have changed or edited things to suit my purposes. They’ll be part two for next week.

As always, thanks to everyone who has supported this story, I really appreciate it! Even if I sometimes forget to respond to your comments.

***

The Agent and the Lawyer, Part 15

“Try to aim for the inner part of area 9,” Kensi instructed as Deeks aimed his borrowed gun across the shooting range.

“Which one?” he asked.

“I don’t care as long as you get out of the 8’s.” His aim had improved marginally, but not enough to truly satisfy Kensi. If he was being completely honest, Deeks wasn’t exactly putting in his full effort.

He aimed again, falling into the stance Kensi had demonstrated during his first session. This time Kensi didn’t move to assist him, leaning against the wall with her arms tightly crossed.

It was probably a good thing. The tension between them was at an all time high. While Deeks was fairly certain he wouldn’t toss Kensi across his desk in his desperation to finish what they’d started the other night, he didn’t need the distraction.

Just sitting next to her was distraction enough. He kept remembering what it felt like to have her body pressed against his. Her hands running over his chest.

“Deeks!” Kensi prompted and he jerked.

He sighed under his breath. They really needed a night off without any interruption. Deeks pulled the trigger, hitting the line between sections 8 and 9 on the right.

Kensi made a noise, but didn’t comment as he sighted the target again. He felt a little bad for not making this easier on Kensi. Hetty would no doubt hold her partially responsible when he didn’t progress as expected.

“Your want to come over tonight?” he asked, partially to distract himself from more inappropriate thoughts.

“I would, but I promised Nell I’d go out for drinks if we finish early enough,” Kensi told him apologetically. “I think she’s kind of lonely.”

Deeks hadn’t spent much time around Nell Jones, the newest Intelligence Analyst in apparently long line. She seemed eager to prove herself, maybe a little too much at times, but she got along well enough with everyone. Deeks had even gotten a smile or two out of her.

It was fun to watch her and Eric descend into mutual bouts of geekiness, when they weren’t competing against each other.

“Maybe I can tag along.” He squinted and shot. The shoulder again.

“I’m not sure that’s a great idea.” There was an odd note in her tone and he frowned.

“Why not?” he asked. Kensi didn’t answer immediately so he turned to face her, dropping the gun to his thigh. She looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Are you embarrassed to be seen with me.” He said it jokingly and it seemed ridiculous, but it there didn’t seem like another likely explanation for her reaction.

“Of course I’m not!” she said, giving him an annoyed look. “Why would you even think that.” She sighed and pushed herself of the wall. “I just think that it might be a little strange if I invited you to come with and no one else. Everyone thinks we’re just...colleagues and I’d like to keep it that way a little longer.”

“Ok,” he agreed quietly. “But you know someone is going to figure it out sooner or later.” He didn’t say anything, a little more subdued as he considered the paper targets with two holes in its right side.

Kensi sighed again, finally walking over to him. She took the gun from him, set it to the side, and leaned against his side.

“You know I wish it was different, but it’ll make it so much easier if we don’t have to worry about everyone watching, waiting for us to screw this up too.”

“I know. But just to be clear, we’re not going to mess anything up, including this “thing”.” Kensi made a face, but didn’t move away and said,

“Please stop calling it our “thing”,” she requested. He grinned, enjoying teasing her.

“Yeah, I’m probably not going to,” he said. Kensi rolled her eyes, briefly tugging him closer to kiss his cheek. “You know, that’s not really helping with the whole “keep us a secret at work” thing, right?”

She pulled back, her expression mischievous, as she started emptying the gun for him.

“It’s called self-control.” Her grin was massive. God, she could be so annoying sometimes and he absolutely loved it. “C’mon let’s see what’s going on in the bullpen.

It turned out that Sam and Callen were in the midst of their own little discussion. Callen was goading Sam, who was naturally taking the bate. He seemed in an exceptionally irritated mood.

Deeks almost made a joke about them sounding like an old married couple, but figured that would be going just a little too far. Especially since he and Sam had been on better terms since the Maragos case.

“Where have you two been?” Callen asked. Kensi froze, looking ridiculously suspicious at the innocent question. Neither Callen or Sam seemed to notice since they were focused on their own conversation.

“Uh, Kensi was just telling me about an old boyfriend she had,” Deeks answered after a second, grinning as Kensi glared at him. “She said he was super hot, right Kens?”

“Mm, he wasn’t that great,” Kensi said darkly, her eyes promising payback when they were alone.

“Ooh, looks like there’s trouble in paradise,” Callen commented. Deeks saw Kensi’s eyes dart his way before she shrugged with false nonchalance.

“We’re fine,” she insisted.

“It doesn’t sound like you’re fine. It sounds like you two can barely stand each other half the time,” Sam said, standing up. “If you’re going to be working together, you need to start building a healthy relationship.”

Deeks had to force himself not to laugh. He wondered if making out against a wall counted as a healthy relationship in Sam’s mind.

Narrowly holding back a smirk, Deeks said,

“We’ll work on it.”

