#kept him from ever investigating further about the monument

[obihoe]

just realized that when hashirama tells his and madara's story - including the bit about madara telling him about the writing on the uchiha monument - the uchiha monument is actually right there next to them? madara told him that he could decipher the writing using his ocular powers which im thinking means that u need EMS cuz madara was the first one to obtain them .. sasuke has EMS too and he demonstrates that at some point to everyone there. why didnt anyone think about whether he might be able to read the writing w them?

hashirama at this point - with exception of the few hints that he got from madara - has no clue what the writing says but he does know that it had smth to do with madara leaving the village and when sasuke and orochimaru later tell him that madara has been resurrected and plans to trap everyone in his infinite tsukuyomi .. why wouldnt he connect the dots and realize that maybe thats what he meant back then with his "real dream"? wasnt he curious to find out more specifics? cuz orochimaru and sasuke just say that he wants to control everyone, kill everyone, cause the world to go under etc. and bc they dont know madara thats enough of an explanation for them. but hashirama has much more intimate knowledge of him, he still regards him a fundamentally kind man, refers to him as his gift from the divine, says that he looks forward to reconnecting with him etc. etc. so surely he must have wondered whether there isnt a little more to the infinite tsukuyomi than just world domination for world domination's sake? and the monument was right there, if sasuke had turned out to be able to read it, they couldve gotten a better understanding of it. even without hashirama's perspective on madara as a person - the writing could have had crucial information on how to stop him. so why didnt anyone think about having sasuke try and read it?

[talonwings]

Who We Are - Empires SMP writing

a gift for you, empiresblr, courtesy of my now 5 hours of fWhip headcanons. feel free to kill me when you're done. (also sorry i don't yet have an AO3 i can link to, i've been on the wait list foreeevvveerrr).

CW for slight body horror, angst, and i guess suffocation kind of?

“fWhip? Hello? Are you in here?”

He heard the call--how could he not have, when the voice was hers? Still, he did not move, remaining where he slumped against the wall of the underground room. One of the redstone crystals blooming from the stone was jammed against his shoulder blade, but even the pain could not entice him to rise.

“fWhip, come out!” Gem’s voice was a mixture of frustration and concern, a tone he rarely heard from her--well, the frustration he had heard before, but the worry was new. Gem almost never fretted about anything; it was how she had kept him and Sausage so well in line up until now.

“I’m going to come down there!” The threat echoed down the passageway that separated the secret room from the unassuming shopfront above it. “I know where your lair is, it isn’t a secret! Don’t make me come down there!”

“Don’t,” fWhip rasped. “Please.”

Gem either couldn’t or didn’t hear him. “I’m giving you one minute, and then I’m coming down there whether you like it or not!”

“Please,” he tried again, but his voice would not obey him. It petered out almost as soon as it passed his lips. He licked them, swallowed, coughed, tried a third time. “Gem, please, go away.”

This time, it seemed, she did hear, for she answered, “I will not go away! Nobody’s seen you in two weeks, fWhip! We’re worried sick!”

“I’m fine,” he croaked--a lie.

“You don’t sound fine,” she retorted. “I’m coming down.”

He opened his mouth to warn her off again, but the tell-tale sound of the painting door sliding back masked whatever he might have tried to say. Seconds later, her footsteps started up, the familiar click of those heeled purple boots getting ever louder as she marched along the passageway toward his laboratory.

fWhip’s gaze darted around in a panic, searching out anyplace that would be suitable to hide. He hadn’t moved from his current spot in over twelve hours, and his limbs protested as he shoved himself violently to his feet, teetering off-balance from the unfamiliar motion. Finally, he settled on a small cranny near the back of the chamber, and limped over to it, cramming himself inside just as Gem’s footfalls indicated that she had reached the door to the lab itself. He heard her swing it open, and then her voice, much clearer now, softly called, “fWhip? Where are you?”

“Go away,” he replied, hating the stony rasp that he couldn’t seem to get rid of now. “Don’t want to see you.”

“Well, that’s just rude,” she replied. He could imagine the look on her face, and fought against the lump it brought to his throat. He wanted to apologize, to beg for her forgiveness, to throw himself into her arms.

“Didn’t ask you to come,” he croaked instead.

“No, actually, Jimmy did,” Gem replied waspishly. “Your enemy. You remember him? The one you stole his most precious possession from? He sent me a message three days ago to tell me he hadn’t seen or heard from you in over a week. Mind you, this was after I’d been questioned by Sausage, Pearl, and Shrub as to why you’ve missed the last two alliance meetings. fWhip, even your enemies are worried about you. Where have you been?”

Oh, if only you knew. His mouth twisted with a hateful, bitter little smile. “Busy.”

Gem audibly scoffed. “Right.”

“Leave, Gem.” The order tasted strange in his mouth, when he desperately wanted her to stay.

“Not until I see you.” He heard her start moving around the room, picking things up and nudging them with her feet, rearranging boxes and sliding barrels aside as she searched.

“Leave.” The cranny was small, but he squashed himself further inside anyway, stone scraping against all the places where his skin was exposed.

“Are you back there?” His stomach squeezed with terror as he heard her move toward him, squeezing between two of the suspension tubes where he had once stored specimens he was researching. “I can’t see you.”

“Please, leave, please.” If he couldn’t order her, he could at least beg her. “Gem, please, if you care about me at all, go away.”

“fWhip, I do care about you,” she said gently. “That’s why I’m here in the first place. Please come out. I just want to know you’re safe.”

He could feel his heart ripping itself in half--desperation to hide warring violently with the desire to finally be seen, even if it would cost him everything. It felt like it might burn a hole in his chest, and his hands tightened reflexively into fists as he battled himself for what seemed an eternity.

“Please, little brother,” Gem whispered.

It was as if she had caved his chest in. A sob dragged itself from his throat before he could stop it, but he finally let himself unfurl from the cranny to drape limply across the floor, gazing up at his sister’s blue-violet eyes as they widened in shock, which turned to horror, which turned to sorrow.

“Oh, fWhip…” Gem reached out a hand toward him, but hesitated, drawing her fingers back before she could reach him. “What happened?”

“You really want to know?” He had to shove back another sob with a monumental effort, watching the way her fingers trembled as she gazed at him. “Or do you want to leave, like I told you to before?”

“No, I would never,” she gasped. “Not now. Not like this.” She sat down on the floor, her violet cloak flowing behind her like a pool of silky water, and slid closer to him, although not quite close enough for their hands to touch. “Tell me what happened.”

He let his eyes drift away from hers, toward the ceiling and the red crystals dripping from its shadowy recesses. “Well, it began two weeks ago.”

Two weeks earlier…

fWhip was not a stranger to surprises, but he liked receiving them far less than he liked planning them.

It had been a long elytra flight from the undisclosed location of the Wither Rose headquarters back to his home in the Grimlands, and the multiple hours in the air were wearing on his body--even though he had been wearing his scarlet goggles for the duration, his eyeballs still ached as if the wind had been hammering them, as did his shoulder blades from the yank and drift of the elytra against his own muscles.

“Maybe next time I take a horse,” he muttered to himself as he angled in for the landing. The deepslate roofs of the Grimlands were beginning to glide by beneath him now, and he made for the circular patch of dirt at the back of the manor that was his customary landing site, his eyes trained on it until something else caught his attention.

“I am positive that was not there before…” One hand came up to tap his chin as his gaze caught on the massive outcrop of deepslate that had bloomed at the front corner of the manor gardens, studded with glinting redstone crystals. A darker shadow within the ring-shaped formation suggested there might possibly be a hole there, though how deep was indiscernible from this far above.

“If somebody has been trying to steal from me again--wait.” fWhip narrowed his eyes at the spot, investigating it more closely now, for it seemed more familiar the closer he drew. He could vaguely recall setting a circle of rocks within the closed hedges, and in their center, a red container, filled with--

“Damn! Xornoth again!” His breath huffed out harshly as he realized what had happened. First the explosion, and now this…

Veering off-course from his typical spot, he carefully glided down until he was low enough to snap the elytra closed and drop gracefully to the ground between the wide hedge rows. From down here, the deepslate ring seemed much larger than it had from the air, its jagged edges stabbing into the blue sky. He could tell now that there was, indeed, a hole at the center, exactly where he had placed the shulker-box filled with Xornoth’s corruption.

“Damn,” he whispered again. He edged closer, peering carefully at the hole as he neared in an attempt to see what might be at the bottom. It appeared to be deeper than he was tall, however, and he was forced to maneuver up to the very lip of the hole to get a good look at the bottom. Thankfully, there did seem to be a bottom, lurking maybe ten feet below the surface; the depths of the hole were quite dark, though, only dimly illuminated by patches of glimmering red crystals, and he was unable to determine much more than that.

fWhip wondered, briefly, if he ought to just ignore the hole. Common sense would seem to suggest that it was involved with Xornoth in some way, and therefore worthy of at least being avoided for the time being until he could request the help of his allies. fWhip, however, whether fortunately or not, had always been availed of a strong sense of curiosity--it was how he had developed so many of his gadgets and tools. Besides that, there was something about the depths of the small hole that seemed to call to him, and him specifically.

He glanced around, taking stock of who might be nearby in case he needed to call for help, and saw no one in the immediate vicinity. There was a groundskeeper’s cottage just on the other side of the hedge row, but he had no way of knowing whether anyone might be inside.

“Well, I suppose I’ll just have to take a chance,” he murmured. “Here goes.”

Gingerly, he sat down at the edge of the hole, dangling his legs off the side and exploring for possible footholds. It took him a minute, but his toes finally caught on a ledge, and he was able to hoist himself down and into the vertical shaft. Thankfully, the same jagged-edged property of deepslate that made it look menacing also made it excellent for climbing, and he had relatively little difficulty lowering himself the full ten or eleven feet to the bottom, where his feet landed on solid stone. Looking up, he was surprised how dim the sky seemed to be after such a short descent.

Now what? he thought to himself as he gazed around at the narrow walls on all sides. Surely I didn’t make an ass of myself climbing down here for no reason.

He had but a few seconds to wonder, as a strange hiss caught his attention, echoing from the rock walls. He couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but the small hole began rapidly to fill with a reddish mist, which, when he inhaled it, made the inside of his nose and throat burn as if he had inhaled fire. He coughed, accidentally inhaled again, and coughed more violently, and still the stuff spewed into the cavern, and he began to wonder whether this was a trap, and whether he had been an idiot for climbing down here, and whether his allies--his friends, his sister--would find his corpse rotting down here. His hands scrabbled for handholds to lever himself back up, but the mist had filled his eyes now, and it stung, forcing him blindly to his knees. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, could barely think. Lights danced behind his eyelids, and his throat was a tunnel of fire, and then he was unconscious, and knew no more.

Present day…

“And the next thing I knew, I woke up. And...this.” fWhip gestured down to himself, unable to keep his mouth from curling like he had tasted something sour. “Or, well, part of it.”

“Part of it?” Gem cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it was just the wings at first.” He tugged at the grey-black appendages, hating that he could feel it when his fingers brushed the leathery flesh. “And to be honest, I thought they were awesome. Who hasn’t dreamed of having wings? Sure, they looked a little gargoyle-ish, but it seemed like a small price to pay for not having to use elytra anymore. And it felt like the redstone magic was helping me, maybe giving me a gift to fight against Xornoth. I thought it might be something good.”

“And then…” Gem prompted when he trailed off.

“And then...the rest started,” he whispered. “I tried to ignore it at first. I thought maybe I was hallucinating, or getting sick, because it started with just my eyes, and I felt like maybe it would go away if I just, I don’t know, pretended not to notice. But then it was my skin, and then my hands, and then...and then my face.” He turned away from her as a visible shudder made its way through him. “I look disgusting.”

“Why didn’t you call us for help?” Gem murmured.

“Because it was my fault it happened!” he growled, shaking his head. “Because I was an idiot and went down that hole and breathed in that gas, and now I’m a monster, and I have no one to blame but myself. Because I couldn’t wait for you.”

“fWhip, no!” He could see the glimmer of moisture in her eyes, and he hated himself even more for it, for making her upset. “It isn’t your fault. You didn’t know what would happen, and you’ve always been an investigator. And now you’ve had to suffer alone, and I had no idea, and…” Her voice caught. “I was so worried. I thought maybe the demon…and especially after those dreams...”

He swallowed. “I...I’m sorry. I just...I didn’t know how to face everyone like this.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, simply listening to their own breaths. Finally, Gem said, “It doesn’t look that bad, you know.”

fWhip eyed her dubiously. “Gem, I look like a gargoyle. Like some kind of…” The word demon couldn’t force itself out, but he could see she understood, for she vigorously shook her head.

“No, you don’t look anything like that,” she said. After a long pause, she quietly added, “You look like my little brother.”

He tried, but couldn’t stop the tears from sliding down his cheeks. “Thanks,” he whispered.

She reached over and finally took his hand, and he almost shouted with joy at the touch of another person; her skin was warm and soft, her delicate tiny fingers gentle as they closed around his rough, clawed ones.

“We’ll figure this out,” she promised. “Together.”

He nodded, and squeezed her hand. “Together.”

[dontasktheradiodemon]

Party in Pentious’ Parlor - roundabouts Oct 24

In which Angel (@sluttyspiderpolkacock) and Alastor come over to Sir Pentious’s (@hiss-and-vinegar​) and Valera’s (@autokrates​) hotel room for a little hangout/party. Which is interrupted when the eggs that Valera’s been carrying decide now is the perfect time to escape.

Things get very exciting and dramatic for a bit there, especially considering that the eggs aren’t even fertilized.

Highlights include: Angel and Alastor getting invited, respectively, to be Valera’s babe of honor and Sir Pentious’s best man; Valera repeatedly going This Is Fine :) while laying fucking eggs; Alastor deciding teleporting a bunch of booze bottles into midair and letting them crash on the carpet is a great idea; Angel getting all emotionally invested in a bunch of eggs before learning they’re duds; and Sir Pentious fainting in the bath tub.

Valera

Party in Pentious' Parlor is go! Alastor was set to bring snacks, but Valera had prepared drinks for the evening in advance. A few bottles of various alcohols had been set aside, alongside chilled water and a few juices to either enjoy on their own or for mixing purposes. One last look around, hands on her hips. Drinks, check. Entertainment... Some ASMR videos and an eclectic assortment of movies they could fall back on if the music wasn't enough.

Yeah, that seemed sufficient. This wasn't a proper soiree with the nobility, no need to break out the band. A waggle of her fins, and she drops down on the couch, the door to Pentious' suite opening at the flick of her wrist. Prrprrprr

Sir Pentious

Ah, excellent. A party! Sir Pentious didn't sit around doing nothing, he was at the very least helping set things up and throwing Eggbois out of the room.

Valera looked close to bursting and he'd be redamned if he'd let her fall down or something equally as embarrassing. Tail support whenever necessary. Once everything was all set up, he coiled up by the couch, chin resting on his hands as he lay his elbows on himself.

"THE PARTY LOOKS EXQUISITE, MY DEAR."

Valera

Throwing out the eggbois was a monumental task in and of itself, there was always another one popping out of a drawer wearing Val's bra as a headpiece.. Or maybe that was just the one time. Either way, the room was sufficiently cleared for the evening, and that meant Val could take this brief privacy to reach over and slide her hand into Pentious'. Once they had proper guests, he'd most likely try to maintain a bit of distance, so. Best to get her sappiness in now.

"Couldn't have done it without your help, dearest. Are you excited?"

Sir Pentious

"I SUPPOSE I AM! WILL I GET TO SHOOT ANYONE THIS TIME AS WELL? NYAAAA HA HAAAAAAA!"

Nothing like an incredibly loud maniacal laugh right next to your head. Pentious ASMR. His fingers glide over the ring, and he *beams*.

Valera

She snorts, scooting closer to press a kiss to Penny's cheek. Hard to imagine a time when that cackle had been enough to startle her out of sleep. She barely even noticed it now.

"You're not allowed to shoot Angel Dust. Alastor is at your discretion. But if you do, warn me so I can start recording."

Sir Pentious

He's grinning so wide, "FROM THE CONVERSATION THAT WE HAD BEFORE, I DOUBT HE'LL DO ANYTHING THAT COULD WARRANT MY SHOOTING HIM!! HE SEEMS TO WANT TO REMAIN ON HIS BEST BEHAVIOR AROUND ME! WHICH I AM FINE WITH, I DO NOT HAVE TO WATCH OVER MY SHOULDER."

He will anyway, because he's Sir Pentious.

Valera

"He's certainly desperate to befriend you, love. Though actually, that does remind me. In the interest of not having this party go the way Broadway almost did.." An unpleasant memory even now! They'd talked after, sure, but he'd been so upset. The guilt lingered for *weeks.* Her hand squeezes his, tight as she dares.

"I'm going to need you to set the boundaries here. I'll follow your lead, but. Some kind of structure to fall back on would help. Obviously I'm not going to try and straddle you in the middle of the party, but. You know." A wiggle of their clasped hands. She's not sure even THIS would be alright!

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious is watching her with his big wide eyes, watching all of her gesturing and fin flicks. What?? Oh.

He waves a hand, "I AM FINE WITH CONTACT. AS LONG AS ANGEL DUST DOES NOT TRY ANY UNTOWARD ADVANCES ON MY PERSONAGE, THEN I WILL NOT RAISE A FUSS."

Valera

That was both reassuring and completely not helpful at the same time. A sigh, and she smiles at him, a glint of mischief entering her eyes.

"Alright, got it. Drape across your coils and hang off you like a designer scarf."

Sir Pentious

"IF YOU INSIST."

He shrugs! Look at him, this man is socialized to his fish wife. He's really to have a party!!

Valera

Oh. That wasn't the reaction she'd expected. She's caught a bit off guard there, but she manages to dull her reaction down to a nonplussed sort of stare instead of an outright sputter. A few weeks ago he'd have stared at her _aghast_ at the very _idea_ of the faintest whisper of PDA.

"Oh. Well, alright then! I'd expected-- Nevermind." She clears her throat, shifting to sit up properly. "Come here then. I'm not going to make my fiance sit on the floor in his own suite. I'm sure the couch can handle both of us just fine."

Sir Pentious

He slowly uncoils himself, sliding up onto the couch and leaning her head to his shoulder.

A few weeks ago, he hadn't proposed. He was *flying.*

Valera

Well wasn't this nice? Look at him go! From barely tolerating a hand hold to _manually placing_ her head on his shoulder. Not that she'd resisted in the slightest, her arms had wrapped around him the second she clued in on what he was trying to accomplish. Is this fiance privilege? Must be. Gods only know what he'll decide to okay when they're actually married.

Prrr..

Alastor

The party don't start until the Radio Demon walks in because the Radio Demon is the only guy in Hell who always shows up to a party with snacks, and not crappy snacks like a single bag of chips. And also because as far as the Radio Demon was concerned the party did not actually exist until he was present to observe it.

"Hello~! Now, look at this—THIS is a room to have an event in! My! When you check out, we'll have to leave it like this to hold special events." He set a large tray covered in tiny sandwiches next to the drinks, and then poured himself some juice. Gotta have a glass of something in his hand. "That plate on the top right has Veci meat, by the way—I believe both of you had a hand in getting that to me?" He nodded to Valera and Sir Pentious.

Valera

Now, normally Valera would extract herself from Pentious the second she caught the faintest hints of static in the air. But with this sudden shift in boundaries, and the level of comfort she's at? She doesn't even move beyond raising a hand to wave hello to their first guest of the evening. If anything she lays herself out further, giving her fiance a little squeeze as she flashes Alastor her most winning smile.

"Ooh, I'll have to try those later! Glad you could make it, Alastor. Come have a seat, we've just been chit chatting about what we've been up to the last few days. Katsu's been doing his damndest to stress me out, it seems."

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious is a happy snake! C: What a good smile. At the sight of Alastor, he perks up a little more, his hood opening just a touch and he wiggles his talons in the deerman's direction. Ah! Meat of that shark-like veci that Penny shot to death at the first ever party he'd been to with Valera's people. What a fun evening that was.

Angel

Failing to show fashionably late would've been such a movie star faux pas, especially for the most ( in ) famous porn actor in all of Hell. He wasn't irresponsible, however, as he too touted platters and platters of baked goods he'd ( compulsively ) spent the last 24 hours baking ( of his complete and total free will ) . Six of them. A rather ambitious balancing act for the ways his bones begged he BOOGEY, but if nothing else, he was a Pro.

" VALERA ~ ! BABY ~ ! " Angel belted a dramatic entrance as a pop of his hip bumped the door fully ajar. " Good ta see ya! " A nod to each the other gentleman as he set the breadths of his labors beside the other snacks. " Tell me if I'm wrong, but I believe THESE are ya favorites? " He kept the last plate on his person to bring to the lounging couple, a flourish of frosted silver upon their laps. Saving himself the potential conflict of planting a kiss on Valera's forehead, he saluted back to Alastor.

" Ya get dibs on the muffins, Smiles, since I know ya liked 'em ~ "

Alastor

Oh what was Angel doing with snacks? Alastor was to be the snack supplier. Hmph.

On the other hand: more snacks. And Angel's got to do something to offload his recent surplus, Alastor supposed. "Very generous!"

He grabbed a muffin, pulled up a chair near the couch, sat, and replied to Valera's comment. "That's your... nephew, isn't it? Why, what sort of trouble is he getting himself into?"

Valera

If she hadn't been wrapped around Pentious, Valera would have flung herself at Angel, eggs or no eggs. Alas, she must settle for beaming up at her favorite spider as she takes one of her, oh yes, _very much_ favorite treats. "Darlin', I'm so glad to see you. Wouldn't be the same without you here!"

Give her a moment while she devours a snack, _then_ she can turn her attention to Alastor, settling back down against Pentious to _bask_. "The very one. The silly boy thinks he has to use his power to try and fix everything he sees." A pointed raise of her eyebrow at the radio demon. Oh yes, she knows. "Negotiating with demons, throwing himself into danger.. You know, the average hero complex."

Sir Pentious

Oh Angel was here. Sir Pentious' head does that Cobra-esque head movement of sizing someone up as the spider-demon walks in, holding platters of snacks. Hmm! Those would have to be investigated, though for the moment he was content to remain here with his tail slithered all around the couch. He is Looking.

"A FOOLISH LAD, INDEED. WASTING HISSS TIME ON A HERO COMPLEX, HE COULD BE TAKING MATTERSSSS INTO HISSS OWN HANDSSS TO CRUSH HISSS ENEMIES AND NAYSSSAYERSSS."

He's looking up at Angel, still, though the comment was not pointed towards him.... and then he's kind of looking away... What does one SAY to Angel Dust without provoking him or being provoked in return? Hmm. A thought comes to mind! "SSSO! WHAT KIND OF FAVORSSS AM I PRIVY TO, ANGEL DUSSST?" Oh, that part.

Angel

Deepset chuckles reverberated his fluff as he draped his long limbs over the far end of the couch, an idle hand affectionately twirling a strand of Valera's hair. " They ain't SPIKED or anythin', Pen! Ya have my word I wouldn't be doin' that ta y'all ~ " he responded with a fingergun followed by a sneer, " Unless, a course, ya wanna cash in that favor I owe YOU fa layin' off m'boss. THEN we can 'ave us one a MY parties! "

His many eyes glazed over the display as he trailed his snickers. Protein was probably a safer bet than all the carbs he'd inadvertently been loading upon himself. He quickly realized how increasingly WEAK he became for good food the more time he spent at the hotel. Moderation. He'd be fine with moderation. Angel easily reached across the spread for the smallest sandwich to painstakingly nibble on.

" Youse gotta do-gooder nephew? " he asked through pursed lips, " I... think I seen 'em. If he's doin' any DEALIN' though, can't 'elp but think a the usual resident suspect ~ " Angel bobbed the toe of his crossed leg in Alastor's direction. " So. What's my nephew-in-law been gettin' into? As resident drunk uncle, I'm obligated ta know an' give some super sus' advice. "

Alastor

He makes a mental note of which sandwich Angel went for; if he's gonna keep their hotel guest fed, he's got to know what he eats, doesn't he?

He shrugs off the accusation. Making deals with someone's nephew? Certainly isn't him. "Yes, do tell! You're going to have to unpack this 'do gooder' idea a little more for us! You see—in the part of the mortal realm where I came from, making deals with demons is the exact opposite of what a hero does."

Valera

Valera adjusts her position slightly, tail curling around to loosely drape over Angel Dust's waist. Affection for affection, who wouldn't appreciate having their hair played with by the prettiest spider in the joint? It was either that or a glorified seatbelt in case Pentious tried to shove him off. Either way, it's a *heavy* tail. "Oh you wouldn't believe it, Angel Dust. The boy's... Eighteen? Nineteen? And thinks he has to help everyone. Complete bleeding heart. That's only started getting shaken now, since his fool of a mother made a bad deal with Alastor and paid the price for it." A pause, and she nods towards Stick. "Not this one, I mean Match."

She sighs, eyes rolling. "I can't comment on the morality of dealing with demons, but. Apparently he thinks it could work out as long as he negotiated his terms better than she did. And he isn't *wrong*, necessarily, but why make a deal in the first place? Like Penny said, he's already powerful enough on his own without a demon's help."

Angel

" Ah, poor kid. I remember kids, but they were Forty-Two Gang kids. Not so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as ya nephew sounds... unless ya can count a fuckin' fix fa murder bright-eyed an bushy-tailed. I GUESS ya can... " He thought hard, more so mouthing a sliver of meat than having intention to chew and swallow. Yet.

" What's he tryna' get outta dealin' wit' a demon? Some fine print ta hilight? A loophole ta wiggle through an' give the basta'd a taste a their own medicine? If he's got any fresh takes on double crossin' the likes a the devils, I'm gonna 'aveta hit 'em up. " Dare he say he's been trying to do just that with his own deal he'd been trapped in for the last... eighty years or so...? No. He couldn't be doing that. What he did need was a drink. Angel placed his once-bitten sandwich on a napkin and went for an entire wine bottle as the thumb of another hand gently stroked Valera's tail for comfort. For anchoring. As they spoke, he was already hitting the clouds.

" He bein'... careful at least? Careful as ya can be when dealin' wit' a- ah fuck it. " Angel took out his phone as he took a long swig. " I'm givin' 'im a talkin to. What's his url again? "

Alastor

Paid the price, hah. Alastor would say it was his alternate who paid a price for her dissatisfaction with her bargain—but he supposes he's just a little bit biased, isn't he?

"Sounds bright-eyed and busy-tailed to me!" Alastor sees why Angel likes those kids. Heck, Alastor kinda likes them now and he hasn't even met them. "So, when you get right down to it, Katsu's motive is less heroism and more of an ego trip? Mommy makes a mistake and her baby boy wants to run out and do the exact same thing, just to prove to her that he can do it better?" Alastor scoffs. "How disrespectful. Childishly so."

He glances at Angel's barely touched sandwich. "I brought a half dozen different types if you don't like that one."

Valera

A shrug, and she squeezes her tail a little tighter around her legitimate and befluffed spider spouse. "Stolen-Godhood, Angel. With a hyphen. The url is literal, but he's a sweet kid. Fair warning that he'll call you uncle given the opportunity, he's big on found family."

Valera glances to Alastor, somewhere close to amused. "All he told me was he wanted to try to improve things. If that's an ego trip, it's an unusually selfless one. Though I think if I were his age I'd be inclined to do the same thing. Proving that you can do better than your elders is part of the standard teenage angst!" She squints, reaching out for a pair of sandwiches. One for herself, the other to drop into Pentious' hand. "..Though I think he'd fit in pretty well with those kids of yours, Angel. He's already offered massive violence on my behalf and *really* wants to steal the wallets from all my guests."

Sir Pentious

Oh! Excellent. A sandwich for Sir Pentious. He was going to have to get up for one but now he doesn't need to move, other than to lift the snack to his mouth and begin nibbling away. Mostly he's just been listening to this conversation about his foolish nephew that he did not know all too well, but one that seemed to desperately want to be close to him.

Found family, hmn... "DOES KATSSSU NOT HAVE ANYONE ELSSSSE? I ALWAYSSS THOUGHT MEREDITH LOOKED RATHER YOUNG TO BE HISSS MOTHER, BUT I AM ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY OR SO YEARS OLD, SSSO WHAT DO I KNOW?" A big grin, his eyes squinting into amused half moons before he turned to look over at Alastor, gesturing with the sandwich in hand.

"THESE ARE GOOD!"

Angel

" N-no! They're good! Ditto's ta Penny! I'm just, uh, pacin' m'self. Gotta keep this body flawless, ah ~ ? " he sang with another long swig before finally allowimg the bottle to dangle off the edge of the sofa, " I'll, er... try 'em all... " A lie? A wish? Not even he could tell, but he found himself distracted by a flurry of anonymous messages offering him affections.

" Uncle Angel's got a nice ring to it, " he mused, freeing his third set of hands run along the smooth, satisfying surface of that gorgeous tail, " Those lil' buggers are prolly runnin' around somewhere down 'ere, but if they ever found ME out, SHIT would I 'ave some fuckin' PROBLEMS on m'hands. Yeah. They'd get along wit' ya nephew, alright. TOO FUCKIN' WELL. Nothin' about the wallets. They could EAT the fuckin' rich fa all I care, but I wouldn't trust 'em not ta get on Big V's bad side. Can't go... RISKIN' THAT. "

Oh would you look at that, the bottle's empty. He needs another. After placing the empty glass down beside the leg of the sofa, Angel reaches to do just that.

Alastor

“I can think of few goals more egotistical than to decide one has both the authority and the ability to shove one’s way into everyone else’s problems, fix everything for these poor helpless strangers, and then go home to congratulate oneself on one’s heroism.” Alastor shakes his head, tisk tisk. “Someone who truly wants to help asks HOW to help—and you didn’t mention this nephew of yours asking. On the other hand, someone who just barges in only wants to flaunt what a good person he is. Just another way to stroke off an overly-engorged sense of self-importance.”

Alastor beams at Sir Pentious. He’d hoped so! “I can give you the recipe.” It isn’t far off from something Sir Pentious himself might bring to a picnic, in Alastor’s opinion—soft bread, meat so tender it nearly falls apart—but pizzazzed up.

He waves Angel back when he sees him reaching for the table. "No no, allow me!" He's not getting him more wine. He's getting him one of each sandwich. That's what you said you wanted, isn't it? Isn't it, Angel? "These rapscallions of yours sound fun! If you do run into them, bring them by the hotel!"

Valera

Valera hums, resting her head on Pentious' chest as she thinks back. Did she have any spicy backstory? Not specifically, but if he followed the same trend as the others she'd known... "I think he got disowned by his biological family? Possibly for protecting a woman from being accosted by a drunk politician, but I'd have to ask for specifics." A shrug, fingers tippy tapping up to grip her fiance's shoulders as she pointedly side-eyes Alastor. "I could be off base, but I think that's what happened. Having a criminal record in Japan can ruin your life. Assault charges against a man in power? Even worse."

But that was neither here nor there. "Regardless. I'd be very sad to see a bunch of bratty kids get on the bad side of any Overlord! Keep a few eyes out, my dearest Angel. I'm sure Charlie would love to get her hands on them." Another affectionate squeeze, muscles rippling under Angel's hands as he strokes along her scales. Oh, but she purrs. Too bad she can't reach the sandwiches without getting up, she's eyeing the Veci flesh hardcore.

Angel

Angel zones out a few, processing the things Alastor says. He was right. To his surprise. His words sounded like they came straight out of some self-help manual the resident lesbian hotel staff kept insisting he read. Which he totally has. In a hypothetical world where he had x-ray vision.

Valera was also right. He couldn't be letting ANYTHING happen to those kids. He'd have to do so under his boss' radar. Can't have THAT sort of reputation hitting the elite, right? Right? Everyone was SO right. It was overwhelming. WHERE WAS THE WINE? HE SWORE IT WAS THERE-

OH, this was very WRONG. Angel finally came too at the sight of a full plate in front of him. His eyes widened and sparkled like the post Extermination sky, but his brows steeped with guilt. Nonetheless, he mustered a teary grin. He couldn't be rude. He'd have to. For many reasons. Most apparent was the hint of drool and all but immediate pleading of his bowels to Get A Grip. He compromised by offering Valera the Veci sandwich out of Alastor's selection. That was the one he started with, right?

