#literally could crack concrete on her abs

[l00k4tm4m45c415]

Tera Nova showing off just how well-built she is

[tenthgrove]

Reverse Engineering the OIAR Tagging System: Part 2

I've had another look at things and I have managed to create a more concrete theory for how the tags work, though at this stage I would be very surprised if it were all correct.

A reminder for the unfamiliar- every TMAGP statement comes with a long code, consisting of a CAT (category?), R (rank? - two statements do not have this), a four digit number which seems to be totally random, and the dates of both the statement's origin, and when the episode is set.

I've created this theory by identifying patterns between the CAT and R values and the themes, characters and dates of the statements. It is clear we need some more statements to be sure, so I will update this as new episodes come in. That said, here is my theory.

CAT = Is the Monster an External and/or Being Actively Taken Advantage of by the OIAR?

CAT 1 = Yes. CAT 2 = No, but there are plans to acquire it. CAT 3 = No, and there are no plans to acquire it. CAT 23 = The monster possesses some special quality which the OIAR would like to take advantage of, but currently has no means to do this (hence making it both a CAT 2 and 3 in a sense).

Our only confirmed external, Mr Bonzo, is a CAT 1. The two other CAT 1s are monsters that could very well function as OIAR assassins. Granted, Needles seems to be killing for his own pleasure and seems very ‘green’. BUT- how in the living hell did he murder a man on the streets of London and it wasn’t national news? Maybe, just maybe, Needles was recruited as a result of that incident and the OIAR pulled strings to clean up his mess. Additionally, two of the CAT 1s are delivered literally days before we learn of them. One is older but refers to Bonzo, who we know for a fact is still active. The other was delivered in May 2022. All these statements are live matters, referring to beings who are almost certainly still out there making body counts.

Moving down to the lower rankings, the current CAT 2s are plant guy, Vouyer, the charity shop volunteers and the backrooms service station. These are all statements that leave huge question marks. None of them are delivered by a primary source. They are all 1-15 year old statements. This could mean the OIAR is trying to locate the beings within the statement to potentially take advantage of them, but have not yet tracked them down.

The current CAT 3s are InkSoul, the violin guy, and the bone dice guy. Violin and dice guy are both dead, and the dice were presumably lost in the destruction of the Magnus Institute. It’s clear why the OIAR wouldn’t be interested in them. Now what about InkSoul? Well there are a number of reasons why the OIAR would not want to recruit them. Maybe their power is not reliable? After all, it seemed the effect they had on their victim in the statement was linked to her being an artist. Maybe they’ve already tried to recruit InkSoul and it didn’t go well. Or maybe InkSoul has become inactive since the statement in 2022.

Now, what about CAT 23? I’m really not sure about this one (there are only two CAT 23s so far, one of which is the Red Canary statement) so my theory here is a stand-in. I previously suggested CAT 23 could refer to dimensional cracks and it’s possible that is also the case. It could be that CAT 23 IS the ‘Magnus Protocol’, and that ‘Magnus’ doesn’t specifically mean ‘pertaining to the Magnus Institute’ but ‘pertaining to the Magnus Institute or similar known cracks in reality, of which the Magnus Institute is the one we know most about’. It could be that the OIAR has an active interest in manipulating dimensional cracks but hasn’t yet figured out how, and CAT 23 is created to reflect this.

R = How Useful is this Monster to the OIAR?

A = Frighteningly powerful, possibly equivalent in its impact to the rituals. AB = Between A and B value. B = Pretty useful, but not going to massively improve the OIAR's position by itself. BC = Between B and C value. C = Not especially useful for the OIAR's purposes. Unranked = Value either not investigated or pending investigation. We have no Rank As thus far, and the only rank AB, the Red Canary statement, is widely believed by fans to be the most crucial piece of the puzzle so far to the wider mystery. I believe the first rank A statement is going to be truly massive.

Current Rank Bs include Bonzo and Needles, as well as the bone dice and the Voyuer movie. Bonzo is a known OIAR assassin and as above, Needles very well could be/could become one if the OIAR wanted that for him. However, they can't exactly take down society. Equally, the dice and the movie have limitations that only allow them to target one person at a time - the dice only affect the person who rolls them and the movie relies on only having one audience member to customise itself for.

The Rank Cs are, so far, just the charity volunteers and the ship tattoo. I admit this may be the weakest part of the theory as it's not clear how these two are 'useless', especially if CAT 23 means what I theorise above. Maybe Rank Cs are useful to study but not important to the main goals of the OIAR, whatever they be.

The two unranked statements are the plant guy and the violin. The violin statement could be unranked because it is just that old, and the plant guy could be unranked for a number of reasons. Maybe he is CAT 2 because the OIAR want to study him, but they don't actually have a use for the anomaly that sired him.