Eric whistled for them at the top of the stairs, saving them from further conversation about relationships.

Eric and Nell quickly filled them in on Thomas Booth’s kidnapping and they were off to check out a stolen Audi. Kensi maintained a larger distance between them than normal, but he thought it was mostly for show.

***

By the time they made it to the scene, Kensi seemed to have forgiven him or was putting aside her annoyance for the sake of professionalism.

While Kensi briefly spoke with an on-scene cop, Deeks scanned the area and noticed three males, maybe on their late teens watching from the opposite side of the street.

“Hey Kens,” he said, touching her arm and nodding to them. They didn’t move as he and Kensi approached.

“Gentleman,” Kensi greeted them with a smile. “Is there anything you can tell us about what happened here?”

The one in front grinned at Kensi and shrugged. None of them seemed to even notice Deeks standing next to her.

“Last night we saw some guys around the corner, in the empty lot, with flashlights,” he told her.

“Any idea what they looked like?” The kid shook his head.

“It was too dark. Five went out there and four came back. That’s all we saw.” Kensi nodded, giving him another smile and handed him a card.

“Well, if you think of anything else, let me know,” she said.

“Unbelievable,” Deeks muttered as they walked towards the lot. At Kensi’s questioning look, he explained, “You didn’t even have to try with that kid. He would have told you anything.”

“There are perks to being pretty,” Kensi said a little smugly. “And it certainly saves me snitch money.”

She turned more serious as they approached two broken down, graffiti covered cars that looked like they’d been there since Hill Street Blues was filmed.

“You smell that?” Kensi asked and he nodded, wrinkling his nose against the stench. It was impossible to miss, which didn’t bode well for Thomas Booth.

“Geez,” Deeks hissed when they found his mutilated body carelessly slung across the backseats in one of the vehicles. Booth was stripped down to his boxers, drying blood coating several parts of his body and a grid of black marker across his chest. Deeks took an involuntary step back, pressing his hand against his mouth for a second.

“You ok?” Kensi touched his arm and he nodded again, even if it wasn’t entirely true.

“Yeah, just took me by surprise.”

“I’ll go tell LAPD we found him,” she said with a sigh, leaving Deeks with the body.

He forced himself to move past his revulsion, crouching down by the car. Someone had clearly tortured Thomas Booth; he’d been stabbed multiple time. He must have been in horrific pain the entire time. Deeks shuddered at the thought.

Kensi returned, with two officer, directing them to collect evidence from the rest of the lot. She crouched beside Deeks, sighing as she pulled on black latex gloves. She pointed to the grin of black lines.

“The Magic Marker lines all over his skin correspond to non-lethal wound points,” she explained. “The lines are a target for the stab wounds.”

“I know,” Deeks said, almost to himself. Kensi twisted to look at him, raising an eyebrow and he added, “I came across something similar from a study case during law school. He must have been terrified when they started drawing those lines on, knowing what was coming.”

“Gunshot to the head. Mercy kill. He was interrogated. Booth had information. Once he gave it up, kidnappers capped him and dumped the body,” Kensi continued, her voice clinical as she mapped out Booth’s death. It was a little chilling how calmly she could talk about these things sometimes.

“Lucky guy.” His voice was dark. Pressing her lips together, Kensi just barely brushed his arm before she continued assessing.

“Despite what it looks like, there isn’t any excessive mutilation that would indicate a personal grudge. Judging by the wounds, he was tortured for hours before he was killed.”

“He knew something,” Deeks summed up. “I guess the question now is what and how bad is it that the bad guys now have that information?”

“Yeah. I’ll call Sam and Callen to give them an update,” she said.

***

“Sam and Callen are trying to find Booth’s son, Brandon,” Kensi informed Deeks several minutes later. “Apparently he hated his dad and has a record, but they don’t really think he’s involved in any of this.”

“Mm, daddy issues,” Deeks muttered to himself. “Those are always fun.” Kensi tilted her head, considering him with narrowed eyes.

“Speaking from experience?” she asked. Deeks chuckled at her complete lack of subtlety. “You mentioned that you didn’t have a great relationship with your dad.”

“Yes, I did.” Kensi made a face at his non-response.

“You know, you’ll have to tell me sometime.”

“Just as soon as you tell me what you write about in that journal in your bag,” he countered. “Wait, it’s me, isn’t it? Just page after page of prose written about my golden locks and my-“

Kensi smacked his arm, pressing her lips together as she tried not to smile.

“You are such an idiot,” she said, looking beyond him. Suddenly her expression changed and she dropped her gaze back to him. “You see that guy in the suit? Tailored one that costs more than I make in a year?”

Deeks discretely turned sideways, giving a slow sweep of the area before her looked where Kensi has indicated. “Yep.” Kensi was right, his suit was of excellent quality. At least from what he could tell from a distance.

Kensi snapped a picture with her phone, again trying to be casual, but the man noticed anyway and took off at a run.

“He's going!” Kensi shouted, taking off after him. Deeks started to follow, but she tossed him her keys and ordered,

“Take the car, cut him off! There’s an extra sig locked in the glove compartment just in case.”