" I'm... gonna have to, " he relented with a drag of his sights to the adjacent corner of the room as he took another bite from a sandwich at random. His expression reacted with bliss. " I wouldn't TRUST THEM ta their own devices soon as their hypothetical stake down 'ere hits reality. It comes ta that, I'm gonna be countin' on y'all. "

Alastor

He shrugs off the side-eye on the grounds that he knows he's said and done nothing to warrant it.

Well, if Valera wants the Veci sandwiches, they should say something! Alastor can lean over, grab the plate, and offer it to—oh, Angel got to it. Alastor gives Angel a sharp look for giving away his food; but he started out with that flavor, didn't he? He'll let it slide. Instead Alastor serves himself one and offers the plate to Sir Pentious, want one?

"If they are down here, they've most likely been dead for decades, haven't they? I'm sure they can handle themselves as well as anybody can by now." Angel might have known them as children, but that isn't what they are anymore, not a chance.

Valera

Luxury was a fancy little sandwich being handed to you while you lounge on your man's chest. She accepts the sandwich with a cheerful wiggle of her fins, and a moment later it's gone.

"Mmm! Delicious, you'd never guess he was so insufferable in life. Fine work, Alastor." A pause while she shifts her position again, a hand moving down to rub her stomach. Maybe that was enough food for now, her innards were complaining. "I assume you've heard all about the soiree by now, yes?"

Sir Pentious

*Politicians.* Ah, that would do it, wouldn't it. SIr Pentious doesn't have much to contribute to the conversation, mostly just watching the others and petting Valera's hair. And then he's kind of being addressed again! More sandwiches!! He will happily take the veci meat kind, and bite into it. Mmmm... murderous intent.

"I HADN'T TOLD HIM HOW IT HAD GONE--IT ssssSLIPPED MY MIND."

Angel

Since when was the Radio Demon the angel on anyone's shoulder? He nodded reflectively and sunk back into the sandwiches. They really were good. He could easily absentmindedly eat the whole plate before realizing what he was doing- oh there went HALF.

Alastor

Alastor perks up at the mention of the soirée. "I keep meaning to ask for the story, and we keep getting on other topics instead." He turns away from Angel now that he's sure he's eating and focuses his attention on Sir Pentious. "I've been dying all over again to hear the bloody details!"

Valera

Oh good, Angel was handling the sandwiches without her help. Thank goodness for that! Maybe between the three demons, they could actually clear a platter, bunch of skinny old men that they were.

Valera looks at Pentious in mock offense, gasping ever so daintily as she presses a hand to her cheek. "All this time and you didn't tell him? Well you'd better get to it before I do, my dear. I doubt anyone but Angel would want to hear *my* version of the story."

Sir Pentious

"IT DID NOT COME UP AND I DIDN'T REMEMBER TO TELL HIM!!! AS I SSAID, IT SSLIPPED MY MIND!" Something something old man. Anyway, he sits up straighter, splaying his talons against his chest as he begins to recount the tail, "VALERA INVITED ME TO ONE OF HER PEOPLES' PARTIES! SOME FANCY TO DO, THAT SsssORT OF THING. I KNEW THAT THAT ONE MAN, THE SSSTEWARD THAT HASSS BEEN PESSSTERING VALERA SSO, HE WAS AN ENORMOUS BRUTE OF A FELLOW. HE REALLY MADE A POOR FIRSSSST IMPRESSION, YOU SEE, AS HE CONTINUALLY REFERRED TO VALERA AS 'RUNT' TO HER FACE! AND TO MINE."

Sir Pentious produces his cane--where was he keeping that--and holds it up, "SO I WARNED HIM NOT TO INSSSULT VALERA, FOR SHE WAS BETTER THAN HIM, AND TO NOT INSSSULT ME, EITHER. HE CONTINUED TO DO SSSO.... AND SO, I DID WHAT ANY GENTLEMAN WORTH HISSSS *SALT* WOULD." With a press of a button, the cane transformed into that automatic tinkertoy looking rifle, "I PRESSED THE MUZZLE OF MY RIFLE AGAINST THE SIDE OF HIS HEAD AND BLEW HIS ssssssSKULL APART! NYAAAA HA HA HA HA HAHAAAAAAAAA!"

Alastor

"Oh, I'm sure your version of the story is plenty fascinating," he tells Valera; but yeah, he wants Sir Pentious's. As evidenced by the fact that as soon as Sir Pentious starts telling it, his attention is totally riveted—complete with his invisible studio audience providing oohs, aahs, and applause where appropriate.

He nearly scoots off the edge of his seat when he leans forward to inspect the tinkertoy rifle-cane. "Did you make—? Well, of course you did, what a stupid question! Clever, very clever!" Can he hold it? He wants to hold it. He's half reaching for it like he's just waiting for an invitation to touch it. "Was this the kind of party where committing a murder to defend the honor of one's betrothed is encouraged, or did you two have to beat a hasty retreat?"

Valera

Valera had been content to let Pentious tell the story, but Alastor's questions were enough to have her snort, blurting out a response before she could think about it. "What, you think I'd have to run from my own party?! In my own--" Ahem. She clears her throat, laying herself back down.

"Apologies. Don't mind me. Go on, dear."

Sir Pentious

Oh Alastor is doing the grabby hands. Sir Pentious eyes him a moment before handing the weapon off. It's not loaded anymore, anyway.

"NO NO, WE DIDN'T RUN. IT WAS VALERA'S COURT. THEY COULDN'T *TOUCH* ME. WOULDN'T DARE! I MADE THEM ALL MY--".... Sweats. He clears his throat, "I MADE THEM *QUITE* AWARE OF WHO I *AM*. THEY WERE ALL *QUIVERING* BEFORE MY MIGHT!! OHHH, IT WAS *INVIGORATING.*"

Alastor

“Well, how should I know! On Earth, if a world leader’s fiancé murders someone during a state party, the party’s overrun by police and journalists and that’s the end of the event; in Hell, the same act would probably garner polite applause.”

He eagerly claims the cane and starts examining it, turning it over in his hands and holding it close to study how it re-folds itself when it switches between rifle and cane. Oh, what a beautiful piece of work. He’d love to try this out, see whether the gimmick has taken away from any of its efficiency as a gun...

What did you make them, Sir Pentious? All your what? Go on, Alastor would love to hear. Look at that smirk of his, and it’s getting wider. Whadja make ‘em? “A first impression they won’t soon be forgetting, I’m sure! Pity I didn’t get to see it—you are a sight when you’re performing for an audience!” He’s a sight to see at any time. Go on, keep preening. “No doubt they’d never been in the presence of a bona fide supervillain before.”

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious is really basking in this praise and attention. Look at him! He's petting his talons down his hood, his eyes are closed as he smiles. Oh, he is bad and he knows it!

"THEY ARE TOO USED TO THEIR MAGIC, IT SEEMED. MY MACHINES ARE A COMPLETE *MYSTERY* TO THEM, AND WITH MY FIRST VIOLENT ACT, I WENT FROM MERE PALACE RUMOR TO *FEARSOME LEGEND.* AH, IT WAS LIKE MY LIVING DAYS, THOSE FINAL YEARS! UNTOUCHABLE AND POWERFUL! NO ONE COULD COMPARE TO MY MAGNIFICENCE!!!" He takes Valera's hand, and presses a kiss to it. There's a ring there! "I WON'T HAVE ANY MEMBERS OF THAT COURT INSSSULTING MY LOVE TO MY FACE, OR BEHIND MY BACK. THEY WILL BE DEALT WITH SSSSWIFTLY."

Angel

OH. There's a RING NOW! Angel takes to it with a similar but respectfully distant interest as Alastor took to the cane. He stretches over his now empty platter a little. _He wants to see it, TOO..._

Alastor

“And no one’s ever going to compare, I’m sure! A bunch of too-proud magicians who don’t know what to do in front of a few pieces of cleverly constructed steel—not all that different from down here, is it?”

It’s why Alastor’s convinced that Sir Pentious is the only wanna-be conqueror with a shot at the throne: in terms of magic, the strongest sinner will never equal a fallen angel—but the most sublime, secular human virtue is the capacity to invent machinery that far surpasses any mere mortal’s strengths. Sure, John Henry beat the drill machine—once—but imagine if he’d been running it. And imagine if Sir Pentious had designed it.

For a second there Alastor got so caught up in this man-overthrows-the-devil fantasy that he almost misses the new ring. (It only briefly squeezes his heart.) So that IS what Sir Pentious was robbing a jewelry store for. Alastor knew it.

... He teleports another sandwich onto Angel’s plate while he’s distracted.

Valera

Ah, looks like Angel's caught on! Valera purrs, eyes squinting up as she glances over to her totally legit spusband. "Ah! Yes, we never told them, dearest. Here, Angel, admire my love's workmanship." She pulls her hand away, turning her head to give Pentious a quick peck to the lips as she extends her hand out for the local spider to get a good look at. Oh yes, it *is* shaped nontraditionally. An eel curled around her finger, woven through tiny holes pierced through the webbing to twist in a dramatic shape.

She is looking VERY smug about this. She's been DYING to talk about this since he proposed.

Sir Pentious

Yep. This man's ego is being inflated so much he'll probably float away at this rate. And now everyone was looking at the ring that Valera was wearing.

"I DESIGNED *AND* CRAFTED THAT NUMBER MYSsssSELF! ONLY THE ABSsssOLUTE BESSST FOR MY WIFE."

Angel

" Holy shit that's BLINDIN'! " Angel exclaimed with drama dialed to eleven. He quickly jerked back upon realizing he made himself a fluff sandwich. Nonetheless, the show went on as he brushed the crumbs from his chest and salvaged the important parts. " Nothin less than whatcha deserve, Val. M'glad fa ya both ~ " He smiled sweetly, genuinely. Their love was contagious. " Ya gotta date set fa the I Do's? "

Alastor

Oh, "workmanship"? He didn't just grab one from the jewelry store? (Well, no, of course he wouldn't.) Alastor leans forward to look too. "I was starting to worry you two were going to get to the wedding and realize you'd forgotten a ring." In truth, he half suspected they were going to get to the wedding and realize they'd forgotten to propose entirely. "Why an eel—it's what you get when you cross a fish with a snake?"

Valera

Valera beams back at her friend, smugness forgotten in the face of such a sweet display. Who could be anything less than ecstatic at a time like this?  "Thank you, Angel Dust. No date set yet, but we'll get there."

Alastor could joke, but it had been a real possibility with these two. She snorts, turning her hand to admire the way the ring sparkled. "I wouldn't have put it past us. We nearly _did_. But yes, a nice symbolic cross between us. Penny has a ring too, he just keeps it in his pocket."

Pausing as an idea comes to mind, she grins even wider, reaching out to pat at Angel's hand. "Hey, hey. Be my babe of honor. You wanted to help me plan anyway, might as well get the fancy title. "

Sir Pentious

Oh! That reminded him. Babe of honor... Hmm. Sir Pentious turned his head right over to Alastor, that enormous C smile over most of his face! He leans over on the armrest of the couch, chin resting on the backs of his fingers as he flicks his tongue at the deerman.  Hello~

Angel

Oh how WIDE his eyes BLEW. His jaw dropped but he was speechless. Dramatically, his eyes darted. His throat produced demonic giggles of glee behind clasped hands. Had Angel really been given the opportunity to play such a vital part of what was touted as one of the most important days of one's life? She was right, yes, he had already pitched the assistance. Though he hadn't told anyone or made his presence known, he HAD been browsing their fashion tag ( for reasons undefined but browsing nonetheless. )

When he finally gathered his graces, he grabbed Valera's hand in all four of his and excitedly bounced as much as the muscular tail around his waist would let him.

" OH FUCKIN' HELL YEAH GIVE IT TA ME!! " Angel exclaimed, " If THAT ain't the highest fuckin' honor a BITCH could HAVE! "

Suddenly, he had to be free. He had to wiggle. His arms reached for her, fluff and hips vibrating at a higher frequency than the naked eye could track. Grabby GRABBY. He had to join the newlywed pile and SQUISH her.

Alastor

He watches the exchange between Valera and Angel with quiet surprise, before scooting back into his chair a little and pulling the cane rifle onto his lap to give the vibrating pile of limbs more room to excitedly wiggle around. Are they that close? But they hardly know each other, don't they? Does Valera have so few friends to call upon to perform such an important wedding function? Or maybe Alastor's mistaken—he's only been aware of their familiarity with each other for a few weeks, but then again he's also only been tuned into the same band of the internet as them for a few weeks—perhaps they've been acquainted much longer and simply hadn't brought it up...

... He is being Looked At by Sir Pentious. Alastor meets his gaze questioningly. "Yes?"

Valera

The response is both immediate and everything Val could have hoped for. They wiggle their fins as Angel starts vibrating, the excitement nearly palpable and highly infectious as he clasps her hand in his own. "Wouldn't settle for anything less than the best, babe. I know you'll be *amazing*."

Oh that spider is a WIGGLIN', and good for him! He's freed in moments, and before she can blink Valera is lovingly squished by a pink and white pile of vibrating fluff. They loop their arms around Angel in turn, nuzzling their nose against his cheek with a girlish giggle. Oh wow, that chest fluff really IS as soft as it looks, they could cuddle into that *forever*. But alas, their stomach doesn't really appreciate this kind of squishing nonsense, making its disapproval known with an unpleasant churn that leaves Valera wincing. But fuck that, they're going to cuddle this fuzzy spider _anyway_.

Sir Pentious

Oh shit Angel is suddenly cuddling up on Valera--Sir Pentious' head whips back around to watch with a bit of an indignant pout--but. He had to just *remind* himself that there was no way that Angel would be interested in her that way. This was... friendly cuddling? He and Alastor had lied on each other before, just not this. Aggressively. Sir Pentious was rather certain he would *crush* the deerman under his weight should he attempt something like that.

Back to Alastor--Sir Pentious resumes his charming little pose, "I WASS THINKING... YOU COULD BE MY BESSST MAN!" He didn't really... have any friends, after all. Alastor was one of the few people he knew that really wanted to be around him, and actively enjoyed his presence, and Pentious enjoyed his as well. Platonically, this was the nicest little arrangement he'd had in *years*.

"THAT ISS, IF WEDDINGSS ARE YOUR THING."

Angel

How he loved this fucking fish. Angel couldn't remember the last time he felt so happy for someone else. Valera's wedding. His system full of eggs. The bright future they'd surely have. He could cry. Tears beading from all eight corners, his heightened sensitivity caught on and cut his celebration short. In fact, it hit him like a TRUCK. He was covered in hypersensitive hairs. Sensitive enough to convey SYMPATHY PAINS.

" Oh, fuck, Val, you...? " Angel tuned in. Those weren't nice sounds. He was too close to see his face but he was nonetheless worried. " You ok? Ya ain't soundin' good in there, Babes... " He ceased to let go, but his excitedly suffocating hold turned to more of one carefully beholding glass. Soothing fingers raked their hair, smoothed over scales. A hand even dropped to their stomach to venture a possible feel of the movement. Angel bit his lip, heart beginning to pound through his dense volume of fluff. " ... Snacks not agreein' wit' ya...? Want me t' getcha some water? "

Alastor

Really? Him? HIM? Are they that close? But they hardly know each other, don't they? Does Sir Pentious have so few friends... oh, yeah, he probably does. Who else would be able to do it? Two eggs standing on each other?

Can Alastor go through with it? Can he stand just a few feet away, close enough to touch Sir Pentious as he recites his vows, and watch?

A broad, exuberant smile crosses his face as his heart plummets into his stomach. "Why—my good sir, it would be the greatest honor! And here I thought I was going to have to sneak into the back and steal a slice of wedding cake when no one was looking! I'd come give you a hug too, but the sofa is..." he glances over as Angel starts fussing over Valera, "... looking a little... cramped."

Valera

Valera chuckles, a hint of nerves creeping into their voice as they loosen their grip on Angel and sit up. Their hands rest on Angel's shoulders now, more for support than to keep him close. "Oh don't let us stop you, Alastor." Deep breath. It was probably nothing, they're fine. A gentle squeeze, and they drop their hands down to pat their stomach. Behave, damn you. "Yes, some water sounds good, if you wouldn't mind!"

They're fine. This is fine. They're even smiling! It's a queasy smile, but hey! Points for trying.

Sir Pentious

Oh! Alastor said yes! Nevermind Valera suffering right next to him, Sir Pentious is beaming--all teeth! And those excited half moon eyes. He's looking absolutely delighted. He reaches a hand out to take one of Alastor's, squeezing it with glee, "GOOD, *GOOD!* A MAN I CAN TRUSSSST BY MY SSSIDE. YESSS, INDEED. IT WILL BE--"

His head whips backwards, and he looks to Valera with deep concern, "MY DEAR???" That deep breath, and the fact that Angel was talking to her like that... C o n c e r n . "ARE YOU IN PAIN?"

Angel

He knew that face too well. Gently clasping the sides of their face, Angel glanced to Alastor in a vaguely implicit plea to get the water for him. " Ya look like ya gonna pass out... " He then looked at Penny. Did he know what to do when Valera felt sick? ' In sickness and in health ' and all that jazz...?

But he looked just as confused. What did Alastor know? What did HE know?? If it had been one of his girls in the club he'd immediately flip on his professional switch and handle the situation with three hands tied behind his back.

But THIS was VALERA.

" ... Water ain't gonna be fixin' that, Sweets, uh... " Panic - rimmed eyes looked to Penny and Alastor as he shifted and braced himself to handle more of their weight. _What do we DO?!_

Alastor

And regardless of what Valera says, THAT'S why now is not the appropriate time for him to fling himself all over Sir Pentious. (That, plus, the witnesses.)

He's keeping the hand though. He figures he's about to lose access to it.

Everyone else is already fussing over Valera, no need for Alastor to pile on and give them one more question they have to reply to. He nods slightly at Angel's look, cheerily says, "Brace yourselves!" before opening a portal in the air next to him and watching in mild interest as a dozen booze bottles from the bar downstairs fall through and crash on the ground. He fishes out a plastic water bottle that survived the fall from among the glass shards and offers it to Angel to pass to Valera.

Valera

Oh, well! That sure was a lot of loud breaking glass and a LOT of alcohol hitting the air at once, what a _stench_. In an interesting maneuver, Valera manages to both flinch away and gag at the same time, fins flat to their head as they huddle against Angel's chest and eke out a low whine from their throat. Not a dignified look, really. Lets pretend that didn't happen.

A shake of their head and they pull back, pupils blown wide and smile turned to something of a grimace. "Well if I wasn't in pain *before* I sure am *now*. Cheers, loves." They'll be taking that (slippery with alcohol) water bottle now, thank you. Not a snatch, not from Angel, but they're determined to chug the entire thing down. As fish do. "If what I think is happening is happening? Uh. Fuck." Another wince, and they try again. "I'll be fine, this'll be over in like. Five minutes, I'll probably swear a lot, and then we can all relax. No worries." See? It's all good, no need to fret you poor idiots.

Sir Pentious

--NOW HOLD ON JUST A FUCKING MINUTE!!

There was A LOT HAPPENING! First, Alastor opens a portal and the floor to his room is POSITIVELY RUINED with alcohol and broken glass! The LOUD NOISE, the STENCH-- his hood FLOOPS open and he pulls his hand away from Alastor only to *snarl* at the deerman, "WHAT ARE YOU *DOING* YOU BLITHERING--" Oh, oh-- oh back to Valera. He's looking her over, fingers flexing as he looks her up and down in sheer *panic.*

Oh no, oh no. Oh no! Is she having her eggs???? His experience with child birth was None Experience, but the way of childbirth in Victorian England was not exactly the most *hopeful* of ventures. These eggs were duds, but it wasn't like that was taking away from Penny's anxiety. What was he supposed to do???? "F-FIVE MINUTESS??? MY LOVE, YOU ARE POSSITIVELY *BURSSSTING*, YOU CANNOT BE SSSERIOUSSS! THERE ARE PLENTY OF WORRIESSSS TO BE H-HAD!"

Oh, he's looking pale. Local snake is starting to shake! He can't sweat, so instead he'll just grab the brim of his hat and pull it down in panic!

Angel

Bursting? Uh... O h . Penny's panic dissuaded his own and the pieces started coming together. If The Father was going to be preoccupied and The Best Man was probably going to be NEEDED, it was up to him. It had to be up to him. Planting a soft kiss onto Valera's crown, he cradled their head into his chest and released his tertiary set of arms. This was going to take a LOT of care and a LOT of power.

Angel took a few moments to concentrate, maneuvering his hands about Valera's body to gauge both where her weight was distributed and where she was tender. He then stook out a leg and straightened his back as they were lifted into his many arms, cradled to the best of his ability.

" I'm takin' 'em t' the en suite, " Angel announced as he maneuvered himself and his precious bundle of eggnant fish around the mess, " Um, you two... " He appeared to be struggling much more with his words as opposed to the way he seemed to be breaking all laws of physics. A spindly form such as his shouldn't be able to support such a concentrated mass of raw muscle, right? Especially not one filled with eggs, RIGHT?

" ... Come help when ya can... " Angel didn't intend to be rude or condenscending, but his mouth failed where the sincerity of his eyes attempted to fill before he turned on his heels and made his way.

Alastor

Static hisses quietly around him in alarm as Sir Pentious pulls away. Ow. He probably deserved that, he startled the room more than he'd expected. "In retrospect, I could have been a little less expedient." It's almost an apology.

Damage control. He dropped the mess in a place where it wouldn't NEED to be maneuvered around—he was overly generous in his estimation of everyone else's tolerance for sudden noises, that didn't mean he hadn't put ANY thought into his actions—but even so, he's gonna briefly open a second portal under the pile of broken glass. It doesn't un-soak the carpet, but now the bottles are Husk's problem. Alastor can clean the carpet later, right now he's sure that's a distant second on everyone's list of concerns.

He stands and puts a hand on Sir Pentious's shoulder—he'll risk Sir Pentious's wrath when he clearly needs somebody grounding him. "Steady. Their quantity means they're small and their shape means they're aerodynamic, they"—he narrowly suppresses the urge to say *they'll slip right out*—"have no risk of causing complications." He hasn't a damn clue  if that's true. But he sure sounds like he does. "And we've got magic to help ease the process, haven't we?"

Honestly, in his heart of hearts, he doubts Valera needs anything but to be given a little polite distance by the pair of half-panicked busybodies fussing over them. But if it will calm everyone down enough to let Valera to get through their five minute ordeal without having to manage everyone ELSE'S distress as well, then Alastor had better help more directly. His lower body is already turned toward the bathroom door as he prepares to go see what he can do—but not until he's sure that leaving won't mean turning his back on Sir Pentious during a building panic attack. Either Alastor's got to stabilize him or he's got to make sure that Sir Pentious is going to come along to have his panic attack in the bathroom.

Valera

Bless Angel Dust and all the brain cells he seems to have stolen from the rest of the party. Valera is more than happy to curl up and let him carry her to the en suite, purring softly to self soothe as much as try to comfort her spindly rescuer.

"Bathtub should work." There's the fake casual tone again, but it was better than being hysterical right now. If it was only going to be her and Angel here for this, best to make sure it went smoothly. Which meant taking his sudden competence and rolling with it. "Drop me in, and uh. I don't know, hold my hand?"

Sir Pentious

OooOoohh dear. Alastor's hand is on his shoulder, and Pentious has only just watched Angel carry away his wife. Pentious places a hand to his mouth, listening to Alastor attempt to reassure him with the.... *autonomy* of the situation. He pales further, looking a little ill.

His tongue is hanging out of his mouth in the most pathetic fashion, and he looks towards the en suite, going on quite the face journey. He should be there, but he couldn't *move*, it was like being tied to a dead weight!

*Foolish, stupid old man. Failing your wife again?* Oh no this was a TERRIBLE time for panicked thoughts. His hand grips Alastor's once more, and his mind races as he just looks like he might die!

Angel

" I ain't gonna DROP ya, tesoro ~ " he cooed as he gently lowered them and got lucky with the first cabinet he opened. Without leaving her side, he folded a towel over the edge for her head. " I dunno if ya done this before, but I sure haven't so... "

Angel knelt before the tub and held Valera's hands, dipping the bottom half of his face below the brim as four pairs of puppy dog eyes stared at them, brows twisted wtth worry. " D'ya... want the warm water fa the cramps...? Eggs can't drown, right? "

Alastor

Well, THAT didn’t help. So much for the appeal to logos. Shoot for pathos instead, he supposes.

Alastor lowers his voice. “Listen.” He squeezes Sir Pentious’s hand reassuringly. “Valera’s going to be just fine. I promise you. But I bet she’ll feel better about the whole thing if she has her genius, notorious fiancé at her side.” He nods toward the door encouragingly. “Don’t you think?”

If he thought it would help, he’d pull Sir Pentious into a hug and hold him tight, until whatever’s in his head putting those horrible expressions on his face is gone. But he doubts anything but Sir Pentious’s fiancée can help. So he has to just, sort of, try to telepathically transmit a hug through hand-holding.

Valera

Good thinking, Angel. All Valera's research and prep kind of flew out the window as soon as the situation got real. She settles back, sighing in relief as her hand curls tight around his. "Thanks, babe." She turns her head, flashing him the cheekiest wink she can muster up. "Don't worry, fish are remarkably hard to drown. Water sounds great. Think it'll be us two, or are the two old timers going to show up and make this a _real_ party?"

Sir Pentious

Telepathic hug...

Sir Pentious' eyes widen, his talons tapping against Alastor's hand as he's grounding himself with the other's voice. Genius, *notorious* fiance! Oh, yes... Yes! He SHOULD be there!! Sir Pentious sits up, quite suddenly, and turns his head to Alastor.

"YESSS, YOU'RE RIGHT! YESSS. I SHOULD BE THERE... I CANNOT HAVE THAT SSSPIDER SHOW ME UP!!! I..." Urp. "I WILL! HANDLE THISS!! AS I SHOULD!"

And... he slithers off of the couch, adjusting his bowtie as he enters into the en suite, trying not to look like he's about to die.

Angel

_No fucking DUH..._ Angel silently cursed to himself as an extra hand went for the water and tested it for warmth. That was the benefit to being in Hell ; it came out hot and they had to wait for _cold._

" I dunno, " he sighed, " Pen was lookin' pretty shaken up. He might need a minute or two t'- oh! Speak a the serpentine devil ~ ! " Exasperation turned to relief as he scooted to make way to Valera on his knees. " You ok t' take over fa me? " he said with a respectful offering of his fiancé's hands.

Alastor

Success! Alastor keeps his grip on Sir Pentious's hand as long as he can, but lets him slip free before they reach the en suite. That's for Valera now.

He hovers in the doorway. "Do you need any other assistance, or would I just be adding to the tripping hazards if I came in?" He wouldn't mind coming in—if there's no way he can help, he'd be happy to sit on the toilet lid and provide color commentary—but the room already contains a guy with six arms and a fifteen-foot snake, he doesn't really need to add to the crowd if he's not going to be productive.

Valera

Oh, speak of the devil indeed! Valera grins up at Pentious, in far better spirits now that she's in nice warm water and laying back. Infinitely better than trying to sit on a couch while her body tried to act up. It was unfortunate that her pretty silk nightgown was getting just short of boiled, but ah well. Sacrifices must be made and all that.

Oh, and Alastor too? Goodness, she really did know how to summon them. Another wince, and then she clears her throat and pipes up, overly cheery again. "Unless you've got a nice strip of leather that might survive my teeth gnawing on it, I don't know!"

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious makes his way forward, flicking his tongue in long stretches, *clearly* stressed out with his crazy eyes... but he hunkers down by the tub so that he can grasp Valera's hands in his, and stare into her eyes. Was he looking handsome right now? Absolutely not, but he had to be here! He must! For his wife's sake. And... not. Think about the eggs, and. Urp. Oh, he is paling. Keep the smelling salts on hand,,

"ALASSSTOR." Sir Pentious turns his head round, backwards, "DON'T YOU DARE LEAVE THISSSS ROOM!"

Angel

" Yeah, Al, c'mere. " With a grunt, Angel pushed off his knees and braced himself against the edge of the tub near the running faucet. If not for how _tensely_ he taut his muscles in the high stress of the moment, being on his knees would've felt as natural as laying down...

... but this wasn't about _his_ pain.

" Think they're gonna need ya... " he said assertively with a fish ( pun not intended ) through his fluff for a pen of waterproof liner. " Ya think ya can cash in a favor wit' ya friend Prince, uh... " He couldn't help a nervous snicker as he held it out and ushered Alastor forward. " _Demon's epidurals?_ Whatever it takes, I'll make up fa it. "

Could he compare labor to being shot? Maybe being shot in the DICK, but if that sigil was powerful enough for him to be poked and prodded through with close to no pain at all? Valera deserved that level of relief. He wanted that for him more than anything right about now.

Alastor

"I won't, I'm not leaving." He picks his way around Sir Pentious's tail to stand next to him and squeeze his shoulder again. See? Right here, not going anywhere.

He takes the liner, glances over Valera's body thoughtfully, then says, "I can give you a magical painkiller, but it involves drawing an infernal prince's sigil directly on your skin as close to the point of greatest pain as possible. Do you have any objections to any part of that process? If you DO, I have other painkillers, but they're slower."

Valera

Valera scoots to the edge of the tub, both hands wrapped around Pentious' to try and comfort him with gentle squeezes. "I'll be fine, love. But if this is too much, I won't be upset if you need to leave." Mwah, a kiss for the back of his hand.

Oh, hm. Interesting proposal there, pain relief does sound rather tempting with the way her body is feeling. "If we had more than, at my guess, ten minutes before this was over, I'd consider alternatives. But what's a little infernal magic between friends?" Better to feel hungover later than break Pentious' hand now! Hit her with your best personal space invasion, Alastor.

Sir Pentious

The talk of painkillers is kind of going over Sir Pentious' head. It's not like they didn't exist back when he was alive, but he was more fixated on trying to keep his stomach contents inside of his body, and not faint on the spot, also. Alastor's hand on his shoulder, as well as Valera's hands on his was *very* comforting, and he just kind of sat there, looking stricken with concern.

"HOW-- *INVASSSSIVE* WILL THISSS SSSSSIGIL BE???"

Angel

" He ain't gonna be shovin' it up 'is VAGINA or anythin'! " Angel proclaimed with a twist and drag of his neckline to reveal his bandage, " Just aroun' the top, like he did me 'ere... " He then circled a claw around the spot where his wound was healing. _Modesty ain't the goal here, Penny, c'mon ~_ he mused silently, instead urging the snake prioritize better with his Look. He also reached down to give a section of Penny's tail a gentle pat. Physical reassurance seemed to be doing... something for them both. " It works wonders. _Trust us ~ "_

Alastor

"It was up top for YOU, Angel, because your INJURY was up top. For Valera, in order for me to get as close to the point of the pain as possible—well, truth be told, the only downside to trying to shove it up the aforementioned anatomy is the fact that I wouldn't be able to draw like that! As it is," he nods to Valera, "if you'd be so good as to expose a bit of skin somewhere abdominal where I can draw, please. At least as much surface area as the palm of your hand, as close as you can get to the point of maximum pain."

Valera

Another little squeeze for Pentious' hand, this poor fool looked like he was about to keel over, and then Valera pulls her hands free. Unfortunately, they were needed elsewhere.

"Alastor, as much as I trust your unwavering capacity for professionalism, I think I'll pass on the infernal fisting, for both of our sakes." A snort, and she unbuttons over her stomach, scooting back to make sure it was above the water's surface. Angel's eyeliner was good, but she doubted it was _that_ good. "Have at it, but you may need to towel the area off to get better traction. Fish are slippery and all that."

Sir Pentious

His hood FLOOMPS out with indignant fury at being spoken to that way by Angel, and he moves his tail away from the other!!

"DO NOT TOUCH Me, YOU-" Wait, where. Oh no.

Sir Pentious is going to sit on himself, hands clasped together on his lap and just. Scream internally as he would have to watch Alastor touch his fiancée in such.