“What, so now I’m your sidekick,” Deeks yelled, even as he followed her instructions. As he drove one-handed, he unlocked the glove compartment. “Right, cause a gun in the hands of someone who regularly misses the entire target is a great idea,” he muttered to himself.

Kensi had disappeared down a side street and it took him a minute to find her. When he did, she was in the middle of fighting the suspect. He had Kensi pressed again a chain link fence and Deeks didn’t even think as he grabbed the gun, pulling alongside them. He pointed the gun out the window and shouted,

“Hold it!” Kensi used the man’s distraction to punch him, the force knocking him to the ground. While Kensi slammed the man into the fence and started searching his pockets, Deeks got out of the car, still aiming the gun at him.

The man kept insisting that they were making a mistake and after a moment Kensi took a step back.

“Put down the gun,” Kensi told Deeks.

“What? Why?” He didn’t know what could have changed Kensi’s attitude so quickly.

“Diplomatic immunity.” She held up his wallet which had an ID identifying him as Jafar Khan. Well, that wasn’t good.

***

A/N: I want to sort of follow the show, rather than completely recreating events, but if there are particular things you’d like to see or have suggestions for how to make it less cumbersome, I’m all ears. Should I continue adapting the episodes, or just include key scenes and write mostly about Kensi and Deeks’ relationship? I do have a couple things planned for a few chapters from now that I do think you all will enjoy.

Once again, thanks for reading!

#ncis la fanfiction #marty deeks #kensi blye #densi #sam hanna #g callen #bounty #the agent and the lawyer #part 16 #au #ejzah fanfiction

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cecilspeaks · 6 years

Text

121 - A Story of Love and Horror, Part 1: “Barks”

The password is “mudwomb”. The username is “mudwomb”. The website is “mudwomb”. Where did the rest of the Internet go? Welcome to Night Vale.

I would like to tell you a story. It is a difficult story and I don’t know what it means, but it seems important to me to tell you. It is about two people and a terrible, impossible decision that they found themselves having to make. It concerns Frances Donaldson and Nazr al-Mujaheed.

But first, the community calendar.

This Tuesday evening the Night Vale Football Boosters Club will hold their meeting at the Applebee’s that we’re all pretty sure was a Chili’s just yesterday, but now is an Applebee’s, and all records show it has always been an Applebee’s even though we remember it as a Chili’s. The subject of this week’s meeting will be the timing of football games, which all members agree are too long. “Hey, I like football as much as the next guy,” said Hannah Gutierrez, “but a whole sixty minutes of play? Plus all the breaks and starting and stopping? We're busy people. Football should take less time.” The Booster Club will be working on their new proposal to get games done in a tight 15, so everyone can get home to watch the newest episode of Stop Chef, in which a group of contestants compete to prevent a chef from cooking.

Wednesday is Love Day at Dark Owl Records. Owner Michelle Nguyen explained that after recent love-focused events, she wanted everyone to understand that love is a laughable concept. And she wanted to highlight its absurdity by selling albums with songs that ruthlessly mock love using subtle irony, like “I Will Always Love You” and “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough”. My former radio intern Maureen, who was in the store too and was holding hands with Michelle, agreed that love is stupid, and funny. And fun and ridiculous, and all-encompassing and revitalizing. Then Michelle said, “What?” And Maureen said, “What?” And then they both got embarrassed and asked me to leave.

Thursday is the Safety Parade, which the Sheriff’s Secret Police hold each year in order to highlight safety. Of course, no one is allowed to march in or attend the parade for their own safety. As Secret Police Mascot, Barks Ennui, always says: “Woof woof! The biggest danger to you – is you! Woof woof.”

Friday is a meeting at town hall to discuss the problem of entrances to other universes, and the question of whether all of us even ended up in the right universe after that whole recent mixup. There will be light snacks as well as blood tests and surprise interrogations about our version of history, in order to trip up intruders from parallel universes. Attendance is mandatory.

This Saturday and Sunday, the Brown Stone Spire will be offering powerful gifts in exchange for great sacrifices. The larger the sacrifice, the more powerful the gift. For instance, if you give it a DVD you got for Christmas five years ago and have never even taken out of its shrink wrap, it’ll give you a well-worn copy of “Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets” that is missing its cover. But if you give it an offering of your own blood and fervent chanting, the copy of “Chamber of Secrets” it gives you will have an intact cover.

And finally, this Monday, Night Vale cinemas will be hosting a showing of that classic comedy caper, “The Grift of the Magi”, in which two con artists run scams in order to get one another Christmas gifts, only to find that they have accidentally each stolen the money from the other.

And now, a story of love – and horror.

Frances Donaldson runs the Antiques Mall in Old Time Night Vale. Long before she took on that job though, she developed an interest in time. As a child, she would stand still and consider that while she had not moved at all in space, something had changed. That she had grown just slightly older, her hair just slightly longer, and this without being able to see the movement at all. She liked to lie in bed and, through her window, watch planes pass very high in the sky. She liked to think about where they had taken off and where they might land. Objects fascinated her, because they too moved through time, on a different trajectory than her. Her bedroom lamp had existed, looking more or less like it was now, since before she was born, and could well exist after she had died. It wasn’t even aware, was too unable to move, and yet it joined her in this mad hurdle through time.

She found this terrifying, and she found this fascinating. And she found this delightful and she wanted it to stop. And she hoped it never stopped, and she felt all of these feelings equally and at once, and without contradiction. What use was there in worrying if all of what she felt about time did not exactly add up? She was too busy feeling it to consider what it meant. And so, of course, she became fascinated with antiques. These objects washed up from the crooked tides of time.

Nazr al-Mujaheed coaches the Night Vale High School football team. Go Scorpions. And this was almost the entirety of his world. He thought about football when he woke up, he thought about it on the drive to work. Of course he thought about it when he ran practices and had meetings with the assistant coaches, and he thought about it at night when he ate take-out dinners on his couch while watching football. This made him happy. And what makes a person happy, if it doesn’t harm another person and doesn’t harm themselves, is OK. Even if it’s not how anyone else would want to live.

But while it made him happy, Nazr was also aware that is more than one kind of happiness. And that perhaps this happiness he found in a life endlessly thinking about football, was less than the happiness he could find in a life with more things in it. This wasn’t about fixing a problem, this was an attempt to improve on a good situation. This was his play for some sort of grace. Other people he knew could provide an outside perspective, and perhaps allow him to be less focused on his work and on the game he coached. And so he decided he would try dating. Without expectations, without a plan, just as a way to see what the world might have for him.

And now, a word from our sponsors.

[masculine ad reader voice] Ford! Our cars are built strong, strong like a rock or a mountain or a bone. In fact, our cars are built out of bones, weird metal bones that were buried in a meteor. What creature did they belong to? How did it live with a skeleton of steel? Are its relatives even now streaking down from the sky, intent on revenging themselves upon the pitiful culture that desecrated their dead and turned them into affordable and reliable pickup trucks? Who knows. We certainly don’t. We barely understand how an engine works. We have one guy who knows, and he builds them all. But in order to protect his job, he won’t show anyone else how to do it. Now that’s smart thinking. Ford: drive weird bones.

There was no great epiphany for Frances that led to her dating life. She had been on the dating app, Void, since it had become available in Night Vale, and had gone on a few casual Void dates. It was not an important part of her life, because it didn’t seem likely to ever lead to anything more. But the occasional company was nice. A night with someone, and then back to her life as it was, which was a life she liked. In this way, her dating was related to her obsession with time. Her bed was always the same bed, and sometimes there was another person in it. And mostly only her. She floated upon that bed as it moved through time. Passengers on and off, and she alone voyaging onward.

And then, Nazr messaged her on Void and they started chatting. For his part, he was unsure of how to date, it having been some time since he had done and certainly before dating happened as a series of written communications, rather than awkward hand gestures. So he had messaged a number of women in town, who had seemed to him like someone he might want to spend more time with. He did this without expectation. He had few expectations that did not involve football. He just performed the actions that might lead to new outcomes for him, and three of the women had messaged back. He was, after all, not a bad looking man, handsome even, although it had been a long time since anyone had told him that. And so it would not have occurred to him that he was handsome, and this in many ways made him even more handsome.

Frances and he agreed to meet for lunch near the high school. This was close enough to her antique store that she could walk, and so the whole thing didn’t feel to either of them like much of a commitment of time. “So,” he said, once they had sat down with their food. “So,” she agreed, and for an awful moment it seemed like it would hang there in uncomfortable silence, and a bad date best forgotten. But then he asked about antiques, because he himself had an interest in old football trophies. And he agreed that might seem a bit weird, but the thing was that their designs were often fascinating. Never having been meant to stand up under scrutiny, crudely carved players, hands like dinner rolls, feet disappearing into the base of the trophy. And this turned into a discussion of all the many old items that would never be valuable from the viewpoint of capitalism, but were more interesting than the ones that were valuable. From this, the conversation spread out into her fascination with time. And then time itself, and their childhoods, and how it was hard sometimes to remember that they themselves were adults. And in Nazr’s case, older than his parents ever lived to be.

On returning to work, Nazr started the afternoon football practice as usual. And as usual, threw himself into the rhythm of drills, spells and counter-spells that make up any football skirmish. But he found, for the first time in his life, that he couldn’t make himself fully focus. There was a part of him still thinking about the lunch, about the way her hands had looked tapping on the table. About the way she talked about time as it were not an implacable force, but an old and fallible friend. He had to continually draw himself back intro practice, and the players wondered if he perhaps was sick.