Specific places. The talk of slippery and needing better traction as him swallow hard, trying not to think about the fact he was *in the birthing chambers oh God oh God oh God he feels like he's unlocked some long buried repressed memories.*

Sit neatly, Penny. No need for fuss.

Angel

Angel sighed and drained some of the water. That couldn't be a bad call, right? He also reached to revisit the cabinet from prior for another towel. A second one. He gave them both to Valera.

" Here... one fa dryin' and another if ya wanna... cover up, " he mumbled, eyes darting around the room for anything else he could do to try and settle the atmosphere.

Coming up empty, he shifted back towards the faucet to give Alastor some space. He could touch _her_ tail, right? An ankle? Angel leaned back. He'd be at the ready where he was guaranteed to be needed.

Alastor

"Infernal fss—!" Hold on while Alastor's studio audience cracks up. "Hah, no! I don't have the right manicure for that, do I!"

Alastor waits until Valera has toweled a patch of skin dry, then perches on the edge of the tub, leans across it to brace one elbow on the opposite side, and hastily scrawls out Prince Gaap's sigil. He doesn't straighten up until it's started to glow. "There! Instant painkiller—and partial invulnerability to injury as well. You can take a stab or two but don't climb into any trash compactors."

He offers the liner to Angel and squeezes Sir Pentious's shoulder again. There, not so bad, is it? Alastor didn't even have to touch Valera, it was all the liner.

Valera

"Just so, my dear fellow! Maybe next time." She doesn't have a good angle to really study the sigil, but she cranes her head down to take a look, fins flaring in surprise. "Oh! Gaap, huh? How fitting, this sort of thing is just up his alley."

Instant relief! She could _kiss_ the radio man. But she'll settle for laying back again, fixing her position and getting comfortable. Just in time, it'd been getting pretty hard to keep up appearances.

Sir Pentious

Very prickly snake man may have to apologize to Angel Dust later, for being so thankless. This was the primary reason Pentious had so few friends.

He's just watching Valera now, focused on her and reaching out for her hand.

Angel

With a deep sigh of relief, Angel put his liner away and busied himself with fussing over the tap. Particularly the chain connecting the handle to the plug. It was so entertaining. Was he being too loud and obnoxious, jingling and making faces at the thing to manually steer himself from further upsetting Penny? _Perhaps._ But now that Valera was comfortable at long last, the remainder of his nervous energy had go go _somewhere._

Alastor

"Oh, do you know him!" He perks up. "Where did you meet?! We haven't been narrowly missing each other at big parties for the past decade, have we? Say, if I..."

He trails off as he remembers what, exactly, they're in the middle of.

Then he cheerily adds, "Maybe we'll exchange Gaap gossip later."

Valera

She offers a slightly strained smile, but keeps her tone light. "Later, yes. We'll have lunch, make a day of it. It'll be fun." Deep breath, this is it lads.

The actual laying process is, at least on Valera's end, largely uneventful and over with in a few minutes of undignified grimacing and shifting in place. There's a brief stab of dulled pain as the process begins in earnest, but with the combination of adrenaline and magic, she barely feels a thing beyond 'vague discomfort'. Thanks, Alastor.

Three pristine white orbs, roughly the size of ostrich eggs, with soft, leathery shells. The proud (?) Mother sits up, taking a moment to catch her breath before she nudges them out of her robe. She lifts and inspects each egg in turn, turning them this way and that, then drops them back into the water and drapes herself over the edge of the tub, looking quite pleased with herself. "Sturdy shells, healthy sizes and weights. For all intents and purposes, picture perfect eggs. Damn I'm good." Thumbs up for the audience.

Sir Pentious

What was the great Sir Pentious doing for most of this? Trying to not throw up, actually. He kind of looks more like a White Snake right now, swaying a little from side to side... once he sees those eggs? And the thought that they came from inside of her? Oh, and also, the various faces she made before?

Sploosh. He just *fainted*, with his head RIGHT into the tub.

Angel

Valera's making faces... VALERA'S MAKING FACES! At the sound of her beginning grunting, Angel promptly turned from his stimming and leaned towards her from a respectful distance, all four hands clenching the edge of the tub for dear life. For a moment he worried the sigil wasn't working, or was somehow rubbing off in the water. He was a FOOL. His liner wasn't designed for scales. WHAT WERE THEY GOING TO DO-?!

If his face wasn't already stark as a sheet, his fleeing soul took the rest of his pigment from his body upon reaizing he wasn't squeezing just the tub. Sometime during their labor, he'd crept closer and closer and found himself squeezing the living daylights out of Alastor's arm. Angel flailed his arms away as quickly as he realized, but not fast enough to escape THE SPLASH.

All his glorious volume. GONE.

He hugged the rim of the tub right next to Valera to shield himself, just to find himself close enough to the eggs to see their texture. The size of his eyes mirrored their diameter. A BABY could come out of those... They'd need care... protection... guidance... The rest of the en suite felt silent as a void save for the turn of his head towards Valera. Back to the eggs. And to him again. Angel shrunk.

" C... " he struggled, " Can... I hold 'em...? "

Alastor

Initially, Alastor's content (more or less) to remain sitting on the edge of the tub, gaze pointed politely at the ceiling to allow Valera a modicum of dignity.

Which means he’s unalert when SOMEBODY grabs his arm. He beeps out a startled *di-di-dah-dah-di-dit* and shoots Angel a look. Under the circumstances, he’ll let it slide. Considering that Alastor’s the only person in the room who isn’t emotionally compromised, he must look a pillar of reassuring stability, mustn’t he?

When Sir Pentious faints, Alastor elects to share some of that stability, slithers down to the floor, pulls Sir Pentious from the tub, and holds him upright. That's a totally normal friend thing to do, right? Supporting a pal? Helping a homey? Embracing a buddy? Tenderly cradling a comrade in your loving arms? Oh so softly humming a sweet melody to sooth an unconscious amigo? Affectionately allowing a friendaroonie to rest his head upon your shoulder—

Oh, is the show over? Alastor glances into the tub, offers a round of applause from the studio audience, and dryly says, "Well done."

All that fuss for so little. Considering the meager help they provided and the eggs’ infertility, they were less three midwives assisting in a birth and more three gawkers watching somebody shit out an unusually large constipated turd. Alastor should have handed Valera a water bottle, administered a painkiller, and left—and he faintly resents the other two for trapping him in this rude intrusion.

But, well. He's here now. Arms available to all who need support, apparently.

Valera

Sparing a bemused look at Alastor holding up Pentious' unconscious pasta noodle of a corpse, Valera scoops one of the eggs out of the water and offers it out to Angel. "I think the father is usually supposed to hold the results of his efforts first, but seeing as my poor beau wants to play the part of Alastor's fashionable new accessory? You may have the honor."

A snort as she hands the egg off, and she flicks a few drops of water onto Penny's face. "Rise and shine, Sir Pentious. The ordeal is over, wake up before Alastor decides to start eating your children like some kind of opportunistic mongoose."

Sir Pentious

The flecks of water kind of don't do much for him at the moment, since he did end up getting an entire *faceful* of water not that long ago. Maybe smelling salts or something would do the trick!

Angel

If Angel's eyes got any bigger, they'd surpass the borders of his face. An EGG. He was holding AN EGG. His dead demon heart aflutter, he could not contain the way he vibrated. He even forgot how self conscious he would've been in the moment to be sporting a damp, flattened chest.

Gently smoothing his thumbs over the soft, leathery surface, he moved to kneel before the cuddling comrades, affectionate amigos, bosom buddies. " Hey, Pen, buddy... " Angel had no smelling salts on hand, but he attempted to call the snake's attention as he carefully held the egg out to him, ready to retract like LIGHTNING if he so happened to get startled. " It's ya happy lil' mistake ~ Val's wantin' ya t' hold 'em ~ "

He sang and smiled brightly to fruitless avail. Not wanting to risk crossing Penny's boundaries again, he looked to Alastor. " Your turn. Smack 'im, or somethin'. He's more t' forgive you fa that than me, " Angel suggested with a snicker.

Alastor

"I would never," Alastor says, as if the very suggestion was unimaginable. "They're YOUR eggs, OBVIOUSLY the mother and father should have the first opportunity to eat them! I was even going to offer to fry them up for you." What kind of a guest do they take him for, honestly.

"I'm not smacking him. Hold on, I've got some salt of hartshorn." As much as he'd like to continue cuddling his chum, he supposes it's going to look weird if he doesn't help. He opens a small portal—AWAY from Angel—and rummages through it until he withdraws a package of smelling salts. There, sniff that. Wakey wakey.

Valera

"I appreciate the thoughtfulness, Alastor! How did you know I was absolutely starved?"

A snort, and Val drags more of herself out of the tub, upper torso hanging over the edge as she watches the scene. She's never seen someone react to smelling salts before!

Sir Pentious

Well, that whiff was definitely enough to get his eyes fluttering open, and his face *wrinkling* at the scent.

"UGH--WHAT... WHAT?" He was all wet, and he hated that a great deal, and he was being held in Alastor's arms. Hm. Sir Pentious' head swivels to and fro, and he looks to Valera. There's a big smile!

And then he immediately remembers what had happened and pales again, "OH." Feeling foolish, his neck sinks into his collar, "MUSSST EVERYONE SSSTARE AT ME!!!?"

Weh!

Angel

" This lil' thing'd be starin' at ya TOO an' callin' ya DADDY if it 'ad eyes. An' a mouth. " Angel continued presenting the egg in both hands as if it were the most precious thing to exist. He had just the right amount of hands to hold all three as such, but perhaps Penny would gather enough of his graces to fish them out of the tub himself. He agreed with Valera. He should have the honor. ~~But that didn't stop his staring longingly at them from the corner of his eyes.~~ It would take everything in his person to refrain from IMMEDIATELY getting another egg in his hands as soon as Penny relieved him. " C'mon, Pen, say HELLO t' my LIL' FRIEND ~ " he snorted.

Alastor

Alastor loosens his embrace but doesn't quite break it, then politely tips his head back and looks at the ceiling—there, see? Not staring anymore.

"Eyes, a mouth, or an actual life inside it," Alastor mutters wryly, then tips his still-tilted head sideways to roll his eyes to Valera. "I'd bring you some catering from the next room over, but I don't think I've been forgiven yet from the last time I got you a snack."

Valera

Valera watches Pentious' reaction with a snort, then hauls herself up to sit on the edge of the tub and start wringing water out of her poor nightgown. Ugh, wet silk... Ah well, a little magic and it's as flouncy and befluffed with heaps of lace as ever, and now she can properly step out of the tub and join the rest of them on the floor without turning it into a hazard. There, it's a floor party now.

"Perhaps not, Alastor! I suppose I'll survive another hour or so before I start gnawing at anyone's kneecaps." A dramatic sigh, a long stretch, and she settles in to start finger combing her hair. "Angel, honey, I see you eyeing them. It's alright, you can hold them all." A pause, and she scoots over to cuddle up to Angel's side so she can half-murmur to him. "Not sure if Penny dear is up to even looking at them, look how pale he is! My feelings would be hurt if I hadn't expected some level of horror at the process."

Sir Pentious

Feelings *hurt*? Oh no. Usually he wouldn't care but this was Valera, his love, his light. There's a big frown as he looks at one of the eggs.

It's okay now, don't think about how it came out of her--he reaches a shaking hand toward the egg. Being called daddy by a little eelish child.... His eyes to THE THING as he takes hold of the egg with both hands....

And brings it in close against his chest. There might not be anything inside, but.... The fact there *could* be at a later date, a child between him and Valera....

Oh those big eyes aren't going away.

Angel

He didn't need to be told twice. Soon as he handed off the first egg to Penny, Angel dove back into the tub for the rest and promptly sat back up with them. He must've cleared the tub with how much water he threw, but the widest smile he could muster as he cuddled the two duds didn't care.

" They gotta be WARM though, don't they...? " he pouted first at Valera, then down at his chest. Forget FORM. NOW the famous fluff lost its FUNCTION. " Ya got a blowdrier in 'ere? Just gimme a minute wit' it and I'll be toastin' these babies in NO TIME! "

Alastor

Sir Pentious is taking the egg, does that mean it's safe to look at him again—? Oh. Oh look at that wonder on his face.

Nope. Definitely wasn't safe to look yet. Alastor drags his gaze away.

Now, why does Angel care about keeping the eggs warm? If anything, they ought to be kept cold to keep them from spoiling longer. They'd only need to be warm if something was in them—

Alastor's ear twitch as something in him quietly dings in realization. He turns to catch Valera's eye: *do you want to tell him or shall I?*

Valera

Catching Valera's eye is a bit harder than usual with the way she's watching Pentious go from grossed out to over the moon, but once he has it her eyes flicker between him and Angel. Processing, processing, give her a moment while she sorts through egg brain..

"I don't think we have one in here, actually? Penny doesn't have hair, and I don't need one. We'd have to ask Charlie or Niffty.. it's okay though, they'd be..." Oh wait.

The light turns on, and she nods a _go ahead_ to the cherry red radio man. Time to scoot her way to Pentious and give him a lil peck on the cheek with only A LITTLE hesitation. "Hi honey." A familiar doll manifests in Valera's hands, offered out to the proud father himself. She's still SOMEWHAT worried he might faint again, so. Look! A cute doll, easier to think about that!

Sir Pentious

His eyes are so big, it's amazing that they can do that considering he's not a feline. When he's kissed on the cheek, he looks to Valera, flicking his tongue--oh there's a cute doll!!! He remembers this doll. Going to take the doll too................ COBRA PURR. It sounds very horrifying unless you're in love with Sir Pentious,

Don't mind him, he's off in his own world here. Only barely listening to everyone else.

Angel

Off in his own adjacent world, Angel continued holding and beaming at the eggs like a proud mother of twins. If a drier was out of the question at the moment, he could towel dry. They had plenty of towels. He made a quick makeshift nest for the eggs in the middle of his crossed legs before doing due diligence with his fluff.

Then it dawned at him that he wasn't the only one in the room with hair. Fur. No matter. Fluff was fluff and it included deer fluff.

" Hey, Al. " Angel peeked at him from beneath a towel. " Ya got a drier in that void a yours I could borrow? " he asked as a pair of spare hands tucked in the eggs.

Alastor

Oh he's got a cobra purring against him. Said cobra isn't paying attention to him but it doesn't matter. He's being purred on. Hold on. Give him a second. He's having a moment of euphoria here—

—hold on who's talking to him. "Hm?" For a split second, between having rapidly dumped the prior conversation out of his short-term memory and the deep rumbling that Sir Pentious is putting out, he interprets "drier" as a clothing drier and nearly asks if Angel's planning to scramble the eggs in one. "I'm afraid not!"

Then he leans toward Angel as much as he thinks he can get away with without reminding Sir Pentious of where he's sitting, props his elbow on the rim of the tub and his cheek against his hand, nods toward the carefully-constructed nest, and asks, "Oh, Angel? You ARE aware that those eggs aren't alive, aren't you?"

Valera

Pentious and his horrible cobra purrs, charming two people in existence and nobody else. Valera grins, all set to snuggle into his side until she remembers that there are other people in the room. It's fine, she'll settle for a casual drape over his tail as she tunes back in.

"Oh? Uh, yeah Angel. They've got everything they need in there, but no spark of life to kick them off. I feel like I've mentioned that before?" She cocks her head, looking at Angel and his little nest. "Though if I'd known you'd get so parental over them..." A shrug, and she makes a vague, wiggly fingers motion at the eggs in his lap.

Angel

" You-uh... What? " Angel's brows sloped like a church steeple as he fought with how little to believe his ears. For all he knew, Alastor could be mocking him. His eyes almost narrowed, but rapidly MOISTENED as he took in what Valera had to say. _Guess they were RIGHT and HE was a paternally lovesick FOOL._

" ... No... " he responded solemnly with a pout, " Must a... went over m'head... " Was that a SNIFFLE? Angel was, in fact, sniffling. Whether it'd come to ANYONE'S surprise was up for debate. Either way, he was embarassed. So he twisted towards the tub and buried his face into his arms as the others hugged the nest.

" What a... " SNIFFLE. " We gonna be doin' wit' em', then...? " He popped a daring eye at Alastor. _' Don't say " eat them " , don't say " eat them " , **BRO. YA BETTA NOT SAY " EAT THEM " I SWEAR T' MARY JOSEPH AN' JESUS...!**_ '

Alastor

Alastor wants very very badly to laugh at Angel. Instead he stretches out one hand to Angel’s back. Pat pat.

“That’s entirely up to the parents!” Please say eat them, please say eat them, he’d really like to eat them—

Valera

Oh noooo... Valera reaches out, smiling sympathetically as she pats Angel's knee. Many pats on all sides for this spider, there there. "I know I'm the one who made them and all, but I'm leaving that up to my beau! ..Who's probably still out of it. Hang on." She slaps at Penny's back with her tail, just enough to jostle him.

"Babe! What do you want to do with the eggs? Keep them? Throw them out? Feed them to Alastor? Pretty sure Alastor wants to eat them, he's been joking about it the whole time."

Sir Pentious

Oh and jostled he is. His upper body wiggles in place like a cartoon character, comical woobwoobwoo sound and all!

He makes a *face* at Valera for that, promptly remembers he's holding an egg and a doll, and floomps out his hood--Sorry Alastor. You get a hood to the face. Smells like Sir Pentious though.

"EAT THEM??? THROW THEM OUT?!? NO!!! THEY ARE *MINE* AND NO ONE CAN HAVE THEM!!" And with that, he shoves the egg in his hat. The hat is making something akin to an uwu face.

"ANGEL DUST, GIVE ME THE OTHER EGGS AT O----Are you crying???"

Angel

" NO!! " A muffled Angel yelled from a towel, " I AIN'T CRYIN'! YOUSE THE FATHER! **YOU'RE** CRYIN'! "

Without freeing his face from the towel, his secondary and tertiary hands felt about the nest before carefully offering them off to Penny like the precious gems they were.

" THEY AIN'T ALIVE. REMEMBER?? " SNIFF! " THERE AIN'T! NOTHIN' T' BE CRYIN' ABOUT! " If he were to lift his face from that towel, it'd be covered in dusty pink make up and runny mascara. It's his now. He'll have to grope his way down the halls to his room before giving it up.

Alastor

Alastor’s immediately filled with a horrible mix of rage and terror at Valera’s words—it’s fine when HE talks about eating the eggs because he’s been very careful to phrase it as an OFFER to fry them up should the parents be interested, but if Valera’s words are Sir Pentious’s first introduction to the topic he’s going to think Alastor’s been preparing to snatch them up and dart off to the nearest skillet, and there’s another shard chiseled off of the very slender pillar of trust Alastor’s managed to build up with Sir Pentious—

And before he can start to consider damage control, he gets smacked in the face with a hood. He might have enjoyed the scent if he didn’t suddenly have his nose smashed into his face.

By the time Alastor manages to see around Sir Pentious’s hood, Angel is crying, Sir Pentious looks like he might be on the verge of crying, and Alastor’s not sure what to do but exchange a glance with Valera. All this for a bunch of duds.

Valera

Valera's trying not to laugh, she really is. But the melodrama happening in the bathroom is better than any soap opera she's ever seen, and it's happening live, audience participation mandatory! She grins gleefully at Alastor, all her teeth on display, then schools her expression back to the picture of sympathy as she scoots closer to stroke Angel's hair. There there, get a hug you sad spider.

"Hey, it's okay Angel. You're alright! I might be crying too, if I wasn't deathly averse to being vulnerable." Or if she were particularly emotional at the moment, but she's high on adrenaline and magic, not to mention SUPER hungry.

Sir Pentious

.................. He's gonna take these eggs, thank you. Into his hat they go. And then put his hat back on his head.

Strangely, the hat doesn't seem all that different, and it's also not drooping at all.

... Weird.

SIr Pentious sits back, and looks at Alastor with a *squint*. "WERE YOU GOING TO EAT THEM??? THEY CAME OUT OF MY WIFE, ALASTOR." That's as *Dude* as it gets.

Angel

Angel turned into Valera's chest to hide and try to preserve some dignity. He carefully wiped his face and eyes, intending to do so until no more makeup came off, but Penny yelling at Alastor caught his attention. A reddened eye subtly peeked from the fluff of the towel to catch the next act of drama now that he was off center stage.

Alastor

“*Valera* said I was going to eat them,” Alastor clarified patiently. “*I* said—*after* this initial accusation was made—that if the parents *wanted,* I would be *willing* to cook them up for you. I didn’t broach the topic and once it was broached I didn’t even ask to eat them myself. This is character assassination.”

Valera

The accused fish snorts, no venom in their voice as they lovingly combs their claws through Angel's hair. The gentlest little head scratches. You would accuse them, Alastor? They're over here looking like the next Virgin Mary comforting this weeping wannabe dad, and you accuse them of character assassination? Unbelievable. They'd be offended if they didn't love every second of this. "A vicious attack against the local cannibal, truly. He has a point though, he never said it outright."

They'll leave the implications of that statement up to interpretation, right now they have to nuzzle their face into top of Angel's head and purr for him. See? Much too busy comforting their friend for such things.

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious blinked, looking from Alastor to Valera before he LAUGHED, putting an arm around Alastor and *bumping* his head to the deerman's.

"CHARACTER ASSSSSASSSSSINATION?? WHY, THAT MUSSSST BE THE ONLY THING THAT CAN KILL YOU IN HELL, MAN! NYA HA HA HAAAAAAA!"

Angel

There's still a bit of blackened smudge around his eyes, but OH is he in _BLISS!_ Instinctively, Angel's cheek chases the rumble of their throat and digs into the bones of Valera's collar for some more of that sweet, _sweet_ sensation. No drama. Just purring ~

Followed by snickering. Alastor's a bit _invested,_ isn't he?

Alastor

Is he ever invested. His eyes fly wide open when Sir Pentious pulls him in to bump, and then slide shut as he leeeans into the touch.

"The Radio Demon's only weakness." He's grinning dumbly, oh, this is so nice. Can he hug back, he's gonna hug back. "When you're as dangerous as I am, the only part of you that can be damaged is your reputation!"

Valera

Valera narrows her eyes, but holds her tongue, ignoring Pentious and Alastor in favor of doting on Angel. Just gonna curl her tail around the spusband and stay in her lane here.

A gentle murmur into that soft fluff. "I'm sorry Angel, if I'd known you were so excited about them being fertile eggs, I could have done something about it! But tell you what. Whenever I have a *real* clutch, I'll let you suggest a name, okay? Not guaranteed to use it, but I'll consider it."

Sir Pentious

It's a good thing that Sir Pentious couldn't see that eye narrowing, or else the mood would have taken a sharp turn into frigid winters. He was completely oblivious to Alastor's true feelings for him, assuming this was all well and good for friends to do. It was acceptable in his day, at least, for male friends to hang out like so and topple over one another. Although, he didn't really have friends of his own to topple with, so... this could be why he was so strange about it.

"AH, YESS! THAT ISS TRUE!! I SSTILL CONSSIDER MYSSSELF A MAN OF REPUTATION, OF A CERTAIN SSSTANDING! ALTHOUGH I DOUBT YOURSSS IS TARNISHED FROM WANTING TO EAT EGGSS. YOU DO EAT *PEOPLE.* IF YOU ARE SSSO SSSTARVED FOR AN OVAL DISH, YOU COULD GRAB ONE OF MINE!!!" A pause, "EGG BOIS. I MEAN EGG BOISS." WHat else would you have meant,

And then his eyes kind of go cross eyed.

"WHY ARE WE ALL SSITTING ON THE FLOOR!?"

Angel

The spider stifled some more GIGGLES when Valera offered him the high honor. TOO high an honor. Not so much because of WHO she was asking, but where the MOBSTER came from and the CUSTOMS they had.

" Oh, no. Babe. _No~_ " Angel earnestly prepared to administer himself a burn. " Have ya EVER heard a the names mafiosi come up wit' fa each other? Ontop a that, I gave M'SELF the name Angel Dust. Ya gonna end up wit' a name like Ecstasy. 'Cause that's what it fuckin'... FELT LIKE thinkin' these bambinos was live... "

He then plastered a playfully shameful hand over his face, sandwiching his head between that and Valera's chest. " Or _Babyface Bobby._ " YEAH. NO. Don't HUMOR HIM.

" Well there's only one seat in 'ere, " Angel joked with a jut of a thumb towards the toilet, " This place ain't made fa an audience, but 'ere we ARE... " He pushed up from Valera just enough to see their face. " Ya doin' ok, Sweets? "

Alastor

"It's not the eating of eggs that would damage my reputation," Alastor said, with an artificial air of great dignity. "It's the suggestion that I would start demanding the infertile offspring of a friend to eat without first waiting to see what said friend wants to do with them! I am not so inconsiderate to my friends!"

His invisible audience laughed at Angel's toilet explanation, and he cheerfully added, "The floor is a perfectly adequate seat!" Then he leaned over to elbow Angel. "If a child can be named Joy or Felicity with no trouble, I don't see any problem with Ecstasy." Look at that shit-eating grin.

Valera

The grin on Val's face is edging towards Maniacally Cheerful as opposed to comforting and maternal, but it's fine. Angel can't be upset if he's busy cracking up like a microwaved egg. The daintiest little gasp, and she places the very tips of her fingers to her cheek.

"But hun, darling, baby, that's exactly what I want! You think any kid unfortunate enough to come out of me is getting a *normal* name? I expect only the FINEST suggestions." A pause to dramatically chef kiss her fingers, and she carries on with gusto. "I'm talking the WORST puns imaginable. Same goes for you, Alastor. Don't let me down."

Sir Pentious

Well now they're all speaking loud enough for Penny to hear them... And he's frowning. Puns??? Of course, he liked a good pun, but. All he could imagine was his beloved future daughter being mocked for having a ridiculous name!

So he begins moving like he's intending to get up, "THE FLOOR ISSS NOT NEARLY AS COMFORTABLE AS THE SSSOFA. I SHALL RETURN THERE! THE LEFTOVER TEA CALLSSSS TO ME." And he swivels his body around, moving to just PICK UP Valera, pulling her into his arms, "ALSO I AM TAKING *MY* WIFE WITH ME." Why does he say that so pointedly. Why are you so aggressive, Penny.

He. Can't fully lift her, but she can ride the Penny Engine out of the bathroom, byeeee.

Angel

In the midst of tossing his head back to LAUGH, Angel bumped his head on the edge of the sink. He only cringed for a second, though, as he all but immediately continued bursting.

" 'AIGHT VAL, I won't let ya down. If ya get yourself another set of triplets, Joy, Felicity, and Ecstacy are contenders. "

He leaned out of the way of the shifting masses of enormous tails, waving off his friend with an imaginary hankie. " Go ahead. I'll clean up all the water and be back after I, uh... dry. " Being seen without his fluff was worse than being seen without makeup. And now the three of them had experienced both.  Angel hid his embarassment best he could with a casual jut of his chin in Alastor's direction.

" Ya need help cleanin' up the bottles, too? "

Alastor

Alastor gets to his feet. Goodness, he’s soaking too. With a flick of one hand he casts the worst of it out of his clothing, leaving himself only slightly damp.

“The glass has already been dealt with.” The glass has already been relocated, at any rate; whether or not it’s been dealt with is up to Husk now. “I can clean up the booze myself!”

He glances around the bathroom, decides he’s been plenty helpful enough already and no need to clean up the water too, and sweeps out to rejoin the party. There’s a whole table of snacks he left behind and he’s starving.

[pitiless-achilles-wept]

How to Endure: Cancer in the Time of Pandemic

[Originally posted March 28, 2020]

Hi all, Welcome to a very special birthday post from me in which I mostly think about what it's like to have cancer in the time of a global pandemic. As a way of topping my last year's celebration--where I was just about to start chemo--this year the world is sheltering in place under quarantine orders as an unprecedented public health disaster unfolds around us. (Sorry if my prediliction for dramatic narratives is in any way responsible for this fact...) I've been trying to work up the energy to post and let you know that I'm doing ok in this time of a global emergency...as ok as anyone I guess. I should say right off the bat that I am not, right now, immunocompromised, although I am at risk for it. We can all hope my system keeps bouncing back as it has done to keep me out of the most vulnerable group. (I do also have lung tumors, so a respiratory infection would automatically come with complications.)

Mostly, I spent a lot of the past two weeks wondering not if but how the pandemic was likely to affect my cancer treatment and I finally have enough information to confirm that, as of now, I'm still able to stay on the study and get chemo as planned this coming Thursday (April 2nd). I had been scheduled to get CT scans on Tuesday, March 31st to assess whether the treatment I started at the end of January has worked well enough for me to continue on the clinical trial. Although I get so many that it has perhaps come to seem routine, "scanxiety" is a very real phenomenon because these are how you learn whether things are going well (or well enough) or whether the disease has "progressed" and you have to regroup and try again with a new treatment plan. It had been since October that I had had a positive scan, with November showing a halting of improvement and December and January documenting the reversal of recovery. So obviously I was anxious and wanted them as soon as possible. Hearing reports of "non-essential" treatments being canceled, my Penn oncologist and I decided to try to move my scans up. After many phone calls and the efforts and good will of a number of doctors and hospital staff I was able to get them on the 23rd in Princeton (avoiding both the drive into Philly and the potential for exposure there). I'm glad we did because I learned yesterday that the treatment has been working fine; not great, but well enough that a) some tumors got somewhat smaller, b) no tumors got bigger, and c) no new metastatic sites were observed. Clinically, that's ruled as "stable disease" b/c in order for it to be a "partial response" you have to have your cancer go down by at least 30%. But reversing the trend of growth is still a win, and perhaps more time will see more results. And crucially, I do not have to investigate a new treatment option or try to change in the midst of what is soon to be the crest of the pandemic wave of cases. It's only relatively lucky, but I will take it! I have also seen reports in the cancer community about people having their chemo canceled as non-essential, which was shocking to me. I wrote last year about feeling like cancer should always be a "red ball" case that gets rocketed up the chain for testing, insurance approval, etc. and being shocked that it just wasn't. I understand that in some cases where a cancer patient is immunosuppressed, even attending a treatment at a hospital may pose greater risk than delaying it because the risk of infection is such a threat. But that is an extraordinary statement to make, amidst a daily barrage of extraordinary statements. Not all the stories were that clear-cut, though, so I was glad to hear from my doctor that as a stage 4 patient my scheduled treatments will not be bumped. I cannot have any visitors (and it's a pretty rough thing to do alone), but I can and will get through this. We all will. Because we all have in us more than we know. *** Shortly after my beloved grandma died (suddenly, from complications during surgery) my dad told me that one of the last things she said to him was that she would be ok because, "I'm a warrior." And she was. From a tiny place in the woods of east Texas, as a teenager she ran her family's store during the Great Depression and cared for a mess of brothers. When my daddy was eight years old, she and my grandfather picked up and moved away from a community where they knew everyone and had for generations to Dallas--an unfamiliar big city--because his younger brother had been born deaf and they wanted to send him to a special school. She founded and ran her own school, an income she supplemented with other jobs while my granddaddy was away walking pipeline for an oil company. When I knew her, late in her life, she had lost her sight but continued devouring books on tape and listening to the clues on "Jeopardy!". I was the first and only grandbaby and I was adored (not to say spoiled). The only times she actually saw me, before she was blind, I was just a few months old, chewing clean laundry in the basket in which someone had deposited me. As I grew up, she would feel my face, my hair, my ever-increasing height (and joke each time that "I'm going to have to saw your legs off!"). She would listen to my voice on Sunday phone calls; do crossword puzzles with me, as I read clues while lounging on her velour sofa; offer a "piece of Hershey" or a stick of spearmint gum from the same blue tin on the table in which she kept her cigarettes. She could still piece quilts by feel, even though she couldn't see the fabric, and advised me on the 1ft patchwork square I made for my doll's bed. She was weakened, exhausted, blind, and often in pain (which she tactfully never mentioned with me around). Except when she changed to a polyester pantsuit for visiting the doctor, she wore carpet slippers and housedress with a pack of Marlboros in the pocket that she lit from a gas burner, leaning on her walker by an ancient stove. No one knew quite how old she was when she died--our best guess is eighty-three--because she was also the kind of Southern lady who told no one her real age. She was a warrior in that, despite all that had happened in her life and all that was happening to her body, she kept on going. She endured.