Frances stood at the window of her antique shop watching the planes fly overhead. When a person entered the shop, she would acknowledge them vaguely with a nod, and then acknowledge them vaguely with a nod again when they left. But otherwise, she kept her eyes on the window. Something in her chest felt tight, but also less heavy. She was both scared and happy, and she wasn’t sure why she was either of those. When later they both messaged and decided to go on a second date, an evening date at a nice restaurant, something with a bit more commitment behind it, neither of them connected it directly to the way they felt after their lunch together. But both of them could not contain their impatience, and had messaged that very evening. Both at exactly 10:55 PM.

Let’s have a look at that weather.

["Riches and Wonders" by Eliza Rickman & Jherek Bischoff]

There was a second date. And that night, she went with him back to his house. Then a third date, when they went to her house. Then a few more dates where they sometimes went to one of their houses and sometimes just kissed, wild with the feeling of it. Out in the park lot of whatever restaurant or bar they had met at, before saying good night because they had to work in the morning, and they were adults who sometimes had control of themselves.

This was not one of those nights, though. This was a night that she was in his bed and he was asleep. This was a little over a month after their first date. As she lay sleepy and happy, she watched the TV, which was tinting the darkness a soft fickering blue. It was an old episode of “Friends”, in which Joey rolls limply and slowly, over the course of 21 minutes, across the apartment while out of focus in the background, Phoebe searches desperately through every cabinet and screams. Frances had seen the episode too many times to laugh out loud at, but still it felt comforting to watch, like sitting in a room that she liked. The episode had become a place she could go, rather than a story to follow.

There was a commercial break and a PSA from the Secret Police came on, featuring the adorable cartoon spokesdog, Barks Ennui. He capered about, pointing out all the different ways one could break the law in Night Vale and get sentenced to a forever term in the abandoned mine shaft outside of town. She found herself grinning at his bad puns in the section about reporting on your neighbors: “Traitorous activities can be ruff! Go fetch us their deepest secrets!” And then Barks said her name. His cartoon canine face turned directly to the screen and he said, “Frances.” She didn’t know how to respond. A commercial had never spoken to her, and certainly it had never done what Barks did next, which was to step out of the TV screen in a clumsy flopping movement and then sit up, a two-dimensional flickering cartoon dog standing in the bedroom.

“Frances,” Barks said. “You aren’t supposed to be here. This doesn’t belong to you.” He cocked his animated head, the wall of Nazr’s apartment vaguely visible through him, as though through heavy fog. As his head turned, it sagged in the direction of the ground, stretching and distorting his cartoon puppy face until it was a series of drooping ovals. When he spoke again, his voice sounded stretched too. “You will have to make this right, Frances!” he garbled. [muddled] “You will have to make this right!”

She screamed. Nothing happened. She screamed.

Stay tuned next, just – stay tuned. Next.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Welcome to 2018. The year we finally do it. The year we eat the sun.

#welcome to night vale #wtnv #wtnv transcripts #a story of love and horror #a story of love and horror part 1 #barks

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tamitha-t-shepard · 4 years

Text

Episode No. 1: The Past is Always present

Our Dearest Everleigh,

We are sorry that our last letter caused you such misery amid unexpected joy. Though, you must feel, as we do, that our concern is only natural given the circumstances. We hope this letter finds you well—and still unmarried.

Please understand, it is not that we believe him to be unworthy of you, but that it is impossible to know one way or the other. For a young man of such striking abilities as you describe to remain wholly unknown to our kind for the first thirty years of his life is an unusual and unlikely occurrence. But for him to suddenly appear on The Furthest Shore without any recollection of a past or home, family or friends is inconceivable. As no one has yet come forward that can claim any knowledge of him, we must urge you to postpone your marriage until our return. Even as I write, Ophelia is booking our passage, and most of the morning has been spent packing in such scramble and haste as to be comical were it not for our anxiety that we are already too late. I know that what we write must pain and disappoint you, but we cannot help but fear for your sake—nay, for both your sakes, if he is as friendless and innocent as he appears to you. There is darkness at the root of this, we are sure, and until any light can be gained, you must guard your heart.

Remember, “the past is always present.” Those words followed our family from The World That Was to the shore where you now stand, and they have served us well for over three thousand years. While most of the Others have perished, our kind has not only survived but flourished in The New World. It is because we do not forget. We are The Living Memory of all that was. If a Darkwell knows anything with certainty, it is that, however deeply buried or seemingly distant, the past is inescapable. It will always find you.

With Much Trepidation and Ceaseless Love, Your Aunts,

Odessa & Ophelia

P.S. —And so will we—find you that is— if you even think of eloping and abandoning the manor before our return. It is much better to defy us in the comfort and safety of Darkwell and risk our displeasure rather than undo the work of many generations. The last time it was left uninhabited, it took your great-grandmother six months to find it and six more to coax it back to The Furthest Shore. So much can happen in the space of a year; who has the time to go chasing after a cross, anxiety-riddled house with unresolved abandonment issues?

The Goring Letter, as it later became known in the Darkwells’ Book of Books, was written after Odessa and Ophelia Darkwell were booted from Portal Travelers’ Grand Tour of Royal Coronations Through the Ages.