When I search for inspiration to continue with treatments that make me feel worse than the disease, to fight so hard to save a body that's betraying me, to stay in an increasingly terrifying world that's betraying all of us, I think of her last words. I'm a warrior. I will endure. Believe it or not, you are also and you will too. In our struggles to continue with our lives in the face of monumental uncertainty and paralyzing anxiety, our greatest achievement is to keep on going. We fight (each of us different things) so that we may endure. It is not pleasant. It will reduce you to tears. You will exhaust all your emotional resources. But you will triumph. I have been fighting, existing in crisis mode, for 14 months and that is how I know that you can do it. You must grieve (and allow yourself time for it) for what you have lost, including a sense of safety or normalcy. But as you press on, you will find that inner strength or resiliency. I'm sorry that this is being demanded of you. It is not fair. But that will not change it. You may grieve, cry, fight, and struggle but, ultimately, you will accept that your way forward, your treatment, is to endure. I've reflected a lot on social media about how living with stage 4 cancer accidentally prepared me for the experience of the pandemic. I wrote a coda to an essay that will be published--likely this May--about the "Body as Data." Since the coda itself will probably change by then, the situating evolving as rapidly as it is, I thought I would share it here. Thank you for being with me and providing that community that has been the saving grace of treatment. Love, Bex *** As of writing this essay, it’s been 14 months since my diagnosis. I have tried three different treatments, two of which were clinical trials, one of which I am still enrolled in. It is approaching my thirty-sixth birthday [it's actually today - March 29th] and everyone is sheltering in place because of the coronavirus. I have lived more than a year now tolerating the same kind of existential uncertainty and fear of an alien invader in the body that the world as a whole is now experiencing. I have played my own doctor, watching my body for signs that a treatment is working, or that it is not, in much the same way. I have tried to anticipate what will happen if I become immunocompromised (as I currently am not, but am at risk for) and given up many of the pleasures that made my life better before (traveling, going out with friends) in the name of my health. I have offered my body up as data to research scientists with the goal of furthering not just my own treatment but the survival prospects of future patients. I did not know that throughout this year I was in training for a time when we would all of necessity be regarded as bodies with the potential to produce valuable data about the spread and effects of COVID-19. We are starved for numbers, for data on infections and recoveries and for statistical models that may relieve us of the uncertainty we feel about the future. I cannot provide that. But I can tell you to be cautious readers of data and statistics that speak with any pretense to authority right now, even though I crave them too. Cancer is invisible and so are viruses. This particular virus can inhabit the body but produce no symptom and live for days on surfaces. It may be in us. It may be in those we love. We are in the middle of the data. We are the data. Susan Sontag wrote in Illness as Metaphor that “Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use only the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place” (3). A pandemic transcends borders but does not do away with the kingdom of the sick. As someone already resident, I can say to you: welcome. The hardest thing about being here is the grief for what we have lost, including a sense of normalcy. The best thing, though, is what we may find: community in a time of crisis.

[dogbearinggifts]

Beauty in the Mundane, Chapter One: To the Wolves

Umbrella Academy

Author’s Note: This is chapter one of an AU answering this petition from @scotty-the-t-rex calling for Hazel and Agnes to go back in time and adopt the Hargreeves kids. If this is the first time you’re seeing it on your dash, you can read the prologue here. 

The whole fic is also available on AO3. 

Oh, and if you’re interested, the song I took the chapter title from is by Anberlin. I don’t know if I’ll use song titles and/or lyrics for every chapter, but I liked it for this one. 

**********

Day four of surveillance wore on toward a conclusion without a single broken law on Sir Reginald’s part. 

This was to be expected, Agnes had told him. Reginald wasn’t quite a hermit, but only an actual hermit would dare call him social. Hazel was still a bit fuzzy on which laws applied where and when and to what extent, but he figured any evidence gathered whilst spying through the windows of that mansion would come down on his head, rather than Reginald’s. An act witnessed in a public area, though—that was fair game. 

He only needed Reginald to cooperate. 

Hazel took a bite of coffeecake. It wasn’t near as good as Agnes’ donuts, but neither dared approach Griddy’s—Hazel because he had been a stranger to Agnes when they met, Agnes because crossing paths with your younger self had to create one hell of a paradox. “Think I’ve probably crossed my own timeline before,” he’d explained, “but the Commission always sent me someplace I wouldn’t run into myself.” 

He’d been on a few stakeouts, though with the Commission’s emphasis on finishing a job before most folks could finish tying their shoes, he was still a bit vague on proper procedures for operations that lasted more than a few hours. Moving their base from one side of the Academy to the other hadn’t been a bit of strategic brilliance so much as an act of necessity; when a building took up an entire city block, it was impossible to tell when your target might slip out through the back door. 

“I’ve got some beef jerky in the back, if you want that next.” 

Hazel smiled. He still wasn’t certain if bringing Agnes along was a good idea, tactically speaking, but her pleasant company kept his more unwelcome thoughts at bay. “I’m good, thanks.” 

She settled back in her seat, though she quickly sat forward again. “Oh!” 

He followed her gaze down an alley between the Academy and a neighboring business, caught the same flash of movement she did. His hand rested on the ignition. 

No adults lived in that household, not yet. According to what Agnes had read, a robot mother and a monkey butler resided on the premises; but given Sir Reginald’s fondness for privacy, the only grown man who could be stepping out of a side door was the billionaire himself. 

A balaclava covered his hair, and a grey overcoat covered him down to his knees. Dress slacks ended in polished loafers. He didn’t bow his head as he exited, didn’t glance over his shoulder or hesitate before sliding behind the wheel and pulling the door closed. The knot in Hazel’s stomach tightened. 

“Looks like he’s not expecting a tail,” Hazel said. “You remember the plan?” 

Agnes nodded, retrieving a small notepad and pen from the glove compartment. A quick glance showed him a few mock interview questions. Posing as reporters would likely earn more bluster than answers, but if they were caught, the lie would do. “Which one should I ask first—the one about the mustache-sclupting contest, or the one about Colonel Sanders?” 

Hazel watched as Sir Reginald’s car chugged to the end of the alleyway, paused, and turned right without signaling. This might not be their chance, but it was a big enough oddity to merit further investigation. 

“Whichever one you think’ll make him madder.” 

He eased the car down the alley and turned right. 

******** 

Following a target through city traffic was always easier than following one through the countryside, for obvious reasons, but that was no guarantee of secrecy. For every three targets who drove on entirely oblivious, there was one whose continual glances in the mirror revealed more than they were meant to see. 

Reginald kept to the speed limit, sometimes dipping a mile or two below. He took no side streets, made no U-turns and slowed the second a light turned yellow. Aside from an apparent allergy to using his blinker, his turns were neither sudden nor sharp. Were this an ordinary job, Hazel might have found the target’s obliviousness heartening, even amusing, but as Reginald turned off the main road and down a side street, Hazel only felt sick. 

He might not do anything worth calling the police over. Hazel knew that. He probably paid someone else to buy his groceries and it was too late in the day to try and renew his driver’s license, but there were other errands that could have lured him from his home. Reginald might be on his way to do any number of perfectly legal things, and then Hazel and Agnes could leave to plot their next move. 

City traffic thinned as high-rises and glass-walled office buildings gave way to townhouses and fourplexes scattered among the sort of crackerbox homes that had been popular six or seven decades prior.  Reginald slowed, and when he turned left at a stop sign, Hazel crept through the intersection at a speed that might have made Cha-Cha slap him upside the head and ask if he’d forgotten where to find the gas pedal. 

“He went past the last stop sign,” Agnes said, craning her neck to see out his window. Hazel had seen it happen, but still welcomed her confirmation. “And the—oh no, he’s going right.” 

“You know what’s up there?” 

She frowned in thought, a frown that deepened after a second or two. “I—I think it’s a cemetery.” 

“Can I get to it from here, or do I have to take the same street he did?” 

“Keep going straight until the next sign, then turn left. Should take you right to it.” 

He increased his speed. Inside of a minute, a green hill sprouting grey and black slabs of stone filled his vision, but he was more interested in Reginald’s car, parked along the curb mere feet from the entrance. A flash of movement signaled the man himself striding through the wrought-iron gates, quickly taken out of sight by the winding road. 

Hazel pulled into a spot on the opposite side of the cemetery, one shielded from view by hills and a few overgrown trees, stepped into the evening chill without a word. Agnes closed her door quietly, and they both noted the payphone outside a gas station catty-corner from where they stood.

Agnes caught his gaze, and he held it a moment. 

If all went according to plan, they were about to change the timeline. 

He’d known it from the beginning, been cognizant of that fact since he turned her heartbreak into a suggestion. But all those hours watching the Academy, all that time waiting for the man to show his face and charting a strategy—it all had kept the true scope of what he was planning to do at bay. Now there was nothing between it and him. Nothing to keep the thought from crashing down on him like an entire wall of crumbling brick. Only Agnes, slipping her hand in his, kept him from ducking back into the car and heading to the opposite side of town. 

Part of him said to pull away, leave both hands free for whatever confrontation might ensue if Reginald turned out to be more observant than he let on. Another part said it would add to the illusion. Just a couple strolling through a graveyard on a cold autumn evening, on their way to visit family or a friend, keeping to the grass because the grass was more pleasant. Nothing unusual, nothing to worry about. 

Reginald’s figure came into view, and Agnes dropped his hand. She might as well have dropped the rope tethering his life preserver to the boat. 

A monument stood by, one of those melodramatic statues depicting an angel in grief with names and dates and a host of other information engraved below. It wasn’t the best concealment Hazel had ever used, and it was less than he would have liked, but he didn’t see anything better. 

Reginald’s footsteps fell silent as he stepped off the path and brushed through the grass, stopping at the sort of mausoleum Hazel imagined a guy like him might insist upon as the site of his own burial. A key opened the door, but he didn’t step inside, choosing instead to speak inaudibly into the darkness. Hazel watched a second, then cocked a brow. 

“He usually yell at dead guys like that?” 

“No.” Her voice carried the same confusion he felt. “I mean, not that I know of—he could. He does have a son who—” 

Her words ended in a gasp, cut short by a hand to her mouth. 

“Oh my god. I—he—oh my god.” 

Hazel remained standing as she sank to the grass. He’d known the guy was twisted; Agnes had relayed a few accounts from Vanya’s book, stressing that the girl was excluded from much of what went on and likely didn’t know the half of what her siblings had gone through. What she had seen, what she had known, was more than enough to convince him getting those kids out from under his thumb might be enough to avert the apocalypse after all. Locking a kid who could see ghosts in a mausoleum seemed right up his alley. 

It still didn’t explain why. 

Klaus—the older Klaus, the junkie—he wasn’t the only one to break in the dark. Not everyone could hold it together through beatings and stranglings, but leave them alone with their thoughts, alone to wonder what was next, alone to recall the pain and terror and families they might never see again? There wasn’t a kink in the world that could save you from that. 

But that was the realm of torture, and torture was a tool. Find somebody with information locked up in their head, attack their defenses long enough, and those defenses would crumble. An eight-year-old boy couldn’t possibly hold secrets so valuable his own parent would lock him away. 

Whatever speech Reginald had planned was not a long one. He turned away, locked the door, and retraced his steps. Hazel watched, waiting for him to look his way, waiting for some signal that he ought to duck further out of sight, but Reginald didn’t so much as slow his pace. 

Hazel pushed questions aside. The why wasn’t near as important as the what. 

He fished a quarter from one pocket and crouched in the grass beside Agnes. “Go to the payphone and call the police. I’ll wait here and make sure Reggie doesn’t come back.” 

Her fingers wrapped around the quarter, but she didn’t pluck it from his grasp. “You’re not going to let him out?” 

Her tone and the look in her eyes were enough to give him pause. “The police’ll do that.” 

“And what’ll he do? Just wait in there with the ghosts?” 

He’s lasted this long sprang to mind, but Hazel didn’t dare voice that thought. “Look, if I mess with their crime scene—” 

“It’s not a crime scene, Hazel, they know who did it. Or they will.” 

“I didn’t bring my tools with me.” 

“It’s a mausoleum, not a bank.” 

There were more counterpoints, more arguments, but the guilt coiling in his middle was nowhere near welcome. He sighed. “I’ll pick the lock.” 

She took the quarter and got to her feet. He stood with her, watching as she retreated toward the gas station. After a few yards, she halted, saw him still beside the monument, and pressed her lips together, waving her hand in a shooing motion. 

The lock was nothing fancy, nothing too complex. A simple pick and a little finesse would get him through in a matter of seconds. Hazel could see the process laid out in his mind as though in a how-to guide, or that handbook he hadn’t touched since training. Everything else, everything that came after, was as clear as a mud puddle subjected to a thousand splashing feet. 

Hazel reached into his pocket, brushed aside the coins he’d collected on his travels, and found the lock picks. They weren’t anything fancy, just a set of picks gathered in a case similar to a Swiss Army knife, but they did the job when the job didn’t have to look too professional. 

Light faded from the sky as twilight became evening, but Hazel could have found the necessary pick even in the dark. Once he had it, he set to work. 

The lock clicked open. Once it did, once Hazel’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, he couldn’t have spoken had he wanted to. 

Klaus Hargreeves was a far cry from the junkie who’d stolen his briefcase. He was small at this age, with a slight build and curly hair. A blazer covered a starched white shirt and argyle sweater vest, but knee-legnth shorts, similar to those Five had worn, were his only shield against the cold floor. 

He should have been the one to call the police. Agnes. Agnes would’ve been better suited to this, would’ve had the kid calm inside of a minute and ushered him out with no trace of tears. One of those police officers allegedly on their way would have known what to do. Grab any bystander off the street and chances were ten to one that they would know what to do better than he could ever guess. Chances were ninety-nine to one that they would improve the situation, rather than making it ten times worse. 

But Agnes was gone, the police weren’t yet en route, and Hazel was alone. 

“Hi.” That seemed as good a place to start as any. “Whatcha doing in here?” 

Klaus drew a shaking breath, but only a few choked sounds came out. He’d folded himself up against the wall, as if making himself smaller might fool whatever terrors lurked, and he made no attempt to move—though he did shrink back as Hazel took a few steps forward. 

It should’ve been a paramedic walking toward this kid. A paramedic or some minimum-wage employee manning the gas station across the street. Someone who didn’t have a small army of ghosts trailing behind and no idea how to fix a person instead of breaking them. 

He couldn’t do anything about the ghosts, but perhaps he could make himself a little less intimidating. Hazel knelt, suppressing a wince as pain shot through his knees. A name. Maybe a name would help. “I’m Hazel. What’s your name?” 

There was another long gasp that shuddered like a dying engine before Klaus spoke. “Klaus.” 

“All right, Klaus.” Hazel shifted, and the scant light illuminated fresh tears on Klaus’ cheeks. “What do you say we get you outta here?” 

Klaus didn’t move. His gaze flitted from Hazel to the air beyond. As far as Hazel knew, ghosts couldn’t open doors; and he’d never seen one, but surely there had to be some indicator separating them from the living. But as Hazel watched, Klaus’ eyes didn’t flit back and forth the way they might have from one ghost to another. His gaze remained steady on the door, as if trying to determine whether it had opened at all or if that hint of rescue was simply a figment of imagination. 

Jesus, how long had he been in there? 

Hazel bent his fingers slightly, as if inviting him to move closer. “C’mon. Let’s get you out of here.” 

Klaus shifted. Both arms remained wrapped around his knees, but one loosened. 

“S’okay. We’re gonna get you out.” 

One arm let go and then the other. He shifted onto hands and knees, reached out to meet Hazel’s outstretched hand. 

Klaus’ cold hand brushed Hazel’s for only a second before clinging to it and, before Hazel could fully process what was happening, Klaus had his arms wrapped around Hazel’s neck, so all he could do was pull himself upright as Klaus buried his face in Hazel’s shoulder. 

Hazel got to his feet, balancing Klaus’ weight as best he could. His wrist screamed in protest, but he couldn’t set the kid down. Not now, and it was only a few steps to the door. 

Those few steps weren’t over quick enough. Hazel’s vision of setting Klaus down gently and sinking onto the grass died when Klaus kept hanging on, so he sank awkwardly to his knees. Once Klaus’ feet touched the ground, he slackened his grip. Cold air chilled the tears on his suit jacket almost instantly. 

Hazel expected the relief, but not the mingling guilt that came with it. 

“You okay?” 

It was a stupid question, but Klaus nodded despite another shuddering breath heralding more tears. Not knowing what else to do, Hazel put a hand on his shoulder. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised that Klaus leaned in, or when he threw his arms around Hazel’s shoulders. The torment he’d escaped hadn’t been the most brutal in the world, but given what he could see, it wasn’t something Hazel would’ve wished on anybody, either. Of course he’d be a little fragile after. Of course he’d cling to whoever was near. 

It still took a few seconds to return the embrace as Klaus sobbed into his shoulder. 

********

By the time red and blue lights split the darkening sky, Klaus had polished off most of the sandwich Agnes had purchased and was working on emptying the water bottle. In defiance of Hazel’s prediction, he sat closer to him than to Agnes. Unsure of what else to do, Hazel wrapped an arm around his shoulders. 

“Sorry if I messed up your crime scene,” Hazel told the first officer to come within earshot. “Wasn’t sure how long the kid had been in there.” 

“I would’ve done the same thing.” The officer crouched down, and a tag bearing the name S. GUTIERREZ came into view. He gave Klaus a gentle smile. “Glad you made it outta there.” 

Klaus looked down at the water bottle in his hands.  

“What were you doing in that mausoleum, anyway?” The officer’s tone wasn’t quite jocular, but it was lighter than Hazel expected. “Those things aren’t safe for kids.” 

Klaus swallowed. 

“It’s okay,” Gutierrez said. “You’re not in trouble.” 

It was a minute before Klaus spoke, and when he did, his voice was only a decibel or two above a whisper. “My dad.” 

“Your dad put you there?” 

Klaus nodded. 

“Why’d he do that?” 

Seconds turned to minutes, and Klaus did not answer. He swiped at his eyes with his sleeve. 

“It’s okay,” Gutierrez said again. Another few seconds passed. “What’s your name?” 

“Klaus.” 

“What’s your last name?” 

“Ha—Hargreeves.” 

“Who’s your dad?” 

Agnes put an arm around Klaus and pulled him close, letting the tears come. It was a few minutes before they ebbed. 

Gutierrez’s smile faltered. It had never been joyful, never been full of true mirth, but it was a good deal sadder now. “We’ll save the other questions for later. How ‘bout we get you over to the paramedics, make sure you’re not hurt?” 

Klaus should have looked up at Agnes, or even Gutierrez; but when he raised his head, his silent plea was turned only on Hazel. “Can…can they come with me?” 

“I don’t see why not.” 

Hazel tried to catch Agnes’ eye long enough to give a tilt of the head back toward the car, but she’d already gotten to her feet, giving Klaus a hand up. Great. 

He cast a glance toward the flashing lights, squinted past in search of any people armed with cameras, tape recorders, and questions ready to fire, but saw no one. Just squad cars and an ambulance. No sign of Reginald’s car, either. No reason he could see to leave in a hurry, but that could change at any moment. The number of corrections agents exposed by reporters wasn’t high, and those stories had never gone anywhere of note, but it had happened to them. It could happen to him. The chances of it happening went up exponentially with each minute he stayed at Klaus’ side. 

Cold fingers wrapped around his. Hazel knew, before he even looked down, that Klaus had taken his hand. He looked anyway. 

Fear was still all over his face, but not the sort Hazel had seen again and again. Not the desperation of a target with no more options, confronted with an end that had come too soon. There was some relief in that look, Hazel could tell, but something else, something he’d killed all too often. 

Hope. 

There were reasons for it, reasons Hazel couldn’t yet name. Not through the guilt and trepidation choking off thought or the unknowns peering at him from behind that mausoleum door. There was a plan—there had to be a plan—but it refused to surface through the questions crowding his mind, and the sheer scope of what he didn’t know left him breathless. He didn’t know what he’d do if a flock of reporters descended on the cemetery or the police asked for a fingerprint or Reginald’s car came around the corner. 

He only knew he couldn’t leave. 

************

Author’s Note: I do suspect Reginald locked Klaus in the mausoleum a) more than once and b) when he was a lot younger than 13. I will explain my theory as to why Klaus specified that he was 13 when it happened for one corn chip. 

Prologue

Chapter Two

[alitheamateur]

The Grind- Chapter 22

(gif by @vanessacarlysle)

All my perpetual fretting over Tia’s reaction to the news of my reconciliation with Colton was all for…well…. It was all 100% necessary. She yelled phrases such as “if you wanna let the asshole back in your bed, you can clean up the mess he’s gonna make,” and “what did the dickhead do to convince you?” Both valid, however brutally honest they may have seemed. I made up my mind not to push it on her just yet, but to tip-toe through the tulips, if you will, until she warmed up to him. The two of them were quite similar in more ways than one, so they were bound to fall into at least a civil relationship sooner or later. Or, there unpredictable, combusting similarities would eventually just explode like the boom of a nuke. 

As for progression on the Ritter/Elliott home front, things were moving along nicely. We were back to our morning coffee routine at The Grind, and our running schedule had been carefully decided for Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. One of those particular Sunday workouts had navigated us to the new home Colton had purchased as of late, so he could give me the tour. He’d met me at my apartment that morning, carless, but I hadn’t considered where he’d began his run from.

He’d moved in a little over 5 months ago, and judging at first glances the deposit was heavy for a place like this. The brick front, two story structure must have been newly built on the street because the miniscule grassy path he did have in his side yard, was just ever so slightly sprouting from the clumpy, muddy surface. He led me up a black painted front porch through the front door, seemingly eager to show off his purchase from a successful years earnings.

“Home sweet home. Here we are!” He remarked before breaking the plain into his den. “Whatddya think?”

I thought it wasn’t the place I pictured him in, for starters. Not in pessimistic manner or anything, the space was merely more modern, and suburban for what I imagined his quarters to be like. The cabinets of a kitchen just to the right of the main entrance, were bright white, and stealthy black appliances accentuated more bleach white on the walls. Upon trailing deeper into the area, we entered a hardwood floor living room, where the navy of his leather couch shined under the natural light blazing in from a large window.

“It’s super nice, Colt! You keep it so… clean.” Seriously, there wasn’t a stich of the rug out of place. No molding take-out boxes on his countertops, or discarded shoes strung wildly about.

“Give it time,” he pointed at me with a wide smile. “I ain’t been here long enough to destroy it yet.”

“Don’t expect me to come over and clean the place, mister. This girl is no maid,” I said overlapping my arms in a forewarning.

“You could be. Hey, we could get you one of those little outfits and everything,” Colton said wagging his eyebrows in suggestion. “I’m gonna go shower real quick, then we’ll take the bike back to your apartment. Just hang out here, and give me 20. Unless of course, you’d like the tour of my shower too..”

Okay, yes please! I need to get a good luck at the tub. Inspect the plumbing, and the drains or whatever..

“I don’t have a change of clean clothes, silly. But, you get all squeaky clean, then I’ll take you on the tour of my new place. The bedroom is to die for...” He dropped his head back in a cantankerous huff as if I was torturing him for my own pleasure.

While he left me unsupervised, fidgeting on the couch, I decided some friendly, not at all psychotic girlfriend snooping would be harmless. Wandering aimlessly in my sock feet about the sitting area and kitchenette, something in particular sparked my interest plastered on the double doors of his refrigerator. In carefully executed newspaper snippets, were all of my published works from the last three years held up on display by small, coinlike magnets. One piece I’d written on an injured All-American local boy who had withdrawn his commitment to Pitt due to apparent substance issues. Various tidbits from the usual Steelers coverage, and my article from his fight with Mendez.

Thin, chalky newspaper nearly covered the entire spread of the left side freezer door. He appeared to have saved nearly every published work that had my name attached to it. What made the gesture even more monumentally romantic, was that The Pilot wasn’t available for subscription, nor a newsprint you could grab at any local convenient store on your morning milk run. It was only available for purchase at two outdoor newsstands in the city, one being a small cart on the sidewalk at the front entrance of our main office. The other was easily a 20-minute commute from any of the local businesses he frequented. Neither spot being one he’d cross by coincidence on his morning jog through downtown, or even the closest grocery store, or Mac’s. Meaning the man had made a specific trip, every Thursday morning to spend $3.75 on a paper that he could’ve searched the internet for. I sketched a feathery finger over the printed words, hearing a single dolloped tear drip below at my feet to the crisp tile of his kitchen floor. He really had never sincerely left me, just like he said only a handful of days ago.

“There’s more in an old cardboard box on the rack under the coffee table.” His stealthy, barefoot approach behind me was completely undetected, or I had just been so preoccupied with my discovery that any background noise was hushed.

I faced him, startled, carelessly forgetting to wipe the still running stream of tears, and hiccupped to repress audibly weeping.

“Oh, woah. Woah, baby. Hey, what’s wrong?” Colt stepped once to reach me, and cloaked me into the embrace of his grey tee, blotched with undried remnants of his shower. He placed both hands to my cheeks, leaving my face trapped between his scuffed, worked palms. Eyes searching over my face, like he was looking for the reason of my tears written somewhere across my forehead.

“I’m fine, seriously. It’s nothing.” I nearly snorted to sniff the running of my nose. Yeah, that was convincing. He’ll be right off your back now.

“Talk to me, Livvy. What’s goin’ on, huh? I know tears when I see ‘em. Especially yours.”

“You did this? You kept them? All, of them?”

A hesitant, “U” shape danced over his lips at my question. “Of course I did, babe. Well, I almost missed one week, but I told the guy at the stand I’d give him 20 bucks if he could get me a copy.”

It drew a laugh from both of us, mine still mixed with some joyful tears.

“It’s got your name on it, Liv. Hell, I woulda paid all the money in my wallet if you had written the alphabet down and had it published. I told you once I was proud a’ ya’, and I meant it.”

“I just didn’t… I never thought… I didn’t know you cared this much. I’m surprised you went through that trouble, especially since we weren’t even together for over half of these.” I looked back for the tenth time over the collection marked with my signature.

“I think that’s when I started to care so much. When we weren’t together, I mean. Because y’know, that’s the weird, twisted fucker I am,” he said rolling his eyes.

His hands departed from my face, and one was now pinching the bridge of his masculine nose in frustrated contemplation. I didn’t see the normal abundance of equanimity in his eyes now that normally dwelled there, and I was well aware that he was struggling for the words he sought. “I’m a head case, Liv. I find the love of my life, and talk to her like dog shit, because that’s obviously what a sensible man would do? God… What fuckin’ sense does that make?”

“Honest? It makes perfect sense, actually.” I comforted him, trying to distinguish the fires of aggravation, and self-loathing I could see kindling behind his eyes. “It’s the typical reaction of a man who’s never been in love before, and doesn’t have a damn clue how to handle all the things his feeling all of a sudden.”

“I know exactly how t’ handle it now though.” Colton said snatching me like a flimsy sack of potatoes into his grips, and reaching for a sly kiss.

When his arms outreached though, one of the tattoo additions I had been suspicious of when we bumped into each other at the Temple that fateful day, revealed itself like a shiny penny catching the beams of the sun.  Carefully placed on the tender, hairless skin of the underside of his bicep amongst his dedication to the Andy Warhol bridge, and a Latin phrase “Fortis Passioni deditus” translating to “strong willed”, was a small 21 needled in varsity print.

I immediately locked a grip around the evidence in question, raising it further into the light to investigate whether my eyes had been viciously deceiving me. He didn’t dispute, either from downright perplexity, or for the simple fact that he knew exactly what had won my attention and wanted me to snoop it out a little more closely.

Once I had wiped sternly over the numbers with a thumb, seeing they were indeed permanently etched onto his smooth skin, I looked intently upward to his waiting face. I wanted to smile in cheesy satisfaction, I wanted to cry in earnest adoration, and I wanted to claw the very ink out of his skin as backlash for his silly, erratic decision. But no, not really. The sensible, rational Liv rallied admirably to find a way to veto what he had done and hammer him with venomous disapproval. Thankfully, my fanatical love for the man eclipsed the once “safe” nature I carried, and all I wanted to do was fall at his feet.

“Took ya’ long enough, 2-1.” He smiled barely showing a top row of teeth.

“Wh..when?” I tripped over my tongue.

“Few months after the Mendez fight, I think. Was gonna put it on my chest, next to ma’s date of remission. But my guy down at the parlor said here looked better.” The man explained so coolly as if a shrine to my basketball number, and his pet name for me drawn onto his flesh was just something people did so commonly. Seriously, it sounded as if he was just reading off the lottery numbers in the Sunday paper.

“A few months? So, you did this after you dumped me? We weren’t even together and you got this tattoo?”

“Are you mad? Like…seriously upset with me, Liv? I mean, yeah, it was a little reckless, but that shoudn’t surprise you, baby,” he snickered. “But I knew I’d get you back, Livvy. Or I was gonna damn die tryin’. The way I saw it, it would either end up being something meaningful to our story that we could tell our babies in 10 years. Or, if I didn’t win you back, I’d have to look at it every fuckin’ day and think of the colossal mistake I made.”

10 years? Babies? DON’T FAINT. DO NOT.

“Lucky for you then, huh? Your plan played out for the better, I suppose.” I stretched on my small toes to pat my nose to his.

“So, you like it then?”

I didn’t bother to reward him with praise, instead just sucked a hearty kiss from the thin part in his opened mouth, humming sensually.

“Colton?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“Take me to bed. Now.”

TAGS: @torialeysha @eap1935 @littleluna98 @mollybegger-blog

[annhellsing]

The Drawbridge.

Notes: we’re going full beauty and the beast, ladies and gentlemen.  Rating: she’s sfw. Pairing: alucard/female reader. Word count: 3,259

This place is an architectural nightmare that defies gravity. And it moved, once. Not any longer, of course which is what makes it just another tomb. Its outside intricacy doesn’t fully state just how dark it is inside, of how the rugs are soaked with old blood and the corners are filled with cobwebs. 

It’s so old, it must be haunted. You toe the line where the light ends and the shadows begin. Outside, it’s springtime and the glow of the sun cuts the peace of the grave. There’s a door-shaped hole in the black of the floor, illuminating the entryway. You’re very worried about leaving it. You wonder how many souls this castle’s seen and if any were eaten whole. 

There’s a shiver that runs through the spine of the building when you make your choice, stepping carefully away from the safety of mid-afternoon. Your hands shake around the handle of your basket, flowers and herbs barely fill the first third. It’s barely enough to cover your journal, the castle distracted you today more than it usually does.

 This isn’t the first time you’ve walked this path in the forest, but usually you’re able to suffocate your curiosity about the ancient wonder that’s just appeared among the trees. Its close proximity to the old Belmont manor kept you at bay, as stories told to terrify children well into adulthood do. Usually you continue on. 

Not this time. 

Maybe it’s a good thing you brought flowers, whatever lives here might demand an offering. You’re unsure when or why exactly this castle chose here as its final resting place. Word travels as fast as it can but the last time it was seen was rather suddenly in Brăila before disappearing as quickly as it arrived. Why here, you wonder. What’s hiding here? 

A large throne room with a vertigo-inducing ceiling is easy enough to traverse. A few shallow steps lead to a central arch behind the vacant, high-backed chair. There’s an old, lost feeling here. This place has seen too much death, but where bodies should be there is only bare floor and crumbling stone. Traces of magic, real magic float and dance across the air. Someone burned here, someone froze.

Arched windows in the the much steeper staircase in the arch behind the throne room turn the gloomy stone a yellow colour. The stairs spiral up, up, up to a thin corridor and it’s there that the panic begins to emerge. With the way the place twists off into so many corridors, the fear of getting lost rises in you like heat does in the summer. 

The hallways run through the castle like cracks in a mirror, this space is gloomy and broken. You reach into your basket, picking up a daisy. Finding more of them should be easy enough, you begin to pluck petals. They land softly on the wine-red carpet, stained here and there with water and blood. Now you won’t, at least, die because you lost your way. 

It’s warmer up here, you note. Still no windows, not like the ones lighting up the staircase. Instead there are burning candles casting a dim glow on the floor, it sounds like there should be footsteps. There should be life. But it’s as quiet as the rest of the rooms, the immense size of the place doing nothing to make it feel more inhabited. It’s so eerie, so empty, you imagine laughter from down the hall that disappears with a shake of your head.

You carry on, dropping daisy petals past rows of closed doors. Most of them are locked, you discover upon trying their handles but some open to cold, cold rooms filled with old books and shattered glass. The wood panelling on some of the door-frames is splintered, like claws were dragged across their expanse. Someone tried to do harm here. 

The end of the hallway isn’t the end and it terrifies you. You can see where it’s supposed to veer off naturally but there’s another way to go, it looks like the mouth of hell. It’s just a gaping maw, circular and singed with no light inside it. Part of you wants to explore, another thinks that would be worse than monumentally stupid. 

You make up your mind eventually, backtracking away from the mouth and investigating the other side of the hallway. The doors that do open distract you from the little line of semi-needless daisy petals and how a few are spaced further apart from where you originally placed them. You don’t notice that any are missing. 

Only one door opens on this side to reveal something orderly, or at least not n full ruin. It’s a study with a desk and well-loved books. There’s sunlight here, shining in through the iron diamonds crossing the windows. You let out a sigh like content at having found the heart of the place, this must be it. You smile without really meaning to and take another step into the room. 

It looks nice here, a little less like a prison. The books are all shelved neatly and the only drawback, you soon find, is the shattered mirror shards on the floor. You’re careful stepping over them, looking at the golden light flooding in from the window onto the red-velvet chair. 

There’s a painting of a woman sitting demurely on the desk, holding a bouquet of lilies. This must’ve been her home, perhaps it still is. Her eyes hold a smile barely reflected in her face but it’s clear as day that she lends the space her light. Your smile widens. 

So wrapped up are you in your exploration, setting your basket down by the chair and beginning to browse the books that your senses fall short again. You don’t hear the soft shuffling down the corridor, the sound of air-light footsteps approaching until it’s too late. Your back’s to the door, a book held carefully in your hands. 

“I really must lock the front door,” you turn at the sound of a voice in your ear. It’s close, it is so disturbingly close but when you’ve rounded on the source he’s standing mostly in the hall. The book your holding falls in an instant, landing on its spine with a thud. You gasp and cover your mouth. 

“Oh, oh, no---” you start. Someone lives here, you should’ve known by the candles. His face is a wall, vague but apparently annoyed with you standing in his study. You take a step back but there’s nowhere to go, you’re against the bookshelf. “I didn’t mean---” 

“Do you know that you’re trespassing?” he asks, the tone in his voice takes a sudden shift. It’s still death-dry, quiet but markedly less cold. He’s scared you, that seems to bother him. 

You don’t know what you’re supposed to do, if you should kneel and beg forgiveness. Is he going to kill you for this? He might. Your chest tightens and you slowly shake your head. 

“I--- I thought everyone who lived here was dead.” your voice sounds small, reed-like and whispery. The man makes a sound, you press your back against the books until it hurts but you realize that he’s only laughing. 

Laughing? What have you gotten yourself into? 

“Not quite,” he replies. “this castle is my home, I live here. And you---” you cut him off, you don’t know why you do that. 

“Right, trespassing. I should---” you want to say that you should go but you end up with a hand clamped over your mouth again to keep you from saying anything else. He’s important, standing in the doorway like a lord with a sword at his hip and you’ve interrupted him. 

“Leave,” he finishes. You don’t need to be asked twice, you breeze past him without so much as a second thought. You’re less mindful of the broken glass on the floor but there is no option to care about it as you rush from the room and down the hallway you came from. 

You aren’t chased, aren’t forced from the castle but the embarrassment of having been caught snooping is more than reason enough to go. Down the sun-lit stairs and through the throne room, you fail for a third time to realize what’s wrong. 

Half-way down the road away from the dark spot in the forest and you realize your mistake. You left your basket, your flowers and most importantly your journal. 

There’s a ship sinking in your chest as you stop and stare, looking back at the windows and the towers at what you left behind. You need that journal, how could you have forgotten it?

And then you remember the sound of the man’s voice, the way his eyes looked and the sword he carried. If you go back now he won’t care if he scares you. You just know it. But you snuck in once already, didn’t you? You could return---

No, no that’s a wonderful way to get yourself killed. You resign yourself to going home, pondering the loss of the contents of your mother’s medical journal. Yes, the pages were battered and the script necessarily tiny but there was no better text to consult. You were only beginning to add information of your own. 

You watch the sun move for the rest of the day, empty-handed and uncertain how to preserve what information you know without it. Books are rare as jewels in your little village, belonging only to the church as there are no affluent families for miles. What does exist in your sphere is mostly illegible, written in latin with no intention of being added to by common people. Journals of your mother’s kind were worth more than you would ever be able to afford, if you healed everyone you knew a hundred times. 

The courage to return for your most prized possession does not return as easily as it arrived. You putter about your home, thinking and re-thinking just how lucky you may have been to escape. Who would live in a castle like that? Dracula? It simply appeared one day, but you’re unsure of how or precisely when. 

Visitors in the night, the demons, mostly have ceased. Maybe Dracula's dead, or changed his mind. Who was the woman in the painting? Did the man who scared you know her? Did he hurt her? 

For all you know you may have met Dracula, the thought makes your blood run cold as ice water. You shiver in your otherwise warm home. If you go back he might find you faster. He might not let you leave. 

But you need your journal, you won’t be able to record anything else you learn without it. It’s imperative you get it back, despite your fear. Now you know the place is habited, you’ll knock this time and ask for it face-to-face. 

There are worse ways you could handle the situation, it’s true. But you do find yourself putting the whole thing off for a few days, weeding the garden and doing as much as possible before committing to returning to the castle. 

Some things you remember well enough, a man comes to you with a headache after a hard day and you’re able to treat it with ease. But other things, far more serious things will require information that you haven’t put to memory yet. 

On the third day since you fled the man with the deep, dry voice you lace your boots and decide to go back. You tell only your neighbour, the widow with the failing sight that you’ll be going into the wilderness today. If you don’t return, don’t search. Stay away from the castle in the darkest part of the woods. 

Your feet feel heavier than usual setting out as they did before. Mid-afternoon seems the safest time to go, but part of you wonders if the rumours about vampires and sunlight are true with the window that was in the study. Would you be safe in the sun? 

Even the forest seems quiet as you veer off the path and head between the trees. You carry nothing with you, nothing that could be interpreted as hostility. He’ll have to murder you if you do not run fast enough. There are no deer, no singing birds as you start towards the ominous, black shape that becomes more clear as you leave the village behind. 

The castle rises above the trees, you see it before it sees you. It’s just as before, nothing’s changed. It’s not mysteriously disappeared, carrying off your mother’s life’s work and the beginning of your own. It really must be stuck here, never to move again. The feeling that overcomes your heart is strange and somber, similar to when you see a bird unable to fly. At least someone intends to protect this place. 

Maybe the doors will be locked this time, the strange interior barred from you with no way to enter and prove it looked how it did. Regardless, you knock this time. Someone’s home and you refuse to be rude a second time. 

There is no answer and your stomach sinks. Turning away from the door without bothering to try the handle, you sink down onto the steps. Entering uninvited again would be unseemly, just asking for retribution. But you’ve come all this way---

“This belongs to you?” again there’s a voice, so close that someone could be sitting next to you. You let out a shout and turn your head, having to tilt it very far up to see the man from the study with your basket in his left hand. 

Your hand goes to your heart that’s now thundering away. Clumsily, you stand on the second step. Looking up at him is still no easy feat, he towers above you like a statue. 

“I forgot them,” you say, looking down as the man holds out your basket to you. The flowers are mostly withered but untouched. Putting your hand inside, you push them out of the way. But there’s no journal, only the wicker weaving brushes your fingertips. You look up in horror. “Oh, my---”

“Your book?” he asks and there it is, taken from his pocket and held aloft. You want reach out and take it from him, to inspecting it for any damage. But you’re too afraid to approach.

“My medical journal,” you say. “I’m a healer,” 

“I thought you were a thief,” he replies and your eyes snap up to his again. You can see him clearly now that you’re not clouded by fear. 

He’s handsome, their’s no denying and pale as the face of the moon. His hair falls to his shoulders, golden-blonde like the woman in the painting. His eyes are orange and seem to stare through you, cutting like knives as he tries to puzzle out whether you’re a threat. The urge to step back, away from that hellfire-gaze is strong but you don’t act on it. 

It’s his teeth that give you pause, that terrify. The fangs and his eyes speak of his true nature, sunlight or no sunlight. He stands in the path of the rays without flinching but there’s no denying it. He’s a vampire.

“No, I was just curious. It’s not every day that a castle shows up in the middle of your walking path, at least not any ordinary castle,” and this is when the discrepancy between expression and tone begin to make themselves very well-understood. The man’s face is still hard, suspicious, but he speaks softly. 

“That it isn’t,” he starts. “my apologies for frightening you when I did. I hoped that the Belmont history would be enough to keep people away.” you give a little shrug. 

“Then I’ll take my journal and I’ll never come back,” you begin, but you’re cut off when he opens your book to the first page. 

“I’m amazed at the wealth of information, which handwriting is yours?” you know what he’s asking and against your better judgement, you get close to him and begin flipping to the last, few pages. You’ve taken to writing in a tiny, cramped style to reserve the remaining space. 

“The one near the back, did you read it?” the man shakes his head. 

“Not all of it, but enough to differentiate,” you can’t help but feel unsettled and his face changes when you step back again. “your village is lucky to have you.” 

Your head tilts to the side, it occurs to you that what may be an invasion of privacy could really be the opposite. 

“They were lucky to have my mother, it was her’s. I’m just picking up where she left off,” his eyes narrow, he looks back down at the journal before closing it and handing it to you. 

“My mother was a doctor,” he tells you, you get the feeling it’s very special to know this. “did you have a chance to find her library while you were--- exploring?” the last word’s tense, an admittance to himself that your intrusion was the antithesis of harmful. You really were just curious. 

You shake your head, the man’s pause is drawn-out. He’s considering something else, now, something that requires more trust than you have. 

“Perhaps you should, healer,” your eyes widen at the implication, you look down at your crumpled journal before putting it in your basket. 

“What’s your name?” you ask. You’ll come to understand the look of uncertainty on his face. He doesn’t know what to say.

Instead of waiting, you give him your name instead. First and last with a look of understanding, but you leave out the middle. For whatever reason, magic has touched this castle and him. Some secrets are meant to be kept. If he’s dangerous, at least he won’t own you by name. 

“Adrian Ţepeş,” he’s made his decision, your smile catches him off-guard. 

“I was worried for a moment that you might say Dracula,” you begin. There’s a tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m beginning to lose track of how many times I’ve been mistaken for him,” it’s a softer saying, a joke that makes your smile widen. 

If he’s not Dracula, then, who is he? Perhaps a brother, or a nephew. Adrian bears a striking resemblance to the woman in the painting, same blonde hair and slight smile. Maybe that was his mother, you wonder how she died. 

“But this is his castle, isn’t it?” you ask, tearing your eyes away from his changing, orange gaze. You look at the spires, at the windows and the towers. 

“It was, yes,” was, that speaks of more safety than names can give. You tilt your head, looking at Adrian again. 

“Was your mother a good doctor?” he barely needs a second to consider the answer. 

“The very best,” he replies and the force of admiration in his voice is admirable. She’s dead, this doctor-mother and you understand the feeling. 

“If I can really see the library, you’ll have to let me leave. My village may have been luckier to have my mother but I’m all they’ve got come winter.”

“You can leave when you like,” he says. He promises without stating as much, you can tell. 

“Well,” you begin. You take the few steps forward that fear tried to undo. You’re still cautious, perhaps. Worried about the teeth, absolutely. “I suppose I’ll have to risk it. Lead the way.”

@showeredwithlullabies, @spookyscaryscully. i’m so sorry both of you

[ittybittywordsmith]

loving you is so much harder than it seems

The home of Aleksey, Magdalina, and Maksim Ovechkin, on a cold day in October, 2007

The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked steadily, the echo of such a small sound somehow feeling as cacophonous as crashing cymbals in the silence. The house was quiet. Of course, the house had always been quiet – even after Max had been born, the house had been meant for more than a family of three – but this was a different kind of quiet. It was stifling, and lonely, and heavy with anticipation. Alina thought perhaps she might suffocate in this silence, and maybe that would be all the better – it would save her from having to make her decisions, and from what would inevitably come next.

Alina sat, in this dreadfully silent house, on the couch, her knees tucked to her chest like she was curling into herself. She was alone here. She had sent Max to her sister’s hours ago, knowing that he would be endlessly entertained by his cousin’s antics. She almost regretted it – a part of her yearned for her baby, to hold him against her and brush his hair with her fingers and watch him fall asleep in her lap in picture perfect innocence – but no. No, it was better this way. She wanted him to be happy, and if he were here, he would be able to sense her disquiet, her inner turmoil, and even if he didn't understand, he would grow upset over it. And right now, Alina wouldn't have been able to calm him. She could barely even calm herself.

It was better that she be alone right now. Alone to process the events over the last few days. Alone to consider the decision that would affect their future.

Alina rested her chin on the tops of her knees, staring, as she had been for hours, at the papers lying inconspicuously on the coffee table. She made no move to pick them up and read them – she had asked her lawyer to draw them up, after all, and she knew what they said. But even though it was just paper, it felt magnanimous, with a presence so strong, it practically could have been another person in this lonely house. Alina almost wished it was. She would have appreciated someone else to push the blame onto. But it wasn't, and the only people Alina could find to blame for this mess were Aleksey, with his secrets and his schemes and his lies, and herself, for being so willfully naïve for so long.

Aleksey. It still left her breathless and dizzy, what the lawyers had told her. The number of charges against him were staggering, and even if they didn't have enough evidence to make the more serious accusations stick, he was still facing a decade of jail time, or more. A decade. Alina hadn't quite realized until that moment how much could happen in a decade. What would her son’s life be like? Max would start school by then. He would be talking, and he might have friends to play with. Their family might have grown, and he could have had siblings. And now . . . Alina struggled to conceptualize what it might be like, going ten years without her husband even being able to hold their son.

Well, her ex-husband, if the papers in front of her had anything to say about it.

They had offered to let her see him, to give them some time together before matters proceeded any further. Alina had declined. She had no idea what she would say, and even if she did – she couldn’t imagine it would be anything pleasant. There was a hard, tight knot of anger in her stomach that had left a bitter taste in her mouth, and if she came face to face with her husband right now, the chances were good that her bitterness would fly off her tongue to form furious accusations in tones not suitable for an audience. She told herself that seeing him right now could only hurt his future case – and it only made her all the angrier that they had somehow gotten to a point where she needed to consider that at all.

Alina’s anger wasn't new. It wasn't even unusual. Alina and Aleksey fought like they loved – often, and passionate, and borderline violent. Of course, Aleksey had never laid a hand on her when they fought, and never Alina on him – but glass and dishware had been known to explode with the crackling intensity of her magical energy whenever he made her particularly angry, and doors had been known to slam to the point of near breaking under his hand, and Alina had once thrown her wedding ring at his head hard enough for the sharp diamond to cut a thin line of blood across his cheek.

She had felt bad about that one. That specific instance, as with all the others, had been resolved later with quiet apologies and admissions to wrongdoing, a gathering of one another into each other’s arms, and murmured assurances of love that would last throughout the night and well into morning. It was easy, for their anger and resentment to slip over the thin dividing line to transform into love and comfort. The most natural thing in the world, it often felt like.

But not this time. Not anymore. Aleksey couldn't whisk away her anger in a breeze of lingering kisses and soft words. It was too big, too monumental, and her sense of betrayal cut too deeply. He could try to fix it, to promise the things he knew she wanted – change, and honesty, and simplicity – and it wouldn't matter. Because he had promised all those things already, and Alina had believed him then, only to be proved that he was incapable of following through on his word. And now it was too late. Aleksey, damn him, had landed himself in prison, and the marriage, the family, the life they had worked so hard to build – it was all broken.

For a long time, Alina had turned a blind eye to the things that Aleksey and his family did in the shadows. She had known, of course, Aleksey had told her – but it was . . . easier to pretend she didn't.

She had pretended not to know what the source of their seemingly unending wealth was, pretended not to see the way Aleksey and his goons would slip inconspicuously out of a room at the slightest nod, pretended to believe her husband’s job really took place in his office, with a desk and paperwork and conference calls. She didn't ask questions when Aleksey came home covered in the sort of grime that wouldn't have been found in any kind of office she knew about – she didn't even ask questions when he came home with his lip split wide open, bloody, like he'd been on the wrong end of an uppercut. She only admonished him for being careless, used a simple healing charm to knit the flesh cleanly back together, and kissed the small scar it left behind, telling herself all the while that it was better that she not know where that mark had come from.

Stupid, Alina thought now.

She should have owned up to her knowledge then, been more insistent on change, and perhaps they wouldn't be in this situation now. But she hadn't. Alina suspected Aleksey thought she kept quiet because of the kind of life it provided her – and that was true enough, to an extent. She loved the gallery she ran, purchased by her husband as an anniversary present, and she loved the gifts that he would bring her every few days – jeweled necklaces that he hung from her neck with a kiss pressed to her skin, or orchid bouquets he'd present her as soon he walked through the door, or soft, sensuous clothing he’d lay out on the bed for her in an unspoken hope that she would wear it for him – the evidence of his affection took her breath away, but they weren't the things that mattered, in the end.

Alina had kept quiet for much simpler reasons. She loved Aleksey, and when it came to choosing between him and anything else – even her own conscience, her own morality – Aleksey always won out.

Until he didn't.

It was Max. Having Max – it changed everything. It changed her, and for a while, she thought it had changed Aleksey too. Suddenly she found she was hyper aware of everything, and ignorance was no longer an option. How could it be, with the dangers that seeped from the shadowy underbelly of the world that her husband spent so much time in. Aleksey would have enemies – enemies who might, in order to get to him, decide to come after his son. And that thought alone was enough to make Alina stand her ground.

The fight that had resulted – it was like a hurricane, worse than any fight they had ever had before. They yelled and they cursed and they broke furniture with magic and kicks. And then, just like that, it was over.  Aleksey relented, and swore to change, to be different, to be better, for Max’s sake if not for their own – all because Alina had done something in this fight she had never done before. She had threatened to leave.

And it wasn't until later, as she was laying in their tangled, chaotic mess of sheets that always came as the aftermath of one of their fights, watching the rise and fall of Aleksey’s chest as he slept, that Alina knew with a steely, pained certainty in her gut – that she would have gone through with it, if she'd had to.

And now here she was. Staring at divorce papers in front of her and remembering Aleksey’s promises with bile in her throat. She had made herself believe him, when he made those promises. Had made herself believe that, if he wouldn't do it for himself, then he would at least do it for her, and for their son. Of all the things that her husband was, she had never thought him a liar – at least, not to her. But clearly that had been a naïve thought – Aleksey hadn't kept his word, maybe he hadn't even tried – and, if she was being honest with herself, maybe she'd never quite expected that he would. Because when the muggle investigators had practically stormed through her gallery without warning, seizing everything and declaring the entire building a crime scene to be used as evidence against her husband in a court of law, Alina couldn't even say she'd been all that surprised.

But that still left the decision to be made, and honestly, who was she kidding, trying to convince herself that there was any other decision she might come to? She meant it when she had told him she would leave, then and now, and Aleksey had made his choice regardless. Still, that didn't make it easy. A pen lay waiting beside the paper, taunting her – she felt like she was staring down at the last thirteen years of her life condensed to a few meaningless pages, and her dreams for the future were left to evaporate into the air, unwritten. She would just have to write new dreams for the future somewhere else, she supposed, her thoughts feeling distant and unattached – but one way or another, Aleksey wouldn't be in them. He had made sure of that, in more ways than one.

It was with a surge of bitterness that Alina finally sat up and snatched the pen, flipping through the pages quickly to sign and initial wherever was required of her. She signed with her maiden name, Kovak, instead of Ovechkin, and it had been so long since she had written the word that it felt clumsy and unnatural in her signature. Just for now, Alina thought determinedly. She would get used to it soon enough. When she was done, she straightened the pile of paper and stuffed it into the accompanying manila envelope. After a moment, she pulled off her wedding ring as well, and slipped that into the envelope too. It was no longer hers to keep, and besides, the paperwork would have to make its way to Aleksey at some point, and he would understand – the finality of it. That she was done.

She left the manila envelope on the table. She had made arrangements with the lawyer to come to her final decision by tomorrow - he would see the envelope as soon as he came through the door and understand. But as for Alina, well, she didn't plan on being here. Divorce or no, there had been no question of whether she would stay here without Aleksey. She had no desire to try to live her life while having to look over her shoulder for one of his family’s goons every day. No, Alina had other places she could go. Russia had never been her only home. And once she got things stable enough, she could send for Max. Alina had already briefed Yuliya on what the plan would be, if it came to this, and she knew her sister would take good care of Max for the weeks it might take Alina to prepare a new life for the two of them.

It was vaguely alarming, even to herself, that she had already had the framework of a plan in her mind by the time she understood what was happening. Maybe a part of her had always suspected this day might come.

With a deep breath, Alina stood up and waved a wand over a nearby suitcase she had already packed. She didn't want it to look like she was fleeing, in case any overly interested eyes were following her path – but luckily, as powerful as they might be, the Ovechkins were only a muggle family, with no real idea what she was capable of. Alina slipped the shrunken suitcase into her pocket, and strode away from the table with its terrible manila envelope. It was only when she reached the door that she hesitated, and she looked around, fully expecting that this would be the last time she would see the home she had once been planning on raising her son in.

She would miss this place, despite everything.

With a pang of heartache, Alina reached for the door and stepped out into the cold day, leaving the home to its lonely silence.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Portrait of Emptiness, Part 3

Magdalene’s heart pounded like a drum, for she was walking alone. In the mist-riddled streets of Crimsonport. At night.

Every sight and sound kept her on edge, almost causing her to jump out of her own skin. She strained to identify the source every time. The pitter-patter of a cat here, the dubious passerby stealing furtive glances there, and even a group of drunken men whom she feared might stop and accost her. Although none of the people whom she encountered crossing her path paid her any mind, she kept looking over her shoulder, remaining tense until they disappeared around a corner or till the thick walls of fog swallowed them whole.

Being the first time ever for her to explore the city at night, the sheer amount of people and nightlife surprised her. Still, it was not the people that frightened her—not the wayward, nor the thieves, nor the cutpurses she feared to come across. It was the creatures of the night she dreaded, hiding in the darkest corners, stalking human prey, thirsting for blood and finding it among the damned souls unlucky enough to appear in their sights at such ungodly hours.

Magdalene, a young girl, would know no more of these things than the superstitions running rampant among the people of her time and age, had she not encountered the unnatural creatures firsthand. Had she not been taught more about them by Nora Morrissey.

Nora had also taught her—at least in theory—how to trail a mark, or how to shadow a person. Most of these lessons focused on hunting prey in the wild, like the forsaken woodlands surrounding the city. Some of the lessons applied now as well, even within the monolithic walls of the dreary city.

First tack: know your prey. If you know how a beast thinks and behaves, you know how to find it more easily. If the mark is on the run, it will fall into its natural routines. Even a wild monster can fear for its life and fall into its usual ruts when in danger, retreating to places it would feel safe. Get into the mark’s mind and you shall find the mark.

In Marcel’s case, he was no beast, and Magdalene questioned how well she had gotten to know him in the weeks prior to the death of the aristocrats he was accused of having murdered. Yet she had a few things to go on—Marcel’s home, a shack in the harbor district, as well as the streets they walked together during sunny days while chatting.

Second tack: keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. Even when the mark is trying to cover its tracks, it is bound to make mistakes. These mistakes manifest themselves in clues. Broken branches in the forest, deep and unmistakable imprints in soft grounds from a misplaced step, or campfires and waste left behind.

Regarding this point, Magdalene had nothing to go on. They were in a city, after all, and she found the streets impossible to read the way Nora had described the ways to read the woodlands. But she was working on it, scouring the wide roads and alleyways alike, hoping to find a dead giveaway.

The hours Magdalene spent in search of Marcel filled her with unyielding dread. She kept imagining all the horrible things that might befall her. She suspected monsters lurking everywhere.

Yet she remained alone all this time. Her only constant companion was the sound of her boots striking the cobblestone roads at a brisk pace, turning irregular whenever she swerved to look over her shoulder or pause to investigate something odd. Clues to Marcel’s whereabouts continued to elude her.

Then, on the last road among the ones she took walks with him on, she saw a shadow in the mists that reminded her of Marcel’s silhouette. On the gaunt side, not too tall, ragged attire. She stopped and moved behind the corner of an alleyway branching from the street. The mysterious silhouette disappeared, accompanied by the creaking of a heavy iron gate.

Magdalene squinted, trying to focus her eyes in hopes of seeing if she had truly found him. Her only certainty—the figure had entered the cemetery of the Hillrise District. Her heart beat faster at the mere thought of that.

“You better stop loiterin’ around her, laddie,” said a man with disdain in his tone, speaking from her side. The corpulent man had his hands balled into fists, resting at his hips. It took Magdalene a moment to realize that he wore the clothing of gentry, as typical of the folk dwelling in Hillrise.

His eyes grew wide when their gazes met for a moment and realization set in.

“Oh, pardon, with your clothing—I thought you were some do-no-good lad, miss,” he said. Even with the nearest street lantern casting dim light on them, she could tell he turned red in the face when he asked, now with a ring of concern in his voice, “What are you doing here this late?”

Still on guard and ready to pull the knife hidden in her coat, it took Magdalene some deep breaths and moments of focus to grasp the situation. When she snuck out of her mother’s home, she had dressed up in old clothing of her father’s. Magdalene had done so out of practicality, as Nora always said that she would need to dress for function, not fashion, should she ever hunt. Only now did it dawn on her that this stranger’s misunderstanding stemmed from her attire making her look like a boy until he saw her delicate facial features. The somewhat musty smell of the clothing surfaced in her senses again and helped ground her in the here and now.

“On my way home, sir,” she replied in the volume of a mouse, while turning away from him, hoping he would not recognize her ever again. Hoping that he would not follow up on that, nor follow her on her dark path.

It took all her concentration, and her cheeks burned brightly to just walk away, contrary to her nature to talk things out when possible, though she managed to fake confidence as she strode towards the cemetery. The man she left behind snorted and followed a different path, vanishing into one of the houses.

Magdalene arrived outside the iron-barred gate to the cemetery. Eerie gargoyle statues perched on stone pedestals flanked the entrance and peered down at her. The fog had thickened, allowing her to see no further than a stone’s throw away into rows upon rows of gravestones and mausoleum entrances. The gate itself had been left ajar.

Her chin quivered until she set her jaw. She slipped through the opening between gate and fence, fearing the thought of anybody hearing its metal hinges creak the way they did when maybe-Marcel had entered. Or whoever might be lurking around here at this hour. Her mind reeled with the staggering array of possibilities. Ghouls, cryptwalkers, vampires, all such things were possible. What if Marcel was one of the ancient dead, capable of wielding sorceries? It would explain the mysterious murders, but it did not quite add up with what she knew about him, either.

The deeper she trailed into the cemetery’s confines, the more distant the city’s nightly sounds became. The thick fog and oppressive silence that enveloped Magdalene made her hold her breath and watch her every step—she strained herself to avoid making any sound at all as she crept through the graveyard in search of Marcel.

What if he noticed her first? What if this was a trap?

The questions dissipated the moment she heard a faint squeak and saw a small lantern switched on, no more than a hundred paces away, in a forest of headstones and creepy ornate monuments to the dead. As the gas-powered light grew brighter, the silhouette looked much more like Marcel. Magdalene took no time to make sure, instead choosing to duck behind a large angelic statue. The figure—her mark—descended down the steps inside a small mausoleum entrance. The light from his lantern faded as he closed the gate behind himself.

Sweat erupted from her palms, though her hands and feet turned icy cold. She shivered and re-adjusted the collar of her father’s jacket, though this summer night felt fairly mild, and her efforts to warm up would do nothing to keep the sense of cold dread from creeping into her heart. She placed her hand on the grip of the knife, feeling its outlines through the fabric of shirt and jacket. Once she ensured she still had it on her person, she inched closer to the mausoleum entrance with careful, quiet steps.

She struggled with this. With everything about this. Two parts of her clashed, underlined by her heart beating so fast that she could feel it thumping against her chest. A part of her that wanted to believe that Marcel was innocent, and a part of her that knew, deep down, that he had some connection to the dark forces of the Red Coast—or was, indeed, a monster.

Magdalene arrived in front of the mausoleum entrance. The large oaken double door loomed tall, reinforced with wrought black iron and etched symbols of graceful reapers and angels that stood watch over the deceased. The doors stood slightly ajar, just enough that she could see a glimmer of light from the depths, deep down from the bottom of a long stairwell behind the crack. A heavy padlock hung from an iron ring attached to the door’s reinforcements, unlocked, with the key missing.

Above the doors, engraved in the keystone, she read the name “Collins.” Marcel’s family name. He never did tell her about his ancestry, only about living as an orphan. Never about what happened to his blood relatives.

She could find out. She could ask him. She could enter now. Or leave and seek help. Maybe Constable Todd would help? Maybe she should alert the authorities? But would they not be lambs to the slaughter in the face of the unnatural? Then again, what could Magdalene herself, all alone, do?

She could turn back and investigate during the day. But no—Nora had once said that she would show her what Johnn had taught her about picking locks, but neither of the two adults ever got around to teaching Magdalene this particular trick. Surely, Marcel would lock the crypt doors again once he left this place.

“Kill, or be killed. When you are on the hunt, Maggie, you have to act decisively. Stop thinking. Go in for the kill before the mark can get you first. They all fight back. Cornered beasts—be they man or monster—always fight back. Act without thinking before they can,” Nora once said. The gravity of those words echoed in Magdalene’s mind now.

She pushed the door open and winced, expecting it to creak loudly like the cemetery’s front gate. These doors, however, remained silent. The dim glow of Marcel’s lantern faintly traveled up the winding steps that descended into the bowels of this mausoleum.

Whispers. It sounded like Marcel whispering.

Taking each step down the stairs with trepidation, one by one, Magdalene closed in on the source of light below. The whispers, clearer now, sounded unlike any language she knew. Alien, foreign words, guttural, clipped, and jagged. Harsh combinations of consonants unfamiliar to her ear cascaded out of his lips, though she still could not see him yet.

The whispering stopped, and so did she. After waiting a full minute before daring to breathe again, she continued on.

Certain she had made no sound whatsoever, she rounded the last stretch of the spiral down its steps and stood inside a sprawling chamber, lined with sarcophagi set into alcoves around the room. A slab of wood had been placed atop two sarcophagi at the far end of the crypt. With candles and a skull and books placed upon it, it now looked like a makeshift altar.

Marcel’s lantern stood on the floor, unattended, near what looked like splatters of blood, though they took formations too geometric and deliberate to have been shed by mere injury. Though she could not read them, she recognized them as glyphs she had seen in Nora’s journals, used in things like magickal practices or dark rituals of worship.

And beyond all of these unsettling sights, stood more portraits. They all looked like renderings of Magdalene, in different attires and situations. Surely inspired by the times she spent her days with Marcel. Though unlike the Portrait of Emptiness, these paintings were sloppier, rushed. Uglier.

Marcel was nowhere to be seen.

Magdalene held her breath as she approached the altar and the paintings set up on easels behind it. She trembled with each step, and her chest came close to exploding with the violence of her heartbeat. The paintings of herself drew her in, for they too, betrayed a brutality in their brush strokes. Clumsy lines and sludgy color compositions flowed together and revealed something about the artist.

Obsession. And hatred.

These portraits unsettled her, but not nearly as much as the sight of the tomes atop the altar she now stood before. Left open with a dozen candles shedding flickering light upon them, the pieces began to fall into place.

She swallowed, and when she reached out to flip through their thick pages, Magdalene clenched her trembling hand into a fist in an attempt to quell its quaking. It helped little, though she proceeded to inspect the ancient writings within the tomes.