Organized by the sisters and arranged through the Interrealm Historical Society of The New World, of which they were longstanding members, it was meant to be a long and well-deserved holiday. Their guide, Shaemus McPhail, accused the sisters of intentionally referring to him as Shameless McPhail, constantly correcting him on ‘historical inaccuracies of grave error,’ and despite repeated warnings, wandering away from their group to discuss current events with the locals. There was also a confrontation that resulted in an altercation between Ophelia and Richard III over the return of a Darkwell family heirloom ‘borrowed’ by the York brothers before the Battle of Mortimer’s Cross in 1461.

After being banned from their tour group (and all future Portal Travelers historical tours), they decided to travel onto its last stop alone. While in London, they received a letter from their niece, Everleigh Darkwell, informing them of her intention to marry against their wishes. Everleigh wouldn’t discover their reply until a few months into her marriage while she was weeding the garden, tucked inside one of Odessa’s prize rhododendron bushes. Until that moment, it never occurred to her to question their absence. Only the Darkwells’ neighbor, Nettle Larkspur, was convinced something must have gone wrong when the sisters weren’t among the guests at Everleigh’s wedding. As she told her own niece while walking home from the reception, ‘it is not in Ophelia Darkwell’s nature to have missed the opportunity to put a stop to the wedding and deny everybody of The Furthest Shore a piece of the cake.’

Still, the sisters weren’t expected to return from their holiday for several weeks after their niece found their letter. It wasn’t unusual to have heard nothing from them. The mail was no more reliable than the weather in a place like The Furthest Shore. Even an express (and its hapless messenger) could be lost for weeks or months, and sometimes, years before turning up. Besides, Everleigh was in no rush for the return home of her aunts. She knew that while Odessa may not approve, she would resign herself to her niece’s choice sooner than later and welcome her new nephew into the family. Ophelia, however, was most likely of the opinion that Everleigh’s marriage to an unknown witch without a name or family was a tarnish on the Darkwells’ reputation only an annulment could remove.

Ophelia would return home ready to wage war, doggedly determined to rampage down the path she believed was ‘the only proper way,’ dragging the others along until eventually they fell into step beside her. That was how it had always been as long as Everleigh could remember, but this time, she could not—would not—bend to her aunt’s will. As painful as the thought was, the possible necessity of leaving the only home and family she knew occurred to her more than once. Her first responsibility was now to her marriage, and like all young wives, she was eager for the comfort and happiness of her husband. Where he was not welcomed, she could no longer remain.

Her aunts’ lack of faith in her judgment and the family pride that ranked higher in their consideration than the niece they brought up and treated as a daughter, taught Everleigh the importance of self-reliance. This resulted in the further discovery that she, too, possessed a strength of will as formidable as theirs. In other words, she was determined to have her own way and for everyone involved to be happy about it. She was no longer in the business of pleasing her aunts or fanning the flame of their inflated sense of what she owed her family to be worthy of the name of Darkwell.

It was a long-honored tradition in The Furthest Shore for the groom to take the family name of his bride. She had half a mind to further shock her relations and neighbors by taking her husband’s last name, but that would have to wait until he either remembered what that name was or his family came forward to claim him. But apart from her daydreams of rebellion, Everleigh clung to her belief that time and distance would smooth the ruffled feathers of her aunts’ pride. If not, the impending arrival of the newest member of the Darkwell family would serve to heal the breach once Odessa and Ophelia returned. At least, that had been her hope until she read their letter.

Portal Travelers were prohibited by their lawyers from discussing any details relating to the Miss Darkwells, Richard III, or the events that transpired during his coronation feast at Westminster Hall. They were currently under investigation by the Interrealm Portal Authorities (IPA) in conjunction with the Time Travel Sanctions Enforcement Agency (TTSEA). The only thing that IPA could confirm with certainty was the Miss Darkwells were asked to leave the tour shortly after the incident, and their current whereabouts were unknown. They wondered if Everleigh would be so kind to let them know of any word from her aunts as the Miss Darkwells was still wanted for questioning and apologized that their agents had been prevented from contacting her sooner.

Both organizations attempted to reach her several times by phone and letter. No sooner did they dial the number then they were put on hold while “God Save the Queen” played on an endless loop; every letter came back marked ‘return to sender’—and stamped with a smiling and winking skull. They couldn’t understand it as The Furthest Shore was well within their jurisdiction. They even sent agents to Darkwell Manor, but like her aunts, they were now missing and could not be located.

Everleigh wasn’t surprised to learn that her aunts’ tour was short-lived. Or that they were responsible for a time anomaly and a new portrait hanging in the east wing dated 1483 by an unknown artist, portraying Richard being accosted by two finely dressed noblewomen, or that they took off on their own without a word to anyone, including herself. In the best of circumstances and on their best behavior, Odessa and Ophelia could be impetuous and unpredictable. Revered throughout The New World for their brilliance as witches and the integrity that marked their practice of the craft, they were also infamous for their outlandish, eccentric, and contrary natures.