Antediluvian necromancy. Not magick, not from pacts with demons, but ancient rituals. Prayers and songs to old, forgotten gods, to creatures in the void between worlds.

“No,” she whispered to herself. She knew from her research in Nora’s journals what madness overtook the poor souls reckless enough to practice these dark rites.

The first two tomes kept their secrets in a language Magdalene could not comprehend beyond the glyphs mirroring the ones in blood upon the crypt’s floors, but one of the other books was a fine little journal signed by Avery Collins, containing cleanly-written translations in the old high tongue, which Magdalene had learned from her father’s library. She understood them. She recognized what they conjured. Some part of her instinctively knew how to use them. “No, no, no.”

“Empty your heart of all desires, pour it all into works of passion, and let devotion fill that void. The Princes of Despair will hear your prayers, and bless you with miracles of death. The grass shall wilt underneath your feet wherever you wander, and your foes will succumb to pestilence and misery.” Words that Magdalene read in the tome, hearing them only in her head, until Marcel completed the rest of the final sentence. Confidence wavered in and out of his tone as the words poured out. Rehearsed, rather than sincere.

“I could not let them mar your perfection,” Marcel then added.

Magdalene felt him approaching but dared not move, dared not turn around. What should she do? Could she really kill him? What could she do?

She touched the handle of her concealed knife once more, knowing it to be there, though surprised by the feeling of her heartbeat even through all the fabric of her father’s shirt and jacket. Magdalene knew what had to be done.

“Words,” she said. Her voice trembled in harmony with her body. She pulled out the blade and turned to face him, then nearly dropped the kitchen knife when she finally saw him.

Marcel looked worse than ever before. Gaunt only began to describe his features. His visage revealed sleepless nights and days without nourishment. Blood splatters had dried upon his skin and the rags he wore. His entire hands were stained in dark colors, though Magdalene’s sinking feeling in her stomach told her that more than paint was responsible for those stains.

His otherwise lively eyes stared into hers, hollow and burnt out. Marcel was a husk of his former self, starved and more like a walking corpse.

Magdalene pressed her lips together with such force that they became thin white lines, and she mustered all her courage.

“Just words, Marcel. They mean nothing. What you created—it is a masterpiece, no matter what they say. You need not kill them, or anybody, over words,” she said while he crept closer to the beat of each word. She awkwardly held the knife out in front of her, clutching it in both hands and pointing it at his face. “Stay back, I do not want to hurt you.”

“I am so sorry, Maggie. You were not supposed to see this. Any of this. My master—my father—forbid me from ever sharing this knowledge with the world. That is why I had to take his life, too,” Marcel said. “I fear—I fear I cannot let you leave. I cannot let you live.” No uncertainty in his voice this time.

His bony arm snaked out and snatched the blade from her hands, taking her by surprise. He turned it around and closed in.

Magdalene’s eyes reddened, and she fought back the tears welling up, threatening to cloud her vision. She could not afford it now. This was the decisive moment. The time to stop thinking.

The time to act.

He lunged forward, but instead of getting out of the way, she grabbed the blade with both hands and pulled. This, coupled with his own momentum, threw him aside. He stumbled and fell over the wooden board that his pathetic altar was comprised of, crashing down onto the hard stone floor with it and knocking out the lights of the candles. The knife clattered onto the ground with a sharp, ringing sound.

The sting and ensuing pain from her palms being cut open by the sharp knife followed with a delay and finally won the battle for her eyes, causing tears to stream from them. Though she somehow expected herself to scream in agony, nothing came.

Instead, Magdalene gritted her teeth and clenched her fists till the crimson dripped from them. She sprayed the ritualistic symbols on the floor with her own lifeblood.

Sprawled and so weak from his famine and fatigue that he struggled to get back up on his feet, Marcel craned his neck to peer back up at her from the floor. The reflection of the gaslight lantern in his widening eyes was the last thing she saw before kneeling down in the prayer circles and clamping her eyes shut.

She folded her bloodied hands before her in a semblance of prayer, and prostrated herself before the powers that be. She knew not who or what would answer this desperate call, but it mattered not. She prayed for a miracle, no matter how dark it may be.

“No,” Marcel muttered in his feeble voice. He shuffled around, not closer towards her, but farther away. Then he shrieked, “No!”

Something told her to not open her eyes, for a cacophony of sinister laughter, and stone grinding upon stone, and rustling of fabric, and scraping of metal against metal, and rattling of chains, and howls of pain, and other horrendous things began to fill her mind. Then it filled the chamber, assuming a place in reality, raising the hairs on the back of her neck.

She felt a presence—something not of this world. First in the back of her mind, then throughout her entire body, then in the world around her. And she dared not look. She wanted to give in to whatever shred of morbid curiosity awoke inside of her, screaming at her to glimpse the abyss she had just opened, but her sheer fear eclipsed it.

“We awaited this moment. Your awakening is now. Your destiny chosen,” spoke an unfamiliar voice in a strangely serene monotone.

Marcel screamed and panted and scurried, sounds that cut through the ghastly noises echoing through the crypt, all around Magdalene. Many presences had joined in the chamber, one darker than the other. Claws scraped over stone, not of a natural gait, but to instill dread in the hearts of its prey.

“Hunger,” said one, hissing the word in a whisper.

“Feast,” chimed in another hiss.

“N-no! I will stop you. Must stop y-you—the only way,” Marcel stammered. The metal of the knife scraped against the floor as he picked it up and his weak footsteps limped over at Magdalene, whose eyes remained tightly shut.

Only steps away from her, his panicked, labored panting transformed into a shriek, rising in pitch until it turned into a gurgle. Something shuffled before Magdalene. Something with powerful, heavy movements that thumped down onto the stone tiles like boulders, conjuring up images of legs thick as tree trunks.

The sinister laughter returned, now in front of her, laughing at Marcel, illustrating its amusement over the sounds of Marcel’s pain weaving into the gurgling sounds that escaped his punctured throat.

“Pray we return once more, seeker of the void,” whispered a feminine voice into Magdalene’s left ear. It sent shivers down the girl’s spine, and she feared that these beings would take her next.

“We accept his sacrifice,” cackled a tiny voice from a corner of the room, moving quickly.

Disgusting smacking sounds and something akin to a limb being wrenched out of its socket filled the room, just before Marcel stopped emitting sounds of hellish agony. It caused more tears to stream down Magdalene’s cheeks.

“But a child of man, yet we taste the spirit in your blood,” whispered the feminine voice. It spoke in an unidentifiable foreign accent and sounded weirdly familiar to Magdalene.

“Followed your call from beyond the veil,” said another voice.

“Our blessings—yours—until you break our laws,” said a hiss.

The scuttling, scuffling, clanking, scratching, the bouts of horrifying laughter, and the scraping, it all grew into a crescendo and then went silent. Magdalene knew better than to open her eyes. Her hands still clasped together in prayer, she trembled all over, knowing herself to be in the presence of ancient beings now.

She asked, “What laws?”

She rested her forehead against her hands and focused on the pain of the cuts in her palms.

Do not give in to the fear. Do not open your eyes. She told herself these things, yet she opened her eyes.

The crypt was empty save for the objects that had been there before, the flickering light of the gas lamp causing the shadows of the sarcophagi to dance around the room like ghosts. There was nobody there.

Nobody but Marcel’s decapitated corpse. It looked like something had torn his head off, with his head nowhere to be seen. The mystic tomes of dark rituals lay not in disarray around his destroyed altar, but now neatly arranged around Magdalene in a perfect circle, splayed out to pages littered with glyphs and writing that began to invade her thoughts.

Though the tears blurred her vision and she needed to readjust her eyes from having shut them for minutes that had felt like an eternity, Magdalene could have sworn that one of the lids on a sarcophagus just slid shut with a subtle sound of stone grinding upon stone. She shivered at the thought and decided not to investigate.

“What do I do now,” she asked into the emptiness. The emptiness that now filled her heart, and the silence of the crypt she knelt in.

No answer ever came.

The time to act had passed. The decisive moment. And Magdalene had acted.

It took her what felt like an hour to calm her nerves and bandage her hands with shreds of fabric torn from her father’s shirt, to climb out of the crypt and lock it behind her, to even just attempt to leave this dark chapter behind her. But she would never forget. Those sounds, that evil presence, Marcel’s sudden death, it all would haunt her for the rest of her life. Unsure what she had done, she only knew she had done something.

With the small stack of mystic tomes and Avery Collins’ journal under one arm, she exited the cemetery, wandering out into the foggy streets of Crimsonport, hoping to return home before dawn or before any officers might spot and stop her.

Magdalene was not herself anymore. It felt like she had been transformed. Something had irrevocably changed—both with the world and with her. It rendered her dizzy with fear, and trembling with a sense of unexplored might. She shot a glance at the reddening spot on her bandaged palm where the blood was seeping into the cloth. Then at the tomes under her other arm.

A grim realization took over. She now had the tools to act. Now, she not only knew of the unnatural things that dwelt in and around Crimsonport. Now, she held on to something that would give her the ability to deal with them—to fight them.

When she had prayed to stop Marcel at any cost, those old, deranged deities answered. She had sacrificed her desire to find a way to fight evil through her own power. She had become a vessel for something that did not belong in this world. In time, studying those tomes would yield power that she could wield against the creatures of the night. But now, she was one of them.

After sneaking back into her home through the cellar, she changed back into her night gown and silently crossed the inside of her mother’s house, hoping to return to her bedroom undetected.

She paused in the hallway, in front of the breathtaking portrait Marcel had painted of her.

The Portrait of Emptiness.

Seeing her old self, frozen in that moment, filled her with a sadness she would never be able to subdue.

That Magdalene was gone now.

—Submitted by Wratts

[star-trekkin-across-theuniverse]

Resource Management, pt18

Word Count: 2524 Tags: @supermoonpanda @rayleyanns @sistasarah-sallysaidso @feelmyroarrrr @anyakinamidala @dirajunara @anotherotter @little-study-bug @rampant-salamander @goodnightwife @samaxraph99 @anotherotter  @outside-the-government @kingarthurscat @coyote-in-space @originalpottervengerlock @dolamrothianlady @curiositywillbethedeathofme @superheroesofbothuniverses @mtriestowrite @wanderingkat77

The events in Philadelphia had shaken me enough that I was careful to lock my desk, log off my computer and lock my office door before I left for the gym to meet Natasha. I slung my gym bag over my shoulder and headed out into the warm afternoon sun, stopping for a coffee along the way. When I left the coffee shop, I noticed a creepy black surveillance van outside the shop. I made a mental note to let Fury know I didn’t need to be followed.

I walked through the gym doors and in to pandemonium. Natasha was screaming in Russian at Clint. She had him completely backed into a corner, and while he looked pretty calm on the surface, the muscle in his jaw was ticking and there was a bead of sweat forming at his temple. I did not envy his position at all. I looked around for Phil, and couldn’t see him anywhere. I stepped away from the door, but kept my distance from the two senior agents. I didn’t want to get in between whatever was going to happen there. I bumped into someone coming out of a changeroom and when I glanced over to apologize, I had to bite my cheek to prevent myself from laughing. Phil was holding an ice pack to his jaw, and looked kind of dazed.

“So it went well?” I couldn’t help it. I grinned.

“I was anticipating this one being bad,” he admitted. I pulled the ice pack off and cringed. It was already bruising.

“Do you want some ibuprofen?” I offered. He shook his head.

“I took some before I got here,” he flinched instead of smiling. “I knew it was going to be bad.”

“And you!” Natasha was suddenly in my face. “You knew all along that he hadn’t died?”

“I wasn’t aware that he had actually died until he told me,” I admitted.

“But all this time, you knew?”

“Of course,” I nodded. She was so angry that she didn’t realize that she was being sloppy, but as soon as she threw the punch, I was able to block it, and toss her to the ground. I bit back the feeling of triumph. She was going to come back at me. My last clear thought was that I wished I’d changed on the way to the gym, but I was grateful that women’s jeans had lycra in them. After that, everything I did was instinctive.

Natasha was determined to put me on the ground, and I was blocking a furious attack, losing ground quickly. If nothing else, it was a more realistic training atmosphere. The reality was, I wasn’t ever going to be attacked in a gym, in comfortable clothing. I slipped on the edge of a mat and turned my ankle, letting out a curse. I was done. Natasha took me to the ground and pressed my face into the floor. Clint and Phil pulled her off me before she could actually hurt me. I rolled onto my back, panting. She was glaring at me from a few feet away, Clint standing just to one side of her with his hand on her arm.

“Tasha, she has higher clearance than you do. You can be mad at me, and mad at Phil. Be mad at Tony, he’s known for a while too. Hell, if you want to knee Fury in the balls, I’ll hold him for you. But you can’t be angry with her for doing her fucking job.” Clint’s voice was stern. She pulled away from him and stalked back toward me. I took a defensive stance, waiting for a renewed attack.

“That was easily a level 7 defense, Ellis. You respond better under pressure.” She clapped me on the shoulder and stepped toward Phil. She stared at him, wordlessly, arms crossed.

“I didn’t want to keep it from you, Tasha. Not after what had happened with Clint,” he offered.

“Does Steve know?” She asked. Phil shook his head. “Thor?”

“Unless Sif told him, no. But I asked her not to say anything,” he explained.

“Who is Sif?”

“Another Asgardian. Long story.”

In a heartbeat, Natasha’s demeanour softened, and I saw her eyes fill with tears. She reached out and ran her hand along Phil’s jaw, down his shoulder. And then she stepped closer and drew him into a hug that mirrored the one Clint had given him. It wasn’t nearly as awkward. She stepped away, and the softness was gone from her features as quickly as it had come. She turned back to me.

“There’s nothing I can teach you in a gym, Anna,” she acknowledged, “but we should still be sparring regularly.”

“Whatever you think will help,” I agreed.

“Right now, I think drinks will help.” She managed a laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Another time, Tasha. Annie and I have a meeting to get to,” Phil excused. Natasha raised an eyebrow and huffed out a deep sigh. She took a few steps toward Clint and began muttering in Russian. His eyes narrowed in question, and then he smiled and responded quietly. She spun to face us, and there was a knowing gleam to her eyes.

“Phil, vstrechi ili nagrablennogo vyzov?” She asked. Phil flushed and refused to respond. I decided it was probably a good thing I didn’t speak Russian.

Stark had us meet him at his office near the Pentagon. It was ostentatious, and harkened back to when Stark Industries was the premier arms dealer in the nation. My understanding was that Pepper Potts used the office mostly for green energy lobbying nowadays. At any rate, it was the most secure location we could think of. There was no way Tony Stark was going to allow his company to be infiltrated a second time. He was still burning with embarrassment from when Romanoff had been slipped in as his PA.

There was surprisingly little art on the walls of the office, which emphasized to me exactly how curious Stark had been about the attack on SHIELD. My guess was that every painting in the HR office that he’d ‘loaned’ us had some sort of listening or tracking device embedded in it. I hope he hadn’t ruined that beautiful Van Gogh in my office to do it.

Stark met us in the reception area and ushered us back to a huge office overlooking the city. It was one hell of a view. In the immediate foreground was the Pentagon, and the Potomac River, which was impressive enough, but it was a clear afternoon and dark cerulean sky accented the brilliant white of the Monument on the far side of the river. Mid-river and to the west, the Triskelion rose from Roosevelt Island. From Stark’s office, the damage was unnoticeable. I lingered at the window, staring at tower. It felt menacing and not for the first time in the past weeks, I was uneasy with my position.

“So what have you discovered?” Stark got right to the heart of things.

“A little old lady died to warn us about flying pests,” I snapped. I immediately regretted my tone.

“What Anna is trying to say is that we were investigating and our main lead was murdered,” Phil elaborated on my behalf. I turned away from the window and stalked across the room.

“And we have nothing. Except an empty wasp killer can, and some paperwork from when she was an agent.” I could feel the frustration beginning to build. Phil placed a small canvas bag on Stark’s desk and pulled out the items we’d confiscated from Cecelia Banks’ house. Stark immediately grabbed the aerosol can and shook it. It rattled, just as it had when we were in the kitchen at Mrs. Banks’ house. He fiddled with the can the same way Phil had and had no luck. He flipped it over and looked it over again and put it back on the table. I picked it up and looked at the spray top. It was one of those large cone style spray tops. I think it was supposed to allow for a larger spraying area. I looked at the nozzle and saw a bunch of little hash marks on it. Curious, I ran my fingernail across them, and the nozzle spun and clicked. Like a combination lock. I flipped open Mrs. Banks’ badge and looked for the ID number, and feeling completely like I belonged in some Cold War espionage novel, clicked the nozzle around to each of the numbers on her badge. Nothing happened. I shoved both items away, dejected. Phil picked the can back up and inspected the nozzle. He started twisting the sprayer, like I had, but in a different way than I had. The bottom dropped out of the can, and a thumb drive and small notebook fell onto Stark’s desk.

“Hornet. It was an alphanumeric cypher.” Phil picked up the thumb drive. I reached for the notebook and flipped it open to the first page. It was filled with numbers and letter, but none of it made sense. And even though Phil had figured out the cypher for the lock on the can, he wasn’t a codes guy. I flipped a few more pages, and there was a list of names.

“Do these mean anything to either of you?” I held the book out. Phil glanced at the list and then rubbed his temples.

“Those are the people she exposed. From the HYDRA cell she discovered,” he explained. I flipped a couple pages further, past more random numbers and letters and came to the end of the notes.

“Without a codebreaker, we’re screwed,” I complained. Phil took the book and looked at it.

“Cecelia Banks wasn’t an expert in encryption. This will be an easy cypher. We can probably figure it out,” he wasn’t talking to Tony or me, really. He was thinking aloud. He tucked the notebook into his jacket and then thought better of that, and handed it to me.

“Why –“

“I have the thumb drive. We should keep those things separate,” he dropped the stick into the pocket instead. Stark flipped through the hodge-podge of detritus we’d taken from the drawer. I think we all knew each item had meaning of some sort, but it was hard to understand the relevance of partial grocery list and stick of gum. Particularly because I wasn’t sure whether the dementia diagnosis in her file was real, or a ploy to get her enemies to drop their guard. Stark’s phone buzzed and he checked his messages. He threw himself into his chair and responded to whatever the message was. The phone buzzed again and he made a strangled sound of disgust.

“Let me assure you, I’d rather be here playing super sleuths with you. However, I am needed back in California. Let me know if anything is going on. I can be back here in a matter of hours,” Tony announced. There was concern in his eyes.

“Is everything okay?” I asked. He nodded, squaring his jaw.

“Nothing I can’t resolve after five minutes in person,” he admitted.

The black van was outside Stark’s building when we left, and I mentioned it to Phil. He glanced across the street and took in the details before nodding at me to get into Lola. It was going to be hard to be unobtrusive in the car, but I was going try to accept that if Fury had a SHIELD detail watching me, it was for a good enough reason that I didn’t want to blend in anyhow. But the van was creepy. It hung back about six or seven car lengths and pulled in to a conspicuously vacant parking spot at the end of my block that had a clear view of my front door. I wondered if they had someone on the back door of the building too. Phil pulled into the underground parking and maneuvered Lola into my spot. It was the nicest vehicle that had ever parked there, and I couldn’t help but think about my poor squished car.

“You look exhausted Annie,” he observed. I closed my eyes. I was exhausted. I could easily fall asleep standing, I felt so tired.

“I slept so much last night,” I protested.

“The adrenaline of the last few days is draining. Particularly if you aren’t used to it.” He held out a hand to assist me from the car.

“You seem fine,” I complained. He directed me to the stairs and herded me toward my apartment.

“I’ve been doing this for close to thirty years.”

My apartment was just as I left it, dirty dishes in the sink and all. It was instant comfort. I flopped onto the couch and propped my feet on the coffee table. I could hear Phil rummaging in the kitchen, and the water turned on. He let it run for a while, and then there was splashing.

“You don’t need to wash my dishes, babe,” I called from the couch. He peered around the corner at me.

“I’m not. I’m setting your clothes to soak so the blood comes out,” he explained. I rose and walked into the kitchen to observe. He had tracked down a bottle of peroxide from the bathroom and was dripping it onto the bloodstains in my blouse, letting it foam a little and then dunking it under the water. Then he would repeat the whole process until the stain was mostly lifted and move on to another one. He added a capful of peroxide to the water and swished everything around. I slid a hand along his arm as it came out of the water, and stepped closer. He turned away from the sink and brought his free arm around me. I traced my fingers along his jaw, and saying nothing, leaned into him.

“Not sure what I did to deserve someone as unreservedly good as you are, Phil,” I murmured. He squeezed me and kissed the side of my head.

“Maybe like attracts like.” His voice was softer and rougher than usual. There was a tightness in my chest that felt foreign. Not wrong, just very different. Again, I found myself wanting to tell him I loved him. But it was too soon, I thought, uncertainly. I leaned back in his arms to look at him. He always looked on me with a softness that made his strong features somehow warmer.

“I really like you,” I blurted awkwardly. He smiled and shook his head.

“You’ve said that before,” he reminded me.

“I like you more now,” I clarified. He tipped his head and kissed me.

“I have to check in with my team. It might be a couple days before I can see you,” he ran a hand through my hair. I nodded.

“I’ll be fine,” I reassured him.

“Just promise you’ll let me know if you aren’t,” he pressed. I nodded. He let go of me reluctantly, and headed toward the door. As he pulled the door open he turned back to face me again.

“Annie?” He paused, “I like you more now too.”

[fireandseaweed]

Coffee Is A Healthy Breakfast || Jason and Percy

Percy and Jason reconnect after the fire.

Percy wiped the soot off of his hands as he finally allowed the last of the water to flow back into the trench. Honestly, exhaustion wasn’t something that he was unfamiliar with, but this was different. His bones suddenly felt weighed down, as if they were lined with lead. Soot coated his hands and as he dusted them off as best he could, he found himself stumbling away from the fire. His apartment was nowhere near here, and Annabeth would be busy helping people, so he headed towards Jason’s apartment. He hadn’t seen his friend, but all he could hope was that he would be there. Someone handed him a water bottle on the way, it helped a little bit. He swallowed half of it and drenched himself in the rest, numbly making his way up the stairs to Jason’s apartment. He could’ve taken the lift, but he didn’t. He arrived at his friend’s door and knocked gently. “Jace?”

The night had been long, the fire terrible, and the exhaustion Jason felt seeped into every fiber of his being. He’d spent the majority of the night suffocating key portions of the blaze to keep it from spreading out again and after such prolonged use of his powers the throbbing headache that lurked behind his eyes threatened to knock him out cold on his kitchen floor. A warm shower had done nothing to help, and even a carefully portioned corner of ambrosia hadn’t made the pain abate. All he wanted to do was turn his phone on silent and sleep for a week straight when a gentle knock fluttered through his door. He was on the verge of not answering when he heard Percy’s voice drift through the wood, and while he could do many things; ignoring his best friend when he was so clearly in pain was not one of them. He threw on a shirt and trudged over to open his apartment, taking in a soot-covered and exhausted Percy, “There’re spare towels under the bathroom sink. Your dark circles have dark circles. Go take a shower and I’ll make coffee… maybe breakfast… but it might just be coffee.”

Breathing quietly, Percy felt his body shake gently from the exhaustion of it all. Shifting from foot to foot, he waited for the door to open before stepping into his friend’s house. “Thanks,” he replied with a deep sigh, he stumbled into the bathroom and allowed warm water to trickle down his back and soak into his hair. He wasn’t even consciously allowing it, he simply didn’t have the energy to keep dry. The shower did him good, he found himself staring at the black water that poured off his body, he watched as the dirt ran down, turning from black, to brown, to clear. The water circled the drain and he finally managed to get out. Walking back into the living room, he turned to Jason and pulled him into a tight hug. “Thanks,” he whispered, “I’m glad you’re alright, I was getting worried that you’d have been hurt. I guess I should’ve known better than to worry about you.”

Listening to the gentle waterfall coming from the shower, Jason pulled out their favorite mugs and started brewing a pot of very strong coffee. Faced with the prospect of actively cooking he found there was a tremor in his hands he couldn’t shake, and instead settled on very shakily slicing up some fruit for them. Before Percy came back Jason managed to get some clean clothes from the bedroom for him, and sat watching the coffee trickle down into the pot with zombie-like attention. He was startled from his reverie by Percy pulling him into a tight hug and Jason returned it, smoothing the hair off Percy’s forehead and squeezing him tightly. “You know me.” he murmured back, “Titans and giants couldn’t finish me off… a little fire couldn’t do too much damage.” He poured them both cups of coffee and gestured to the plate of fruit, “Well… too much damage to me. The damage to the Forum is… considerable.”

Smirking gently, Percy looked at the fruit and coffee in front of them and gingerly sipped his coffee. It was black and bitter, not his usual taste but right now that was good enough for him. He picked up a blueberry and chewed it thoughtfully, blueberries were his favourite normally and yet after seeing something so violently damaging he wasn’t sure that he would ever enjoy their sweet taste again. He knew he was just being dramatic, but irrespective, he had never seen a tragedy of this proportion. “Well, we beat this too, now we need to discover what happened.” Though there was something that told him that this wasn’t his problem, he couldn’t help but want to help. “They’ll be able to rebuild it, it’ll be better and stronger than it was before.” He tried to smile weakly, despite his exhaustion. “We’re okay, Annabeth’s okay, Mrs O’Leary’s okay, things could be worse.”

Already Jason could feel the monumental to-do list building in his head. While the bulk of rebuilding the Forum in its physical form would be left to the sons and daughters of Athena and Hephaestus… there was an undeniable emotional component to rebuilding that he would inevitably be involved in. Lurking behind the to-do list was the nagging thought that buildings don’t just randomly catch on fire… particularly ones built by demigods… but upon further reflection he decided that he was too tired to actually think about that. “Undoubtedly Annabeth and her siblings will leap into an investigative capacity once the full extent of the damage has been assessed.” He pushed his long hair out of his eyes and tied it back, hands still shaking slightly from exertion and exhaustion, “We’re demigods… we should be used to tragedy at this point… but the prospect of rebuilding frankly makes me want to curl up under my bed and hide.” he nodded as Percy talked, chewing on a slice of apple, “Which is the important thing. I don’t think there were any casualties. So that’s the silver lining. Everyone was at the Festival.” A wry chuckle escaped him, “I really thought we could have uneventful adult lives.”

Running his hand through his own hair, Percy shifted gently in his chair and took another long gulp of coffee. He kept forcing himself to eat and drink, small bites, small sips. It was something he’d learned to do. He needed the energy and even if he felt sick forcing himself to keep eating, he couldn’t help but keep going. Chew, swallow, repeat. “I don’t know, Annabeth’s been out of the game for a while and this is a Roman matter, I think that they’ll probably just have the legion handle it for now.” He knew that not everyone held anti-Greek sentiment, but it was the same in here as it was there. Ignorance breeds hatred, and demigods were no different than humans. “Just because our parents are usually the authors behind a Greek or in some cases, Roman tragedy, doesn’t mean that we can’t have normal lives, at least that was what I was telling myself.” He rubbed his eyes and pushed his wet hair out of his eyes once more. “I guess we’ll find out the extent of the damage soon enough, it’s a shame it ruined the festival.”

Jason reached behind him and grabbed the carafe of coffee, pouring them both another mug before setting it back on the counter. “You know… if you guys just…. Poofed and left to go stay with your mom for awhile just to avoid all the shit that’s about to go down for this I wouldn’t blame you in the slightest. You might actually find me in one of your suitcases.” It had been several years since Octavian had kept his poisonous rhetoric against Greeks alive and well but still the sentiment permeated portions of the Legion; no matter how hard Jason fought against it. “It’s all I wanted for us. Five years of normalcy. That’s all. Settle into our adult lives and let the next generation of heroes take the lead but we’re still here.” A long sigh filled the silence, “Yeah. The festival was going so well, too.”

“I thought about it, last night, I thought about grabbing Annabeth and leaving. Letting the new generation of heroes take over and lead.” Percy shrugged gently. “But the truth is, and I’m probably going to sound like Spiderman here, but we’ve got the ability to change things, and we’ve got the ability to help save lives. Then we should do it.” He bit his lip gently, before filling his mouth with fresh, sweet fruit. “Well, we had some normalcy, maybe that is all we get, a brief burst of normalcy and nothing more, but things will settle back into being the way that they were before, there isn’t a prophecy of impending doom, there isn’t a threat as old as time that we’re going to have to travel to Africa to beat this time. It was just an accident, and everything is going to be absolutely fine.” He was sure of it.

“Nobody would have blamed you. Least of all me. I know your Spiderman logic… great power… great responsibility; and you and I are powerful. But we saved the world. We saved the world twice. At what point is our Hero Punchcard full and we can redeem it for a year of peace? At what point can I focus on my studies and writing and you can focus on you and Annabeth starting a real life together.” Jason sighed and held up his hand, “I know I know I’m whining but you’re the only one I can whine to.” He ate more fruit, very slowly feeling life return to his limbs. But as slow as it was going; he couldn’t see himself doing much today. His eyebrow rose slightly, “An accident? That engulfed one of the most important buildings in New Rome in flame when there was nobody around to stop it before it got out of control? I pray you’re right about that. I really do.” But he wasn’t so sure about it.

Shrugging, Percy held up his hands in defeat. “I don’t know Jace,” he replied with a sad sigh, the truth was that he didn’t know when it was going to pan out for them, “but this isn’t about you or me or Annabeth. There are thousands of demigods alive today, probably even millions of them. They’re depending on New Rome to be the safe haven where they can come to get to as close to a normal life as possible. I know I want that more than anything, and that’s why we keep going.” He reaches out and placed a reassuring hand on Jason’s shoulder. “You can whine to me anytime amigo,” he gave him a warm smile before shrugging. “Well what else would it be if not an accident? We don’t have any more enemies left Jace, we beat them all. Gaia, Kronos, Luke, Octavian, they’re all done, somehow we won.” He chewed on another piece of fruit. “And if I’m wrong, then I challenge them to try and interrupt my normal life.”

“I know. And I know underwater with Kymopoleia I took on responsibility for all the millions of their well-being, at least when it comes to their relationships with their parents but Gods Percy, I’m so fucking tired.” Jason looked down at his fists balled on the tabletop, “We were kids. I was left in a park and you ran from a Minotaur and we we fucking kids. We were supposed to play with friends and cheat on tests and kiss girls and instead we fought to save the world.” He was very disappointed in himself to feel the beginnings of angry tears well up in the corner of his eyes, “We didn’t get a childhood, and now we don’t get an adulthood, and I’m just tired. I’m so tired of fixing the gods’ mistakes and the gods’ problems.” He let out a long quivering exhale through pursed lips and looked up at Percy, “We’re demigods, P. There’s always another enemy.”

Percy didn’t move his hand off of his friend’s shoulder. “There is a reason you are the pontifex maximus Jason. It isn’t because you’re a son of Jupiter, it isn’t even because you’re a hero of a prophecy, it’s because you saw injustice and made it your job to fix it. You’re better than any other hero before you, you’re stronger than almost anyone else I have ever met.” He sighed sadly, it was awful that they had to go through this, but if anyone could do it, Jason could. “You’re tired but you’re not done, you’re exhausted but you’re not out, you’ve got this buddy.” He smiled at him, it was easier to hide your own exhaustion when someone else was in need. “We’re not mortals, we’re cut from a godly cloth and that signs us up for everything we didn’t want, but we’re the only ones who can do this.”

They sat in silence for a long moment while Jason focused his breathing, calming himself incrementally until the thin veneer of calm and professionalism he tried to wear as often as possible was back in place. “You’re right, of course. We’re sons of the big three, responsibility for the wellbeing of our extended family falls to us. I just spend so long walking around not being able to say any of that that it threatens to explode if I don’t bitch at someone.” He brought his hand up and squeezed Percy’s hand, sighing. “We have so much work to do, dude. In the city, and in the Legion. Everyone’s going to be on edge after this and you know as the poster children for Greek and Roman cooperation we’re going to have to fucking put out some fires.”

Nodding gently, Percy sighed. This wasn’t a complete disaster but it was hardly what they needed right now. “You’re allowed to bitch about this shit all you want, maybe we should make a group chat with Nico,” he suggested with a laugh. The day that Nico could effectively use a phone was the day that Percy started eating fish again. “You’re gonna be okay, we all will be okay, though there is a very good possibility that we’ll go grey by the time we’re thirty, I swear, I have already found my first grey hair and I am not okay with this.” He sighed gently as he realised that Jason was right, they were going to have to do this together, in an attempt to keep everything on track. “We don’t have to worry,” he said with a smile, “we’re best friends, if we can make it work then the Greeks and the Romans can damn well make it work too.”

Jason couldn’t help but burst out laughing, “I think the only way we’re going to get Nico in a group chat is if we start sending messages by telegram or carrier pigeon.” Nico’s inability to use and unwillingness to learn technology was legendary; and love him dearly though Jason did, it made the Ghost King a hassle to get in contact with. “RIGHT?! They’re starting to show up in my stubble. Luckily I”m a blonde so they blend in pretty well but it’s coming for me and I’m really not on board with it at all. I don’t wanna go gray, I’m too young for that!” Jason looked at Percy over the top of his glasses, “Yeah… we are best friends… but the rest of the Greeks and Romans aren’t nearly as level-headed as we are. But I have faith in you. If you say we’re going to make it work then we are going to make it work!”

Sighing gently, Percy ran his hands over the table in front of him, running a finger nail through the natural grain of the wood he shook his head sadly. “It is a shame that Iris doesn’t support group messaging, because then maybe he’d start listening to me when I tell him that he needs to get a phone.” He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. “You’re getting old my friend,” he said smirking as he thought about the pair of them in wheelchairs, getting old and dying one day, peacefully in their sleep. For demigods, that was a dream that would never come true, or at least for the majority of them. “We have to make it through Jason, I can’t see another disaster like the two that made us famous, the last two just about broke me, I don’t know if I would manage a third one of similar proportions.”

“He has one!” Jason’s voice rose and then broke with a giggle, “Leo and I took him shopping for one forever ago and he’s got one! Whether or not it’s charged or turned on is something entirely outside of my control but he’s got one. Maybe I can talk to Iris about that. She’s a pretty nice lady. She might be all about it.” He heaved a deep sigh, which seemed to be his only method of self-expression these days, “I am getting old. We’re both getting old. We’ll make it through, Perce… whatever it is. We fought giants and titans and gods and we survived… whatever this problem is we can solve it. You me and Annabeth. Just like the good old days.”

“Well, Nico owning a phone is certainly something I hadn’t been expecting. However it is a step in the right direction.” Percy remembered meeting Iris on his way up to Alaska, with the hippy theme in mind he had been a big fan of her. Reaching up, he rubbed his eyes and nodded. Suddenly feeling better he knew that he should get back out there and keep helping. It was his way. “We’ve both been old for a while now,” he replied laughing, “it has been far too many years since we were sixteen.” Smirking gently he finished off a slice of apple and rose from the table. “We’ll work things out, but to get to that point we’ve got to clean up the mess. So with that, I’ve got to get going. I need to find Annabeth and make sure she hasn’t killed anyone for not letting her do things her way.”

“I can’t guarantee he didn’t leave it down at his dad’s house to get devoured by harpies or something… but once upon a time Valdez and I made sure that fucker had a phone.” This was the easy part, sitting in his kitchen in his sweatpants and beat up tank top with Percy. If life was only this and writing and reading Jason could be entirely content; but they both knew that was never going to be the case. “We’ve been old for ten years now. Ancient. Broken and creaky old men… but we just keep on chugging.” He followed suit as Percy rose from the table, following him to the door and pulling him into a tight hug, “We always work things out, and we always clean up messes… it’s what we do. Tell Annabeth I love her and go hide the bodies. Call me later, so I know you haven’t died from exhaustion.”

[psych0chiken]

“Hehehehehe, this is great!” he said, watching as two children fled from a monstrous tower of conjointed gnomes. He’d been watching them ever since they arrived in the town. Their first day had been pretty boring, minus the times the old guy kept scaring the boy, those were funny, but the next day? Hoo boy! While he could honestly say the gnomes could barely pull off a disguise to save their lives, the fact that the girl had fallen for it until the boy pointed out something was wrong was been monumentally entertaining! He could never get over how dumb and ignorant humans could be! Of course, now it was coming to an end; the two had caught the gnome leader in a quick trap using a leaf blower(of all things!) to send him flying into the gnome construct, scattering the rest of the little forest men around the area. He laughed again as one of the little bearded creatures got caught in one of those plastic ring sets(oh how he loved those) and got carried off by a goat. It had been entertaining watching their mortal peril, but now that it was over he was getting bored again. Ah well, if today was any indication, he’d be seeing a lot more of those two throughout the summer. Heck maybe he’d get to- He heard the boy shout his twin’s name and turned his attention back to them; only to watch as the kid started to collapse next to his already unconscious sister. His eye widened as he was clearly seeing something no one else did. There were few times he could say that he was genuinely surprised, and this was one of them. “Well well well!” he chortled, “Now isn’t this interesting! I didn’t think that something like THIS would happen!” He began to float away, “To think that kind of power would emerge from them! Hmmm…” he paused to think. If they survived, their powers could prove to be a nuisance to him. Maybe he could- “Yeah! That’s what I’ll do!” He cackled, “Oh Pine Tree and Shooting Star, you’ve got no idea what I have planned for you! HeheheheHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” Gravity Falls’ Bizarre Summer Episode 1: White and Black pt. 1

The wilderness of Roadkill County, Oregon could be a majestic sight to those who’d never seen it. The sheer amounts of tall trees and mountainous terrain seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see, and if one were paying attention they would possibly see some of the local wildlife as they were passing by. Jotaro Kujo however, had no intention of observing the surroundings. The 29-year old man had kept his gaze forward for the entire ride, his hard and somewhat cold eyes focused forward, with his grandfather sitting in the passenger seat in front of him. The trip they were making was a sudden one, and it had all started when Joseph received a call the other day. Jotaro hadn’t thought much of it at first, but apprehension had begun to fill him after watching he watched his grandfather’s face contort from relaxed, to shocked, and then to stoic. After he had hung up, he had told Jotaro that they needed to go to Oregon, and that it was important. Other than that, he hadn’t gotten any other information from the old man; only reassurances that he’d explain more in private when they neared their destination. And so after quickly packing and boarding the soonest flight to Portland, they were off. Jotaro had his suspicions about what this was about, and they were confirmed after they landed. Their chauffeur and driver waiting at the airport had been from the Speedwagon Foundation. To the public’s knowledge, it was a thriving multinational business that had their hands in several areas in order to further humanity’s growth. Known only to few though, was the Speedwagon Foundation’s hidden operations: the monitoring, investigation and if need be, elimination, of the paranormal and supernatural elements in the world. Once in the car, Joseph had told Jotaro that they were going to a small town called Gravity Falls. For many decades, the town had been closely monitored, as it was a veritable hotspot of strange and supernatural happenings. And recently, it seemed something more was happening. Jotaro couldn’t help but think that it was similar to the events that happened a year ago in Morioh; and when he mentioned this, Joseph had agreed. He said they’d receive more information when they arrived in town though. Which was sooner than he thought, as they had just passed a sign that said with big, wide letters “Welcome to Gravity Falls”. Jotaro leaned forward, and Joseph sat up a bit straighter. It wouldn’t be long now. After about another five minutes of driving, the car pulled over and Joseph stepped out. He slowly walked over to a man wearing the clothing of the Speedwagon Foundation. Jotaro watched as the two exchanged some words and Joseph was handed a few files. After another minute of discussion, his grandfather returned to the car and they set off again. While the car had passed through the town, Joseph took the time to read through the files handed to him. Jotaro couldn’t see what he was reading though; and by the time he had finished, they pulled off on a little dirt road. At the end of that road was a wooden cabin, covered in various paraphernalia and with a large sign on the roof that said “Mystery Shack”, though the ’S’ was crooked and looked ready to fall off. Jotaro had a skeptical look on his face as he got out of the car, before Joseph spoke once more, “Don’t let this place deceive you, Jotaro. The man who owns it is someone I’ve know for over 30 years now. He’s a conman of the highest order, but he is also deeply aware of the supernatural surrounding this town.” Joseph reached into his bag, and held out a folder to his grandson.

Taking it, Jotaro looked through its contents. The folder had a picture of an old man, not as old as Joseph, but still aged. He had a round nose, with wide squared glasses and a strong beard shadow over his lower face. The man’s name was Stanley Pines, age 69. From what Jotaro could see, the man had an extensive criminal record as well, even being banned in several states across the country. While he knew not to judge people immediately(their journey in Egypt had taught him that), he couldn’t see grandfather associating himself with this man. At least, not without reason. “This isn’t a just a routine trip for you, is it?” Jotaro asked, closing the file and crossing his arms over his chest. “What happened?” “The call I received the other day was from him,” Joseph replied, the information not surprising his grandson. “His great-niece and nephew are visiting for the summer, and the other day they had collapsed. The boy was barely able to stand and the girl was completely unconscious. The reason why he called me, was that he swore he saw a something hanging over them. Like an evil spirit.” Jotaro’s eyes widened, THAT was something he was personally familiar with. Joseph nodded, “You understand then. The man I was just talking to had examined them himself. He’s someone who can see our powers and confirmed what Stan told me. I also called him after we landed; the girl has woken up, but she doesn’t have a lot of strength. The boy can get up and move around, but it tires him quickly.” Joseph began to move towards the door, and Jotaro followed behind him. “Stan Pines isn’t a direct member of the Speedwagon Foundation, but he has been keeping an eye on the happenings of this town for us. If anything major happens here, he tells us. He doesn’t have the same power we have though, and we haven’t told him about it. So I’m going to need your help for this, Jotaro.” Jotaro’s eyes narrowed. “What do you expect me to do?” “I may need you to do what Avdol did for you twelve years ago.” The man’s eyes widened. Muhammad Avdol had been the one to fully awaken Jotaro’s power when he was 17; but the process had been… less than pleasant, to put it mildly. “Oi, old man. How old are these kids anyway?” Joseph sighed, while they had encountered those far younger than them with this power, this was still too young for them to awaken like this in his mind. “They’re twins, both twelve-years old. They’ll be thirteen at the end of the summer.” “Yare yare daze…” Jotaro muttered, pulling the visor of his torn, white hat down over his eyes. “Stanley Pines won’t agree with this plan, you know that right?” “Which is why I’ll speak with him; and while I’m doing that, I need you go to them.” “And when he finds out what’s happening?” “Then I’ll explain it to him and if I have to, I’ll restrain him myself.” Jotaro merely nodded, he didn’t like this plan, but it was the only way to help them. And even though Joseph was in his twilight years, he still had good reflexes, and for the most part could handle himself. With nothing else to be said, Joseph knocked on the door…

Stan Pines was not having a good day. Actually, make that two; yesterday was pretty bad as well. It had started off well enough: he had spent a whole day ripping off unsuspecting people with his business, a tourist trap called the Mystery Shack. He’d made a good day’s profit with it, and while he had something to do before he called it a night, it wouldn’t take long and he’d be I bed quickly for another day of money making. But shortly before could take care of his errand, he heard his great-nephew Dipper shout in panic. He had ran to see what was wrong, and saw that Dipper’s twin sister Mabel had collapsed unconscious on the floor. Stan had quickly moved to revive her, when Dipper began to feel woozy and weak himself. He didn’t pass out like his sister, but he wasn’t able to move much and seemed to be breathing heavily. Stan had carried the two up to their room in the attic, and laid them on their beds before rushing down to get some supplies. When he returned, Mabel had woken back up; but much like her brother, she couldn’t move a lot and was having a bit of trouble breathing. Stan had almost been ready to write this off as maybe a bug that was just starting to spread or something, but then he saw it. He honestly thought he was seeing things at first, but when it didn’t go away, he knew something was deeply wrong. A transparent figure was hanging closely over his great-niece’s body. While he couldn’t make out much, the shadowy figure looked like it was smothering and constricting her body. Not only that, but there was ANOTHER ONE hanging over Dipper. The only difference being that it seemed to lighter in color than the one above Mabel, and that it wasn’t hindering him as much as her. It was still a nuisance and was causing visible effects on the boy, but at least he wasn’t fading in and out of consciousness like his sister. Stan had long turned a blind eye to the supernatural of the town, verbally proclaiming it as local folklore and legends. On the inside however, he knew it was very real, and VERY dangerous; so he had to feign ignorance in hopes that it would deter his adventure and mystery seeking niblings. What he hadn’t counted on, was it coming to them. Stan had spent every moment he could that night(when he wasn’t taking care of the twins) looking through the old Journal his brother had forcefully left him. He had hoped that the tome would yield some sort of clue as to what kind of creature was causing his great-niece and nephew harm, but the closest he got was a small entry on spirits and ghosts. He had thought this was it, but apparently a spirit or ghost could only perform a full possession or cause manipulative harm; nothing like the restraining illness that the twins were dealing with. With no other options, Stan made a decision that he had hoped he wouldn’t have to, at least not before finding the other two of his brother’s journals. He called Joseph Joestar. Stan had met the man some 30+ years ago, when he had tried a quick wallet-snatch on the man. While the grab failed, it didn’t end with a brutal beatdown like many would expect. Joseph instead invited him to a high-end lunch with his wife. When Stan had asked why he didn’t attack him, Joseph explained that he had met his longtime friend Smokey Brown the same way. Jojo had offered to help Stan get on his feet; but he had been stubborn back then, insisting that he’d earn his wealth on his own to prove wrong all those who said he’d amount to nothing. After lunch, the two parted on good terms, Jojo even giving Stan his personal contact information in case he ever needed something. It wouldn’t be but a few years later that the two would meet again, though not under any circumstances the two would’ve imagined…

[marshmallow-the-vampire-slayer]

MTVS Epic Rewatch #169

VM 3x08 Lord of the Pi’s

Stray thoughts

1)   If you ever wondered what crossover fanfiction would look like if actually made a reality, this is it. This episode is basically Rob Thomas’ dream of making the universe of VM collide with The Big Lebowski’s. Fanwank doesn’t usually result in masterpieces, and this is no exception. The episode is lackluster at best, and after you’ve found all TBL references you end up realizing it lacks substance. The best parts of it are the LoVe scenes, and not in the good kind of way but in the why-does-this-hurt-so-much-I-want-to-die kind of way. 

Now, this isn’t to say that I wouldn’t love to see some sort of creation in any media where The Dude and Veronica meet and work a case together (because, let’s face it, among other things, TBL is a mystery and The Dude is a reluctant detective but a detective nonetheless.)

2)    I present thee the reason this episode is Kristen Bell’s favorite…

Yes, you’ve read it right. Kristen loves this episode because she finds the fact Chip was sexually assaulted freaking hilarious. I guess she doesn’t think it’s abuse if you get an egg shoved up your anus. Or if you’re a man. You make what you will of this information.

3)   So… after nearly getting raped and being rescued but Logan, Veronica is still dodging his calls? Of course, she is, she’s Veronica. Never mind.

4)   And then “the talk”...

LOGAN: We need to have a talk, a serious one. VERONICA: Yeah, I got that from your messages. That-it's why I haven't called. I haven't had time to have a talk. LOGAN: Well, then I'll make it quick. I want you to stay away from the rape case. Okay? Just let it go. And it's clear the rapist knows who you are. VERONICA: He doesn't know about the hair, just about the getting dosed part. LOGAN: Well, maybe he should be in the loop on this one. VERONICA: Don't you dare. LOGAN: Fine. Just stop digging around. Okay? No more looking into the serial rapes. No more putting your nose where it doesn't belong. VERONICA: My nose kind of belongs wherever I decide to put it. LOGAN: I'm worried about you. Okay? I want you to stop now. I'm not kidding. VERONICA: Kind of a one-eighty, isn't it? Can we rewind a week? Cue it up to the part where you were asking me to exonerate your Mexican vacation buddy, Mercer. LOGAN: That was before you were attacked. Why can't you for once just leave things alone? VERONICA: Okay, now you're starting to piss me off. LOGAN: Frankly, Veronica, so what?! You're not invincible, and you're not always right! KEITH: Hey! You might want to stop yelling at my daughter. LOGAN: Yeah? You might want to start.

A lot happens in this very short scene, and first of all, let me say that I’m on Logan’s side. He may have gone about it all wrong, but his heart was in the right place. And see, communication wasn’t his forte, but he was trying. He kept calling Veronica to talk about what had happened, and she wasn’t answering his calls. Let’s put this in perspective, shall we? Just a couple of days ago (I can’t imagine more time than that had gone by because there’s no way Veronica could’ve have avoided him for more than a few days...) Veronica wasn’t answering his calls, and he had found her drugged and passed out with her hair shaved. And now, she wasn’t pickin up AGAIN. So I get why the guy was a little jumpy and on edge, okay? Even if she wasn’t ready to have a conversation, she could have at least told him she was okay. 

I don’t get how Keith wouldn’t know about the hair? So, Logan found Veronica at the garage and either took her home or to the ER room - more likely the latter. There, Veronica must have been examined and Logan questioned about how he found her, isn’t that the regular procedure? He must’ve told the doctors about the hair. And even if he didn’t, they probably noticed. And then the doctors probably informed Keith? Wouldn’t they? And even if they didn’t, and even if Logan kept his mouth shut for reasons (he didn’t want to worry Keith any further?), Keith took care of Veronica while she was getting better, so like, how is it possible that he didn’t know about/see her hair? 

Anywho, that’s just something that kind of bugs me. What’s more important, though, is the fact that Logan quite wisely points out that Keith should be in the loop about his daughter being targeted by the serial rapist. Damn straight he should. Of course, Veronica then not-so-subtly threatens Logan and he acquiesces on the condition that she stops investigating the case that put her in danger.

As a general rule, I agree with Veronica’s statement that her nose belongs wherever she decides to put it. Except in this case, Veronica is acting like a spoiled child. She’s choosing to rebel against someone telling her what to do for her own safety instead of choosing, you know, her own safety! That is monumentally stupid if you ask me. Choose your battles, my sweet child. Be your own person as long as it doesn’t put you in danger, you know? 

Logan’s cry of worry was valid and, more importantly, well-founded. Of course, he wasn’t about to win an argument against Veronica, even if he was kind of right. Veronica is using the fact that he had asked her to help Mercer against him, but she’s wrong. Even if it seems she’s making a good point, it’s troll logic. You see, she’s asking him: “oh you wanted to get involved in the case when your buddy was in a jam but now you’re worried?” Well, of course he is! Before she was targeted, there really wasn’t any reason for any of them to be worried about Veronica’s safety. And it wasn’t as if she wasn’t in the case before he asked her to clear Mercer. Now he has a pretty good reason to be worried about her. And she should be worried, too. 

And even though I’m not a fan of yelling and shouting your arguments (I believe that if you shout, your good points get lost amidst the shouting. Even if you’re right, you won’t get your message across because people will only hear your yelling instead of your arguments.) I do applaud Logan for finally dumping a truth bomb: Veronica is not invincible, and SHE IS NOT ALWAYS RIGHT. She likes to think she is always right, but that’s hardly the case. And more often than not, she lets her instincts guide her actions before finding out if she is actually right, and ends up hurting people.  

Like I explained above, all Keith hears is Logan yelling and not the actual words he was saying. 

5)   

VERONICA: Dad, please, it's okay. He's just worried about me. KEITH: Does he have a reason to be? VERONICA: The Hearst rapist has everyone on edge. KEITH: Well, you take care of yourself. I'm always a phone call away. VERONICA: I know you are. Ciao, Papa.

 YES, HE DOES HAVE A REASON TO BE WORRIED! WHY DO YOU THINK HE WAS YELLING AT YOUR DAUGHTER? FOR FUN? 

And listen, I love Keith to death and I truly think he’s the best father in television history. He always put Veronica’s wants and needs first - almost to a fault. He valued Veronica’s opinion and he respected her decisions, but the thing is, she was still a kid, and she wasn’t always right. And yet, she had him wrapped around her finger, and she knew it. Veronica truly knew how to play her father. I’m not saying she did it on purpose, I think she wasn’t aware she was manipulating him most of the times, but that doesn’t change the fact that she did, in fact, manipulate him A LOT. Take this scene for example. Logan was literally begging Veronica to stop investigating the case because she got in danger and he was yelling about how she wasn’t invincible. Instead of becoming worried, Keith asks Veronica if he should be. That was his first mistake. And then, Veronica doesn’t really answer his question (I could go on a long rant about conversational implicatures but that’s neither here nor there.) She doesn’t say “No, dad, you shouldn’t be.” She offers him a sort of explanation for Logan’s behavior and lets him fill in the blanks about whether he should be worried or not. Don’t you know your daughter, Keith? Can’t you infer the reason she was drugged was because she was walking into the lion’s den by investigating the serial rapist case? Like, what did Keith think had happened? What was the reason he thought Veronica was drugged? Why is he so chill about this?

6)   The first time I watched this episode I had no idea who the actress who played Selma Hearst Rose was and why it was relevant that she was playing that character. In case you’re still in the dark, as I was back then, I’ll break it down for you. 

This billionaire heiress became famous in 1974 when the Symbionese Liberation Army kidnapped her in Berkeley, California. She eventually joined her captors in a series of bank robberies and, after being captured, claimed she was brainwashed and/or intimidated into committing the robberies. Nevertheless, she was jailed for almost two years until being released and later receiving a Presidential pardon for her role in the crimes. Patty Hearst, who now acts for fun and not to save her life, plays Selma Hearst Rose, a rich heiress whose mysterious disappearance suggests a kidnapping. The similarities are eerie. And deliberate, according to Veronica Marscreator Rob Thomas. (marsinvestigations.net)

7)   It’s nice to see Lamb has preconceptions about people from all walks of life. He’s an equal-opportunity bigot if it means it will get him out of actually doing his job.

LAMB: Foul play. You think? What makes you say so? DEAN O'DELL: An extremely wealthy woman disappears in the middle of a reception held in her honour. Don't you find that, I don't know, odd? LAMB: Well, I mean, there's "odd" and there's "foul play." Rich ladies aren't the most reliable creatures. DEAN O'DELL: Of course, she must have remembered her tennis lesson. How silly of her to forget. I don't suppose there's someone I can speak with who would take this seriously. LAMB: Dollars to doughnuts, you'll find her sobbing into a mojito at the club because she lost an earring. DEAN O'DELL: Well, you'd be the doughnut expert. Excuse me.

 8)   They were really trying to make the campus extra creepy. 

 No lighting? Mist? Desolation? Why would ANY girl, let alone Veronica of all people, walk alone at night there?

9) BUFFY REFERENCE!!!

VERONICA: Hey, Fern. What up, girl? FERN: What do you want, Buffy...Tiffany...whatever your name is?

10) And how awesome is it that Veronica impersonates Martina Vázquez and makes Lamb look like the incompetent asshole that he is? And that she doesn’t even pretend not to be making a fool out of him when Keith blows up her cover… 

VERONICA: Well, thank you, Sheriff, I'm glad you enjoyed it. We've learned that Selma Rose received a phone call before she went missing. Have you learned who the call was from yet? LAMB: Actually, Martina, we checked that out, and it was false information. There was no record of an incoming call that night. VERONICA: You are sure? LAMB: Yeah, if you'd like, I can keep you in the loop with this sort of stuff. KEITH: Hello? VERONICA: Dad, I'm on the phone. KEITH: Oh, sorry, honey! Let me know when you're off. VERONICA: Sheriff...you were saying you'd be able to keep me in the loop?

Lamb knows Veronica has outsmarted him yet again… 

11) Listening to Veronica making assault jokes at the expense of the assault victim is really disheartening, okay? I can’t ever get behind this writing choice.

12) This shit was scary, though.

13) This scene was super fun.

Can you blame Veronica, though? She was so excited she got to do some old-fashioned sleuthing/breaking-and-entering with her dad a.k.a. her hero.

14) 

KEITH: This is my daughter, Veronica. She works with me...occasionally. VERONICA: Ryan. Tatum. When he gets in a jam, I make with the cute.

15) 

SELMA: Have you ever been a walking punch line, Mr. Mars? I mean, on a national scale?

16) This scene, though! Such a rollercoaster and it all happens in what? A minute?

17) 

MOUNTAIN MAN: It's okay, Veronica. It's okay. I'm here to help. VERONICA: What the hell is going on?! MOUNTAIN MAN: Just calm down, all right? Mr. Echolls has been concerned about your safety. I've been hired to keep an eye on you.

(mountain man lol!) Questionable decision? Yes. But I guess desperate times call for desperate measures. And it’s not like he was wrong. Mountain Man had to rescue Veronica from a dangerous situation. But more on this in a bit.

18) 

VERONICA: I have spent the last few days being terrified that I had some whacked-out rapist following me!

AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ANYONE! YOU’RE SCARED AND JUMPY AND WORRIED AND YOU HAVE REASON TO BE YET YOU REFUSE TO DROP THE CASE AND YOU HIDE ALL OF THIS FROM YOUR FATHER AND YOU GET MAD AT YOUR BOYFRIEND BECAUSE HE’S WORRIED ABOUT YOU AND IS TRYING TO PROTECT YOU!

(if Keith won’t yell at Veronica, then I will hahaha!)

19) 

VERONICA: So you pay someone to tail me? LOGAN: No, so I asked you to stop putting yourself in danger, and you told me to piss off. Then I hired someone to protect you. VERONICA: You had no right to do that. LOGAN: Look, that's probably true...okay? It's just I don't care. VERONICA: You don't care? LOGAN: Look, I don't give a rat's ass if it's right or fair. I don't care if you're angry. I care that you're safe. VERONICA: That's all sweet and great, but it doesn't really work that way. It's not like this is all some new facet of my personality. You know who I am! You know what I do. LOGAN: And? VERONICA: And...it isn't gonna change. And if you can't accept that, this isn't gonna work. LOGAN: You know who I am. And you're constantly expecting me to change.

LOGAN: And even right now, as you're thinking, "crap, he's got a point," you still think you're ultimately right. I love you, Veronica. I love you.But, do you love me?

VERONICA: Yeah. LOGAN: Well then, can we try to go a little easier on each other? VERONICA: Yeah, I think that's a good idea. LOGAN: So, are we okay? VERONICA: Yeah...we're okay.

Like I said before, Logan’s decision to hire a bodyguard (is that what Mountain Man was?) to protect her was questionable at best. He is aware of it, but he doesn’t care. But it wasn’t his first call. Unlike Veronica (who would put tags on him without giving it as much as a second thought, and who actually followed him like four episodes ago.) It was more of a “if you won’t take care of yourself, then I’ll take care of you however I have to” kind of decision. And also, I get it, I get him. So what if she got upset? So what if she found out about it and broke up with him because of it? At least she’d be safe. (I think there’s an interesting parallel to be made between Logan and the girl who only cared about his missing boyfriend being safe.) 

But then we get to the meat of the matter, which is, in a nutshell, Veronica is a hypocrite. Veronica is always quick to judge others but the girl kind of sucks at introspection. She truly believes she’s always right. For once, though, she’s rendered speechless. She has no retort because she knows Logan’s right. Of course, she won’t admit it, not out loud. And it won’t change the fact that she will continue to expect him to change while remaining reluctant to change herself. 

The problem is, this wasn’t an either/or situation. Okay, so Veronica didn’t want to drop the case because going after the truth was what made her tick. I get that. I support that. I wouldn’t love her as much as I do if that wasn’t who she is. But she could still continue investigating the rape without being reckless by accepting Logan’s help and protection and opening up to Keith about it. But Veronica never knew any other way than her own way. 

And then, the “I love you”. Twice. And Veronica’s response, “yeah.” It never really bothered me that Veronica never said it back because I didn’t need Veronica to say it to know that she felt it. She truly loved Logan, I think we all know that. But it made sense for her as a character to have that inability to completely give herself to someone, especially to someone who she thought could totally destroy her. For Veronica, loving was being vulnerable, and she had been taken advantage of one to many times to let herself be in that kind of position. She wasn’t ready yet. And she wouldn’t be for a very long time.

Logan, on the other hand, was always wearing his heart on his sleeve. He was always the one doing the grand romantic gestures and giving the epic romantic speeches. So it makes total sense that he would say it twice and that she wouldn’t say it at all.

20) Ugh ugh ugh! And how much do you hate Veronica for implying this after almost getting raped herself?! 

VERONICA: Oh, I believe you. And I think it's horrible. I also think it's powerful motivation for someone to take desperate action. Fake a rape, right? Possibly a series of rapes. How many of them were real? I mean, other than Chip Diller's. There hasn't been any forensic evidence; no semen, no hair found on any of the victims. NISH: The Greeks would be gone if you hadn't gotten them off. Are you proud of that fact? VERONICA: The moral superiority would fit better if there wasn't already one fake rape on your résumé.

I’ve talked about this before when Veronica found that Clare’s rape claim was fake. But all of this was completely unnecessary. I get it. It's noir. Everyone’s corrupted. But this whole plot just proves that the writers were using rape ONLY as a plot device and they never really cared about bringing light to the real issues underlying rape culture. By reinforcing the idea that women fake rapes (a series of rapes, for god’s sake!) and by having a rape victim of all people actually endorse this idea, they’re contributing to the rape apologists’ agenda. Rob Thomas, I beg of you, don’t ever write another rape storyline. EVER. 

21) This breaks my heart, every time.

You know what the saddest part is? You know what makes this scene so utterly heartbreaking? The moments leading to it. Because you see, I don’t think this was a setup, I don’t think Logan was trying to test Veronica or something. Logan was never that kind of guy. You know what kind of guy he was? The one who would be walking around the cafeteria and spot his girlfriend, and who would then decide to call her and say hello, pretending to engage in casual conversation. He would compliment her on her outfit, mentioning something very specific, and probably make some witty remark about her choice of food - a few hints here and there that would make her suspect he was closer by than he originally let her in on. And then he would tell her something like: “I hope you’re not ogling that handsome guy standing by the door...” And she’d say: “what guy...?” and look in that direction and find him standing there. And he would smirk and wave, and she would smile and he would make his way to her, and she’d tell him, still on the phone, “I hate to break it to you, honey, but you know I have a sweet spot for poor little rich boys...” And finally, he’d reach her, and kiss the devious grin off her face. And it’d all be okay.

Except... none of that really happened. And instead, he got the sobering realization that they were really not okay, at all. 

*cries self into oblivion*

[stoffelees]

Deserving of Acceptance: Chapter Ten

Chapter Title: A Meeting

Rating: Teen and Up

Chapter Warnings: None

Word Count: 1466

Summary: Papyrus meets with Undyne and the king to discuss the humans sneaking into their territory.

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Papyrus was pleasantly surprised to see that Sans had indeed vanished from their home when he returned to the living room. He had expected an argument upon his return downstairs after donning his armor. No matter, with Sans out of the house there was one less thing he had to deal with. In the early years as a Royal Guard, Papyrus would often find himself teased due to his relation to the weaker skeleton. No one dare bring it up now except for Undyne, and even she could care less about Sans’ continued existence.

Monsters from the same families would usually share the same abilities. They would have the same types of magic, the same bullet shapes, and more often than not the same stats. Yet here was Papyrus, the strongest guard from Snowdin and one of the strongest monsters in the Royal Guard second only to Undyne herself, related to what had to be the weakest monster in the entire Underground. He knew his older brother used the same type of magic, Sans had been the one to teach him when his own magic started developing.

Report papers in hand, he locked the door as he left and began his trek to the new headquarters of the Royal Guard. Thinking back to the first time he successfully summoned his magic, he felt the corners of his mouth pull up slightly. It was such an abysmally small amount of magic compared to what he could do now, but summoning that single bone-shaped bullet had been a monumental task at the time. It had taken all of his effort and concentration. And Sans... Sans had been so happy, proud even.

He raised his eye sockets to the building before him, pulling his thoughts from where they’d been lost in the past. A pair of guards nodded at his arrival, and, with a brief salute, they moved from their position to allow him passage. This building had been altered to become the King's meeting room. Papyrus longed for the old War Room underground, but knew the change was necessary. As they were no longer at war with the humans, most discussions now revolved around improving life on the surface.