Everleigh could trace them as far as the Goring Hotel in London on the afternoon of June 3, 1953—the same date as the Goring Letter—but not beyond. They, had in fact, booked their passage home to The Furthest Shore, but an unidentified woman canceled the booking by phone less than an hour after it was made. Similarly, a Ms. H—only the ‘H’ of her signature was legible—paid their bill at the desk and politely asked to have a handful of the sisters’ letters mailed directly. Everleigh couldn’t think of who the woman was, and no one at the hotel was able to give a satisfactory description of her beyond her being rather tall and of indiscriminate age with no discernible accent. But what struck their niece as odd and out of character wasn’t that a mystery woman was running their errands, but that no one remembered seeing her aunts leave the hotel after their bill was settled.

Above all, Odessa and Ophelia enjoyed being seen, heard, and attended to while traveling—and causing as much trouble and inconvenience to others as was in their power fulfilled their two main requirements of any holiday—entertainment and relaxation. The sisters were always curious and impatient to see how enthusiastically they were wished away by the hotel staff and other guests by the end of their stay. Surely, there must have been at least one disgruntled employee or cranky patron of the hotel who’s good nature was tested by Odessa and Ophelia as they left.

For reasons unknown, they went to great lengths to conceal themselves—and to keep their niece in the dark as long as possible. As the months passed and there was still no word of them, Everleigh, like her aunts, could not shake the feeling that darkness was at the root of it. She couldn’t bring herself to mention her suspicions to her husband, but in the privacy of her own thoughts, she couldn’t help wondering if her aunts had stumbled upon something to do with his past—or the reason for his lack of one.

She could recite every word of their letter faithfully, and the concerns and fears which seemed so trivial and unsubstantial when she first read it, now struck her as natural and reasonable. She had rushed into a marriage to a man who was not only a stranger to her, but to himself; he had no memory of who he was or the life he led before Everleigh found him wandering the shoreline alone. Her aunts were troublesome, demanding, and often exhausting, but they also spent the better part of their youth raising, teaching, and loving her without complaint or ever implying that they would have had it otherwise. She was their joy and preoccupation for the first twenty years of her life, and in that time she was treated with kindness, affection, and most importantly—especially for a young girl who lost both parents at an early age—they made her feel safe and wanted. Her aunts’ disappearance and the mystery of her husband’s origins became so intertwined in her imagination she could no longer untangle the one from the other.

Darkwell Manor was too quiet, too somber, and lost much of its color and vibrancy without the presence of Odessa and Ophelia. One by one, the sisters’ familiars wandered away from the manor and did not return. Even Ophelia’s favorite, a large black tomcat that called himself Pagan, gave up hope, and one afternoon, Everleigh watched him saunter out of the work kitchen and through the back garden gate without a word to anyone. He didn’t look back as he went, and no one had seen him since. Inside the walls of Darkwell, there was stillness, darkness, and a chill to be found in every room. The garden her aunts were so proud of sunk into despondency and decay. When it became impossible for Everleigh to tend to it herself, the Larkspurs were kind enough to take over its care. Still, even the deft hands and horticultural prowess of Nettle Larkspur wasn’t able to restore it to life. Only the rhododendrons continued to thrive, growing large and lush, overwhelming the smaller plants withering away nearby. Everleigh began to hate them and refused to have them in the house any longer. Darkwell was in mourning—for whom or what she wasn’t sure—but grief, like a shroud, descended over the manor.

The evening that marked the first anniversary of Odessa and Ophelia leaving Darkwell before embarking on their grand tour, Everleigh lay awake in bed, her hand over her mouth, trying to muffle the sounds of her sobs. Her husband lay beside her pretending to sleep as he listened. The next morning, she woke with a start to the sound of her husband’s voice calling her—and another’s as well—a familiar voice and the only voice that was capable of yelling the entirety of her name as though it were a string of obscenity-laced expletives. Ophelia Darkwell was home.

Before she could lift herself out of bed, her husband came through the door and breathlessly announced, “Everleigh, there’s a madwoman in the garden that wants you.”

“Yes, I know. It’s the Aunts,” Everleigh said brightly as she pointed to her robe lying on a chair near her husband, “Can you help me, please?”

“Is Odessa out there too?” she asked as he helped her into the robe.

“No, I didn’t see anyone else,” he said.

“Well, she’s never far behind Ophelia,” Everleigh said and turned to see the state of her husband’s mess of thick curls, rumpled clothes, and unshaven face, “Look at you—they’ll think I don’t take care of you.”

“Beloved, your eight months pregnant,” he pointed out. “I think that’s more likely to be the topic of our conversation with your—”

“Everleigh— Morgana— Gloriana— Alberta— Odeira— Darkwell!” Ophelia yelled, “If you do not come down here at once—what has THAT WOMAN done to my garden?”