Passing through the small entryway he exited into the main room of the building. Individual desks lined the sides while the vast space in the middle was occupied by a large oval table. He had been told the table was made of oak and it had required four guardsmen to move. And standing off to the side was the one he was expecting.

“What took you so long?”

“YOU KNOW I AM ALWAYS PUNCTUAL, DID YOU DOUBT MY APPEARANCE?”

“Nah. Is that the report?” A yellowed eye glanced at the papers in his hands before looking back to hold his gaze.

“YES CAPTAIN. I RECORDED ALL THE EVENTS OF LAST NIGHT IN ADDITION TO MY RECOMMENDATIONS FOR FUTURE CONFRONTATIONS.” Papyrus gave Undyne a salute before dismissing the formalities and adopting a more comfortable stance. Handing over the papers she quickly unrolled them and began skimming over the information.

A sharp laugh escaped her and she tossed the papers onto the table, “So you’re telling me that not only do these humans look wimpy but they’re not even willing to fight? Fuhuhu! That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day!”

Both their heads jerked up at the sound of the door opening, and immediately they came to attention. The large figure entering was one who demanded respect. This meeting had been called by him, and he was the final one to arrive.

King Asgore had to duck to avoid hitting his horns on the door, they curled only slightly in their spiral up and back. He was one of the tallest monsters in existence. One could argue he was made of pure muscle. Covered in platinum fur, his face was highlighted with dark brown hair and a beard.

No monster dared to cross King Asgore. He was not a tyrant, but he tolerated no one who disobeyed him. It was he who had lead the monsters to a 'kill or be killed' lifestyle. Of course that had been due to the war, but it carried into how they functioned underground. Weak monsters were allowed to persist assuming they still had a function, much like his Royal Scientist. But it was the strong he valued.

His Royal Guard was his pride, made up of only the strongest monsters. None, of course, passed him in LV but they had the most EXP of all the monsters from the Underground. After the loss of his son and the departure of his mate he had flown into a rage and killed many of his staff. Undyne had been a young thing at the time when he’d found her. She stood up to him, and since then he’d molded her into the ruthless captain she had become.

He nodded to the two standing before him, “Captain, please report.”

“Your Highness. Three humans scaled the fence and proceeded toward one of the poorer parts of the neighborhood. Guardsman Papyrus intercepted the three and challenged the strongest to a confrontation. The weaker two fled and the third followed soon after. I don’t think they will return anytime soon,” she grinned with the final statement.

“I did not ask for what you thought yet, Captain.” His face was void of emotion and Papyrus flinched internally.

“Of course, your Highness.” The grin never left her face and Papyrus had a feeling this was a common exchange between the two. She was always challenging him, reminding him he was a monster too.

The king’s attention turned to the skeleton and Papyrus felt as small as a babybones, but he straightened himself up and kept the king’s gaze. “How do you feel the human faired in battle?”

“YOUR HIGHNESS, THE HUMAN WAS HARDLY A WORTHY OPPONENT. IT WAS LIKE TRAINING A MONSTER WHO HAD BEEN PASSED OVER FOR RECRUITMENT INTO THE ROYAL GUARD.”

He sneered and broke his gaze with the guardsman. Walking to the head of the table, Asgore scooped up the papers Undyne had set down when he’d entered. “Where do we go from here Captain?”

“Your Highness I suggest we allow the guards to use a show of force for any further encounters.” Her voice reflected her amusement; this has to be what she had been wanting since they broke the surface.

King Asgore seemed to ponder this as he took a seat and glanced over the report. “The use of force is granted, but the human must have entered our territory without permission. There had better be no death of humans on our side. I do not have patience for the human investigators. Guardsman Papyrus you are dismissed. Take the day for yourself, you did well. Captain Undyne, we must speak further.”

Sharp teeth flashed Papyrus a smile as she took a seat near the king. “THANK YOU YOUR HIGHNESS.” He saluted and marched toward the door. Undyne would likely fill him in later on any additional orders.

Emerging from the meeting room Papyrus was beset by two familiar guardsmen. “You fought a human?” “(Did the human fight well?)”

“THE HUMAN WAS PATHETIC IN COMBAT.” He continued walking trailed by the two dog monsters. The Dogi as they were known. Dogamy and Dogaressa individually, but they were a bonded pair and insufferably inseparable.

Habitually he checked his phone for any new messages, but the only one he ever really heard from was Undyne. “EVEN ONE OF YOU COULD HAVE TAKEN THEM ON.”

“We shall eliminate!” “(Eliminate the humans!)” Hackles were clearly raised in their enthusiasm.

“THERE WILL BE NO ELIMINATING OF HUMANS PER KING ASGORE, YOU KNOW THAT.” He scoffed at the two. Dog monsters were generally excitable and these two were no exception. The Dogi were also from Snowdin and still reported directly to him. Stars could only imagine the trouble he’d be in if one of his subordinates disobeyed and dusted a human.

“We follow orders.” “(What are our orders?)” The dogs had their tails down but not tucked.

“PATROL THE FENCE LINE. I WANT TO BE INFORMED OF ANY HUMAN MOVEMENTS AROUND OR NEAR US.” That should be enough for now. The sub-adults should still be licking their wounds, but that doesn’t mean they won’t try to make an appearance.

“We will patrol.” “(Patrol for humans.)” Ears perked they dashed off. That would keep them busy all day, and if they did see something he could count on a message to follow soon after. Now he needed to check in on the Royal Scientist. The neighborhood needed running water and she was the best one to see about getting that done. With some luck it’d be another thing he could check off his list.

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[ozziegrl5]

Skimming through the prologue of Ikemen Sengoku

This intro is a skim over the Prologue in Ikemen Sengoku: Romance across time. This will be a series of short stories using different versions of my (Australian) MC with the different warlords. Her personal history may vary between one story to the next. Basically me just having ‘fun’ with my character - Alana. While not in this one, I’m also going to attempt to write some NSFW which I haven’t done before. I welcome advice.

*~*

Alana couldn't believe what had just happened. The last couple of hours had seemed like it was a nightmare… the type you wanted to forget all about. She swore under her breath as she peaked out from one of the trees she had taken refuge behind. First she just suddenly appeared in a burning building when seconds before she had been in the pouring rain talking to a man in a lab coat. Lightning had hit the monument near them and everything suddenly warped before her eyes, making her dizzy. Then when she had opened her eyes she stopped some man from stabbing another that was dressed in ancient Japanese armour, before they managed to get out of the burning building. In the short time after that she had met three more Sengoku Warlords before the guy she rescued said, ‘How would you like to rule the world at my side?’ Nobunaga Oda's words still rang through her mind. What was that?

‘Demons roam the woods at night…’ The travelling Monk, Kennyo had told her when she had run into him. Her first thought after hearing that had been ‘You don’t say’. That scar down his face and the aura that surrounded him had spooked her, so it hadn't taken her long to put some distance between them either. After what she had deemed roughly fifteen minutes of racing through the forest she stopped, keeping herself hidden while she caught her breath and tried to get her bearings. Thank goodness her line of work kept her fit, otherwise she might not have escaped. Alana felt that she was probably still in shock from finding out she was in 1582. It was a lot to take in.

Thinking over the events of the night thus far, the young woman figured she had met four Sengoku era Warlords… Firstly Nobunaga Oda who she had unwittingly saved from being assassinated, then came Mitsunari Ishida, Mitsuhide Akechi and Hideyoshi Toyotomi. Alana knew who they were because of her friend and fellow circus performer, Yumi. Yumi was a Japanese history buff and of Japanese descent, though she had been born in Australia. Part of the girls routine had been based on the Ninja and Samurai. She had met Yumi’s cousin Sasuke Sarutobi when they had been touring in Europe. He had come to see Yumi perform and Alana had been dragged along with the two history nerds when they had caught up after the show. Alana had learnt more of ancient Japanese history that night than she ever thought she would and found herself interested in spite of herself. Of course she knew her own present day history when it came to Japan during World War 2 and though she found a lot of their actions barbaric she wasn’t one to hold a grudge. It was all history now anyhow and she couldn’t ask for a better friend than Yumi. Alana had also been welcomed into Yumi’s family as well since her own had lived so far away from where she’d been posted. That was also what had led her into going to Japan a week earlier than the rest of the circus. Yumi had invited her to go with her when she wanted to meet up with her family. Yumi's parents had returned back to Japan once they had retired and hadn't seen their daughter - or Alana - for nearly twelve months. The young Australian woman had gotten to know them well during her army posting when she had first discovered the circus. Now the two girls got along more like sisters than just best friends.

Reigning in her thoughts, she heard no sound of pursuit so pushed away from the tree, silently making her way into a clearing. Alana felt like she was walking on eggshells, jumping at any unfamiliar sound and found herself spooked into running again. The young woman kept looking over her shoulder as she ran, trying to make sure she wasn’t being pursued. “Watch it!” A male voice sounded close, just before someone grabbed hold of her arm. It was enough to jolt her off her feet. She expected to fall on the hard ground and was very surprised that she didn’t… instead she had fallen onto the young man who had grabbed her. Very embarrassed, Alana tried to get off the man only for him to grab her again.”Not that way”, he’d said. Usually she wasn’t clumsy like this… normally she was well coordinated and aware of her surroundings.The only excuse she could think of was that she was still unnerved and in total culture shock. Somehow she had traveled back in time by 500 years. After a couple more stops and starts, the young foreign girl placed her hand into the young man’s offered one and let him lead her away from what turned out to be a cliff top. He had saved her life. Alana looked at the man that was leading her towards the treeline. It felt nice how he was holding her hand and he was attractive in a boyishly handsome kind of way. She thought he could be around her age.

“What’s this, Yuki? We’ve been here ten minutes and you’ve found yourself a girl? I’m so proud!” The voice of the man who spoke was smooth as honey. Just hearing him speak sent her heart racing. “Don’t tease me Lord Shingen. She was about to take a dive off a cliff.” Alana didn’t have time to process her thoughts as she attempted to defend herself without incriminating herself. Then she had more trouble when the smooth talking Shingen turned his flirtatious attention to her. “Hmm. Smoke from Honno-ji and a woman all alone at night. Perhaps you’re a ghost? Though you’re the most beautiful ghost I’ve ever seen.” Is this guy flirting with me? Whatever he was doing he managed to get her all flustered.

“Your ability to spew cheap pick-up lines never ceases to amaze me.” Alana looked from one stunning man to the other. “I just call it like I see it, Kenshin.” ‘Shingen’ and ‘Kenshin’ Two more famous names of Warlords. Weren’t they supposed to be rivals? It was certainly a night for meeting famous Warlords. As she thought this another man arrived from the edge of the thicket. Strangely, his footsteps didn’t make a sound. “My Lords, I’ve returned. Nobunaga’s forces have extinguished the fires at Honno-ji.” He was dressed for camouflage and ease of movement, with close fitting layers that wouldn’t rustle. There was something about his voice… Kenshin was the one who answered him, “Thank you for your investigation, Sasuke. So, I presume Nobunaga is alive then?” The ninja answered, “Yes”. Sasuke? With his face coverings she couldn’t get a good enough look at him. She listened quietly as they spoke about Nobunaga and thought to herself that there was no way possible that she would mention her part in all of that. Feeling that someone was watching her, Alana looked back at the ninja. “You--” he said eliciting a response, “Me?” It’s not … is it? Can it be…? Kenshin looked from Sasuke to Alana before saying, “We happened to run into her here. Do you know this woman?” Alana caught a brief glint in the ninja’s eyes before he answered, “No. I was mistaken. Though I spotted a village on the way here. She must be from there. I’ll escort her home.” The Australian couldn’t help but blush when Shingen spoke, “Moving quick, aren’t you Sasuke? Give the rest of us a chance will you?” Sasuke answered him in an exasperated tone of voice, “Lord Shingen, please. You and the others should return to the city.” Excusing himself, Sasuke took her hand and led her back into the forest. She found that like when Yuki had held her hand, it felt nice, though she did put up a slight protest. “Hold on, you’ve got it wrong. I’m not from a village or anywhere near here--” Alana spluttered. “I know. I’ve been expecting you.” He murmured softly so that only she heard him. Her eyes widened as he said this. He kept leading her further away from the other men until he deemed them far enough to be out of hearing. Pulling down his face coverings he asked, “Do you recognise me now Alana?” Her jaw dropped, “Sasuke! How…? How are you a ninja?”

Having taken a seat on a fallen log, Alana listened as Sasuke explained what had happened to them and that they were in an alternate timeline. It amazed her that he had arrived four years before she had and that he was now a trained ninja! She was going to go with him until they heard the sound of horses approaching and a voice yelling out, “Alana! Where are you? Come out!” Recognising it as coming from one of Nobunaga’s men Alana groaned. She got to her feet and started to head away from the direction the searchers were coming from. Sasuke hadn’t said a word, just disappeared into the shadows, leaving her to face the men that came into view too quickly for her to make an escape, putting a stop to her taking off again. The first was Hideyoshi, followed closely by a man she hadn’t seen before. This one wore an eyepatch. She faced them on the defensive, giving as good as she got as Hideyoshi had a go at her for running from Nobunaga. Apparently it was the ‘wrong’ thing to do.

The other man then chose to speak, both remaining on their horses, circling around her in the clearing. “You’re Alana? A stalwart lass indeed. I’ve no doubt you’re the woman who defied Lord Nobunaga.” She rounded on him, “And you are? Someone else I’m supposed to recognise?” The one-eyed man answered her with a grin, “I’d be pleased if you did, but now’s not the best time to talk.” Hearing a sound behind her, Alana spun around, backing away from Hideyoshi as he got a little too close for her comfort. It turned out a calculated move as the other man had used the distraction to get closer behind her, effortlessly swooping her up and placing her in front of him on his horse. Despite all of her struggles he soon had her tucked snugly against his chest where she had a fine view of his domineering smile. “Masamune Date. Remember it, Alana.” A shiver coursed through her as he spoke into her ear. Right. Obviously, he’s Masamune Date. I’m way over my quota on famous warlords tonight, she thought to herself as Hideyoshi explained who exactly the other man was. It didn’t matter how much she protested, the Head of the Date Clan wouldn’t let her go.

It was a long but fast ride, all the way to Azuchi Castle. Under different circumstances and if she hadn’t been so stressed she might have enjoyed the thrill of riding that fast. All she could think about on the way was how to get away from Nobunaga and his men and back to Sasuke. Think Alana, Think! Escape and evade… you need to focus! Not that it did her any good. Between the disorientation of the time travel, the smoke from the Temple fire, her running away and then the long ride to the Castle, Alana was feeling pretty fatigued by the time they got to their destination. “Here we are Alana. Azuchi Castle, home of the Oda forces.” Masamune’s voice sounded in her ear, the young woman not being able to stop the shiver that went down her spine when she felt his breath on her neck and ear. He was enjoying himself far too much and refused to let go of her, probably because he knew she’d try and run as soon as he did. Her eyes roamed over the Castle, never having seen the likes of it before. What surprised her the most though was the reception that Hideyoshi got upon his return. “So he’s popular with the ladies then...” Alana murmured. With a chuckle Masamune answered her, “That’s how he normally is. I guess you’re just special.” There were women lining the gates calling out to him, welcoming him back like he was a rockstar. Shaking his head Masamune commented, “How can you get this welcome every single time, Hideyoshi? Break a heart or two, will you?” The two men grinned at each other as if this was a regular routine. “What do you take me for?” was his response. He got off his horse and went to greet his admirers. All of the warlords she’d met so far were all good looking and apart from Hideyoshi, most had flirted with her. That was something she was not used to and she didn’t know how to handle it. She knew how to argue, but flirt? That was a whole different ball game. Alana had always avoided romantic entanglements, much to the dismay of her friend Yumi who had tried on a number of occasions to set her up. While she had no trouble working with men, when it came to dating she’d steered clear. Yumi kept telling her that one day some guy was going to sweep her off her feet and she would fall head over heels in love with him. Her response had always been ‘I’ll believe it when I see it and not before.’ She listened to what Masamune was saying as she watched another Sengoku playboy in action.

It was while she was watching Hideyoshi that she heard another voice calling out above the sounds of the gaggle of admirers. “Welcome back, Lord Hideyoshi, Lord Masamune.” Mitsunari said. Standing in the shadows next to Mitsunari she saw a petite young man, a tousle of fawn-coloured hair on his head. Masamune, seeing Mitsunari and the young man up ahead, turned to Alana and smiled. “Even Ieyasu came out to say hi. That’s rare.” Before she could censor her words Alana blurted out, “Ieyasu? Ieyasu Tokugawa is here…?” Indicating to him, Masamune stated, “Right there, actually. He’s the sourpuss next to Mitsunari. You should take this chance to say hi.” She figured that Sasuke would flip out if he knew she was about to meet his idle.

Masamune then helped her off the horse and led her by the hand, dragging her through Hideyoshi’s throng of admirers. She noticed he still wasn’t giving her a chance to escape. He was the third man to take hold of her hand in a short period of time. They stopped at the gate where Mitsunari and the man who was supposedly Ieyasu Tokugawa, waited. “I’ve been expecting your arrival, Lady Alana.” Mitsunari gave her a bright smile. Alana gave herself a mental shake, having more important things to think about. “Mitsunari, I don’t have anything more to say to Nobunaga--” She couldn’t believe it when Ieyasu talked right over her “She looks pitiful.” He delivering his harsh assessment with a disapproving frown. “You’re Alana?” The young woman couldn’t help glaring at him or the sarcasm that seeped into her tone as she responded, “Yes. So, wow, you’re Ieyasu?” His response was no less blunt, “What if I am?” This time the Australian girl forced a deceptively innocent expression onto her face, “What if you are, what?”

So far she was not impressed by the future founder of the Tokugawa Shogunate or with Hideyoshi. She stood beside Mitsunari while the other warlords teased and tickled the ‘sourpuss’. Alana figured that she’d bide her time with regards to her escape so she could get to know the ‘lay of the land’ so to speak. It would give her a better chance of a success. At Mitsunari’s suggestion they all moved into the Castle where three of the men headed off in one direction and the gently spoken Mitsunari showed her to the room on the first floor that had been allocated to her. He told her to rest up a bit and that someone would be by to collect her shortly to take her to Nobunaga.

The room was nice and spacious with a medium sized window, a folding screen that she could change behind, a small desk and a futon. She looked out of the window and saw that her room overlooked a garden. She looked behind the screen and was happy to see her backpack sitting there. What a relief! It didn’t look as though anyone had rifled through it either. At least they had respected her privacy. Taking it with her, she sank to the floor under the window and checked it just to make sure everything was there. It was.

Alana was just finishing up putting everything away when she heard a ‘tock’ noise coming from the ceiling, making her look up. “Excuse me, Alana. I’m not bothering you am I?” A most welcome visitor asked. “Sasuke! Am I ever glad to see you!” As he dropped to silently land on the floor, Alana jumped up and threw her arms around him - an action that was out of character to how she normally acted. She was just so relieved to see a familiar face. He gave a startled look before hesitantly putting his arms around her to return the embrace. The young woman sighed resting her head against his shoulder for a moment before she pulled away from him. He explained how he had followed her to Azuchi and had figured a few things out.

“In watching you I’ve pieced together much of what happened. You’ve gotten yourself into some trouble.” A shiver went down her spine as his voice softly spoke. “I’m sure you’ve been through worse in your four years here. I mean, it made you into a textbook ninja.” He shook his head at her, “There’s trouble, and then there’s Trouble. That said, I forgot to tell you something important back in the forest.” Alana sent a silent prayer up that it be good news. “I mentioned I was researching a way for us to get home? Recently, I was able to confirm that the wormhole opens here at fixed periods.” Alana inhaled sharply, “Really! Then that means--” Yumi’s cousin put his hands up in warning, “Please, keep your voice down. I’m not supposed to be here and it would be bad if I were caught.” Chagrined she responded, not having realised that her voice had raised in her excitement. “Sorry.” Right. Finding what is obviously an enemy ninja in your castle would be classically, bad. With her background it should have been second nature to realise that.

“I’ll be concise. The next wormhole will provide our way home.” The young woman let out the breath she’d taken when he started speaking again. A way to return to the future! “Leaving the rationale behind its recurrence aside, according to my data, the next traversable wormhole will appear in three months. I’m still calculating its location, but chances are good that if we make contact with it, we’ll return to the present.” She placed a hand on Sasuke’s arm, “All you need to tell me is that we can get back. I am so relieved!” Alana dropped her arm as he went on, “However, it’s best if you spend these next three months here.” A puzzled and disappointed look crossed her features, “In Azuchi? Why don’t I just come with you?” His answer made her sigh once more. “We’re in the midst of a chaotic civil war, one that’s now further away from ending than the one in our timeline. Besides, Nobunaga and his men seem rather fond of you. I doubt they’d let you go easily.” She sighed in response to that. “Yeah, given their habit of hunting me like a game animal.” Sasuke looked sympathetic, “I’ll check on you though. If you run into any trouble, send a smoke signal.” I gave a short laugh, “Smoke signal, right-o. Pity we can’t use our mobile phones here.”

She sighed again as his lips turned up ever so slightly before he add, “One more thing. Don’t get deeply involved with the people of this time.” She shook her head, “Deeply involved? Sasuke, I’m going to be in close contact with them for three months.” He then specified, “That is to say, don’t fall in love. It might cloud your desire to return to the future.” This time she did laugh softly, “Haha, love? There’s no worry of that happening. Have you talked to any of these guys? I think I’ve met the who’s who of Warlords in the last 16 or so hours and I don’t think much of any of them...” Alana shook her head again, “I don’t intend to fall in love. I’m sure Yumi told you I haven’t even gone on a date...” which was the complete opposite of his cousin, Yumi. She didn’t add that she hadn’t even been kissed… which she figured was quite rare for a girl in her twenties. “...All right.” His lips turned up slightly in a smile - a minuscule change from his normally expressionless face, “I recommend you keep the fact that you come from the present a secret too.” She gave a nod, “Yes, right. Not that anyone believes, I mean would believe it.” ‘Just as well the two that I mentioned it to don’t believe me and just thought I was smoke addled.’ She thought to herself.

“My employer is in the city below and I’m staying with him. I’ll be able to come to your aid quickly.” Sasuke continued. She looked at him with a slightly puzzled look on her face, “ Your employer? What are you here for--” Her question went unanswered as Sasuke’s gaze shot to the door. Someone was coming. “We’ll speak more later. Farewell.” Pulling up his mask with one hand, Sasuke vaulted out the open window with the other. A moment later her door slid open and Mitsuhide appeared, “I see you weren’t able to get away from Nobunaga after all.” Her eyes flashed briefly with her rebellion before she schooled her expression. “He’s calling for you. Nobunaga that is. He wants to see you.” She rolled her eyes, Of course he does… “Okay”. Mitsuhide said no more and turned to go. Alana followed, catching up to walk beside him. Hmm… in my timeline he betrayed Nobunaga in the history I know and arranged the assassination at Honno-ji. But the person I saw attacking Nobunaga was different. Doesn’t mean he’s off the hook though. She thought to herself as she kept up with him.

The closer they got though, the more she dragged her feet, having to force herself to walk to this unwanted audience. ‘You’ll damage them if you keep squeezing so tightly.” She looked up at Mitsuhide wondering what he was talking about. He reached over and took one of her hands in his. Alana hadn’t realised that she’d been squeezing her hands so tightly her knuckles were white. Then Mitsuhide took her borrowed hand and kissed it. The young woman gasped and immediately snatched her hand from his grasp, stepping back from him, “What do you think you’re doing?” He smirked at her, “Trying to calm you down.” For someone known as a snake he was just as good looking as the others all were. She took a steadying breath before saying, “Just so you know, it didn’t work.” His smirk widened and she noticed a glint in his golden eyes before it was gone. “I beg your forgiveness.” It was the least sincere apology she’d ever heard. Still smiling, Mitsuhide kept walking. Alana figured he was just messing with her. He was very hard to read… in fact he was dangerously unreadable. Reminding herself to be wary she followed at a safe distance. It seemed she’d have to be wary of the majority of these warlords. The only one that hadn’t tried cracking onto her was Mitsunari, who came across as very innocent in that regard. Deep in the castle they came to a stop in front of a wall of gorgeously painted screens. As they slid open the Lord of the castle spoke. “You kept me waiting, Alana.”

[creepy-crowleys]

Mission Log: Black Sun, Red Sand

Objective: Aid Council of Venice operations in area. Investigate unusual shipping activities. Halt the rise of Akhenaten and the Black Sun, Aten.

Location: Valley of the Sun God, Egypt - Points of Interest: al-Merayah (village), Oxford Dig, Temple City Amarna, Pyramid of Akhenaten

Investigation Summary (2 of 3):

Week 8: The Big Terrible Picture (February 19 - February 25)

After our introduction, Dr. Montgomery de la Roche and Dr. Arun Singh of Oxford caught me up on the research they were doing and what they’d uncovered in the region.  They’d come to the valley after the discovery of a set of ruins they believed to be part of the entrance to Amarna, Akhenaten’s lost capital, seeking to understand why he may have chosen to build his capital in the valley.

Their dig lead them to a number of relics and contraptions they believed to be both older than the structures around them but more complicated than the technology of the day would allow.  They believed it played into their ‘Big Terrible Picture’ theory: the idea that the world has ended and been reset previously - See: The Ages. In finishing their work, I discovered the sarcophagus of what is believed to be a Third Age human that included a currently-untranslatable holographic message.

Further exploration of the dig sites resulted in the discovery of a tablet describing the seven Sentinels and their purpose in keeping the true city of Amarna hidden and Akhenaten sealed within.  The archaeologists explained that, should the Sentinel’s spell (their ‘song’) ever fail, Akhenaten would rise again and bring his god with him.  The gates to the city being uncovered by the earthquake were a sign of the song failing, but they were still being held shut by a barrier unlocked by the tablet and a set of seven figures based on the Sentinels.  Having only the tablet on me at the time, I was unable to enter the city.

During my visit to the city gates, I was a attacked by an assassin ordered to guard them by Berihun.  The assassin’s affiliations are still otherwise unknown.

I returned to al-Merayah to listen in on another meeting between Daoud and Berihun.  Here, I learned of an attack being planned on the archaeologists for the three Sentinel figures they had found in their dig.  While I was able to rescue Drs. de la Roche and Singh in time, the figures had already been stolen.  I would track down and recover them over the next couple of days.

On February 25, reports started coming in on a sudden escalation in cultist activity.  Over the course of the day, dozens of people - civilians and Marya - vanished off the street.  I was able to track them to the Orochi packing plant where evidence suggested they were being enslaved or tortured to aid in the locating of artifacts, particularly what would later be identified as a Class-1 explosive device capable of blowing holes in reality.

I broke into the facility in an attempt to rescue the captives.

Week 9: [REDACTED] (February 26 - March 4)

During my search of the Atenist-controlled packing plant, I was baited into a trap set by Daoud and incapacitated.  I have little memory of the week spent under their control, but later evidence suggests they used me to power a Third Age time travel device (‘Time Tomb’) and collect the Class-1 explosive they were searching for, among other abuses.

Week 10: Recovery Period (March 5 - March 11)

By March 5, I had developed enough of a resistance to the drugs they were using on me to make an escape attempt.  I was able to release all of the captives and killed several of the prison guards, including their lead interrogator Saddur. Following Saddur’s death, the captives were safely returned to the village.

I was unavailable for much of the week due to injuries sustained.

Week 11: Requested Time Off (March 12 - March 18)

See attached permissions.

Week 12: The Last Train to Cairo (March 19 - March 25)

On returning to work, I was contacted by Saïd with a proposition: If I would use an available Time Tomb to retrieve the Anicile of Mars from Sol Glorificus for him, he would assist me in preventing the Atenists from using the explosive they had recovered.  While I was unable to determine the real Ancile from its copies and ultimately returned with a fake, he kept his end of our agreement as payment for the attempt.

With Saïd’s assistance, we accessed further tunnels beneath al-Merayah, to the ruins of the city of Thinis where Saïd believed the explosive had been found and where we hoped to still find an arc that could safely contain the device.  After some exploration, it was determined that the arc had not survived to the modern day.  As the Atenist’s Time tomb was still nearby and functional, we decided to try to access Thinis’s past and see if it was still intact then.  It was, and I was able to retrieve it without much difficulty.

From there, we managed to track the Atenists and the device to a train en route to Cairo.  I boarded the train before it could travel far from al-Merayah and broke the coupling between the engine and the rest of the train’s cars, bringing them to a stop.  In the process, I had an encounter with Daoud that resulted in his falling from the train. He would later discovered to have survived his injuries. The Council of Venice took custody of the train and all materials onboard, save for the previously missing Sentinel figures.

Once the train was processed, myself and a small team of Council agents and Marya warriors unlocked to the gates of Amarna and entered the city itself.  Early exploration revealed the city to be comprised of largely inhospitable ruins under a constant, unmoving sun. It was determined that we, and the Orochi that had entered previously, were not the only ones to have entered the city, which boasted a number of ghouls, demons, and cultists as well.  The early days of my investigation in the city mainly consisted of establishing a safe camp, regaining access to the barrier-protected Agartha entrance, and making contact with Ptahmose, the Sentinels’ father and caretaker.

Weeks 13 - 14: The Sentinels (March 26 - April 8)

Ptahmose was the high-priest of Amun during Akhenaten’s reign and, along with his children, was a major figure in the Marya’s resistance.  When Akhenaten was defeated, Ptahmose feared that the pharaoh wouldn’t remain entombed and so sacrificed his seven children, binding their souls to seven statues of Egyptian gods to prevent Akhenaten from returning.  As theorized by de la Roche and Singh, the Sentinels’ power had begun to wane.

Over the next two weeks, I would be working closely with the seven Sentinels (Moutemouia, Thutmose, Nefertari, Houy, Moutnefert, Nefertari the Younger, and Hemitneter) to ease some of the strain their respective duties were placing on them while attempting to learn how to replicate their ‘song’ so that I could gain entry to the pyramid where Akhenaten was sealed.  This would place me in frequent with the cultists occupying the city and I would interfere with their activities on a near-daily basis.

While working in the city, many Third Age artifacts were uncovered by myself and the cultists.  Current theory is that the power beneath the sand that Akhenaten sought as his god has been there throughout the Ages, leading many peoples across those Ages to build here in search of it.

Week 15: The Road to Hell (April 9 - April 15)

On April 9, it was discovered that the Sentinels’ Halls of Lost Records had been breached and the intruders were stealing items from inside.  When I entered to reactivate the interior security systems, I discovered several infected Orochi agents going through the materials.  While many of the items stored in the Halls were already long gone and are still being tracked down, I was able to restore the security systems and eliminated any threats still inside.

Around this time, it was also discovered that Hemitneter’s song had been stolen, also believed to have been by the Orochi.  In an attempt to abide by my orders, I decided to eliminate all other possible options before confronting them.  It was during this exploration of other possibilities that I was introduced to the Jinn Sultan, Amir.

Amir had been enslaved during the reign of Akhenaten to serve the royal family, eventually freeing himself after their fall.  He asked for my assistance in wiping out the cultists in the area and banishing some Filth-infected jinn that had been summoned more recently.  I agreed to his terms.

Week 16: Sympathy for the Devil (April 16 - April 22)

Continuing in my agreement with Amir, he disclosed that he knew about the fate of Theodore Wicker, the magus who sought to restore Hell to its former glory.  At some point since I had seen him last, a war had broken out in Hell with a faction of demons that were resisting the changes he was making.  With his and Amir’s guidance, I entered the Hell Dimensions once again and crossed the battle lines to assist him.  When I finally caught up to him, he was under attack by an unknown entity tentatively called the Enemy and a small band of Oni assassins.  Together, we were able to repel the assassins, and Amir released me from our pact shortly after we returned to Earth.

After taking some time to recover from my possession, I spent the rest of the week following some leads on the history of the Sentinels and the city.  During this time, I located the remains and some notes of the architect that constructed the Sentinels’ monuments as well as several pieces of Ptahmose’s Staff of Amun and made my first visit to the Black Pyramid’s exterior.

It was also around this time that we began to be affected with more frequent and powerful earthquakes in the region though the source would take some time to determine.