“Maybe we should just pack and skip the introductions,” Everleigh suggested. Her husband only smiled and held out his hand which she took, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

As they came down the stairs and into the main hall, they could hear every word Ophelia uttered clearly and distinctly, which was no small feat considering the size of the house or the thickness of its walls. Everleigh was sure that the whole of The Furthest Shore now knew that the Darkwell sisters were home. Once outside, Everleigh stopped on the steps leading into the garden holding onto her husband’s hand to prevent him from going any nearer. They watched as Ophelia, on her knees and turned away from them, was attempting to pull the gnarled remains of a dead rose bush from the ground with only a trowel and her bare hands.

“—and to imagine that this is what I come home to! A slack-jawed nephew-in-law that runs away as soon as he sees me— as if he’s never seen a proper witch before; a ruined garden—what could Everleigh have been thinking to let Nettle Larkspur near it? I know it was her—daft woman left her trowel behind. Just like her, too, to do more harm than good. DO NOT THINK I DO NOT RECOGNIZE YOUR HAND IN THIS NETTLE LARKSPUR! Where is that girl?”

“Here, Aunt,” Everleigh called out as calmly as she could manage. “Good morning, Aunt Ophelia. Where is Aunt Odessa?”

“Good morning?” asked Ophelia, getting up and wiping the damp dirt from the front of her skirt while turning towards her niece, “Does any of this look good to you, Everleigh Darkwell? I am seriously displeased that you allowed—all of this,” she said, making a vague gesture that appeared to encompass the state of the garden, Everleigh’s large stomach and the husband who’s hand was beginning to tingle and grow numb in his wife’s unrelenting grip. “Where is everybody? Where is that tomcat—I gave him one job to do while we were away—to keep out the mice and rabbits. BILE OF THE BEAST—where is that damned heretic of a feline— Pagan!”

“He’s gone,” Everleigh told her.

“What do you mean, gone?” Ophelia asked incredulously.

“They’ve all gone, Aunt Ophelia. I’m sorry, but when you and Aunt Odessa didn’t return all of the familiars went off too—where is Aunt Odessa?”

Ophelia did not answer. She made her way to an old stone bench as the young couple watched as Ophelia began to rock where she sat, wrapping her arms tightly around her as though to prevent a sudden pain from escaping, before finally and quietly saying, “Not here, obviously. Do not you have eyes, child? Cannot you see that I am alone?”

A cold spell had come to The Furthest Shore during the night, and it began to snow—a light, soundless fall that clung to Ophelia. She was wearing only a thin, yellowing blouse and a long, slim gray skirt torn at the hemline, now damp and stained with dirt. She was shivering. She seemed diminished and older and yet, more childlike and at a loss than her niece had ever known her.

Everleigh’s eyes began to sting and cloud as she took in her aunt, and the meaning of her words began to sink in. She was startled by the sudden revelation of what she had always known but taken for granted. Her aunts were but two halves—only whole when they were together. A ‘split soul’ is what their kind called it. To Everleigh’s knowledge, the sisters had never been apart from one another for more than a few days at a time.

“I do not know how it happened,” Ophelia said, looking up at her niece, “I turned only for a moment, and when I turned back, she was gone. Vanished. I do not know how I let it happen.”

Everleigh could not move or speak but felt her husband let go of her hand and watched as he approached Ophelia, slowly and carefully. He took off his coat and put it around her shoulders.

“You aren’t dressed for the weather,” he said. “Should we go in?”

Everleigh watched him help Ophelia from the bench, marveling at the unlikely sight of her aunt leaning against him as they walked, his arm around her, and her hand clasped in his.

“What are you called, or are you still wandering about with no name?” Odessa asked him.

“Marc,” he told her. “Marc Darkwell.”

“Hmm, it is an ancient name—an auspicious name,” she said thoughtfully.

“Yes, Everleigh said so too.”

“A family name, of course. And was the naming done properly? Were you named at The Veil?”

He replied he was.

“It is a good name for a great man to have,” she told him. “The spirits of The Veil do not make mistakes. They see further and know better than the rest of us.”

“I’m honored to bear it.”

“As well you should be if you are to be a Darkwell.”

When questioned by Everleigh, her neighbors— and the IPA agents that finally found their way to the door of Darkwell Manor— about Odessa’s disappearance or her own unexplained absence, Ophelia would change the subject to the unusual weather for the time of year, or how unkempt the Larkspurs garden was looking these days, before abruptly leaving the room.

She was not home many days before she discovered she preferred the company of her nephew-in-law to her niece’s. He asked incessant questions, too, but they were questions that did not pain or disturb what was left of her peace of mind. He wanted to know everything about the Darkwells’ family history, the manor, and especially, his namesake. Ophelia would tell him the stories she knew while pretending not to notice Everleigh as she hovered nearby, silent and scowling at Marc and herself while rubbing her stomach as though she and the unborn child were plotting their revenge.

When Everleigh could no longer stand it, she declared that unless her aunt was prepared to tell her everything, she had nothing further to say to her. This suited Ophelia better than Everleigh knew. She had promised to say nothing, and a Darkwell keeps her promises. Even if she had not, Ophelia knew she couldn’t bring herself to tell Everleigh how close she had come to danger—how close they had all come—and may yet still be.

Thank you for reading the first episode of The Daughters of Darkwell.

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