Conclusion

As you can see there are various weaknesses to the theory and I would be very surprised if it turns out to be entirely right. The biggest gap right now is the rank C/unranked theories which are not entirely apparant why they're so low. If Protocol is anything like Archives, almost all these monsters will be revisited, so reasons for their placements could still be revealed to us. I am fairly certain the OIAR already knows more about most of them than is let on. I will revisit this theory as more information becomes known.

[duuhrayliegh]

watch your six - part four

pairing: eventual bucky x reader (still a slow burn but it’s getting closer)

warnings: some violence but not really, men being creepy, language (one f bomb), also badly written speaking while crying, aaand i think that’s it

word count: a little over 2300

a/n: aaaah it’s part four babes!!!! the response to this has been so positive i’m in love with y’all!!! <3 <3 <3 i’m still way behind on my classwork and going through a terrible break up but we’re pushing through here

p.s.: my requests are still open if y’all want me to write yall something! aaalso, there’s a bucky short coming tomorrow ;)) <3

series m.list

ray’s m.list

********************************** 

This strange man’s hand was still caressing my hair as he smirked down at me. Running has hands up to the root and then yanking my head upwards to face him directly. “When I speak to you, you look me in the eye, little one.” Not one to show my fear, at least not to men like him, I scoffed. Thick brows shot towards his hairline and a twitch in his jaw as he clenched it. The hold he had in my hair gave him leverage over me. I winced as he lifted his arm to bring my face closer to his. A small whimper escaped the back of my throat, saliva gathering in my mouth. “Don’t test me, little one.” I sneered then spat in his face, the wet substance sticking to his face across his nose and cheek.

Bringing a hand up to his face to swipe the thick liquid from his skin, he glowered as he pulled his palm away. Then several things happened at once. The man forced a harsh breath out and then I was facing the ground with a sting on my left cheek. A gasp left my lips, he just slapped me. Who the hell does he think he is? I shook my head and then leveled my gaze with the man’s. I’m almost positive that my cheek is sporting a bright red handprint that does nothing for my complexion.

“What the hell man? What was that for?” I groaned while attempting to soothe my throbbing cheek on my shoulder. I mean, was it kind of justified? I did just spit in this man's face. No, he totally deserved that. After releasing his grip on my hair, he transferred his hands to the sides of the chair I was chained to. The metal scraping along the concrete floor caused a loud screech to reverberate through the small room.

“I said not to test me, bitch.” the man growled out as he pushed my chair onto the back two legs. I’m starting to think that this is a bit more serious than I originally thought. “Now, you’re going to sit here like a good little bitch and tell me what I want to know.” He retreated only to grab the chair that Suits used. Slamming against the pavement he straddled the chair with his forearms resting on the back.

“How many missions did you participate in?” I released a groan and rotated my head, leaning my head back.

“I already told your friend,” I tilted my head to speak directly to the absolute jerk-wad of a man in front of me, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The man quirked an eyebrow and clenched his jaw. He rolled his neck, causing the bones in it to crack and then stood. He walked to the other side of the metal table that sat in the middle of the room. The sound of a zipper caused me to snap my head to where he was standing. The tactical vest he was wearing dropped to the metal surface allowing for a loud thunk to flow through the room. He stretched out his shoulders and swung his arms out in front as if he was trying to increase the blood flow. I’m the one who’s literally tied to a freaking chair, what does he need blood flow for? My breathing quickened,  calm down, don’t show any fear. He popped the knuckles of his hands and approached me.

“I’m not a patient man.” He bent at the knees and leaned his face closer to mine. Exhaling into my face, he maintained eye contact with me. “And you’re not acting like the good little girl we both know you oh-so-desperately want to be.” I rolled my eyes at that, apparently that was the wrong thing to do in this man’s face. His left eye twitched as he stared at me.

“Do you think you could back up? Your breath reeks, man.” I have no concern for my own well-being do I? The man’s head tilted to the side and then he wolfed out a gruff laugh. He shifted his weight to land on the heels of his feet and threw his body into the laugh. It was a bit disconcerting to see this man laughing so wholeheartedly in a situation that didn’t feel funny to me. Another blow to the side of my face was issued, however this time he didn’t stop. Several open handed hits were delivered, all the while he was resetting my head back by grasping my chin. My breathing was becoming labored, my chest heaving up and down in a frenzy. He gripped my chin and jerked it upwards so he could stand at his full height to tower over me.

“How many missions did they send you on?” He demanded, increasing his hold on my face surely leaving sickening bruises that would match his fingers perfectly. At some point, tears began running down my red cheeks.

“I don’t kno-ow what you’re talking ab-about!” Tears streaming down my swollen face, “I s-swear to god, I don’t know wh-what you mean!” Choked sobs were preventing me from breathing correctly. The man grabbed my shoulders and shook my body.

“Calm the fuck down and speak clearly.” Small hiccups were escaping my mouth without permission. Why am I letting this guy get to me? What the hell is happening? “How many missions did they send you on?” I broke down again, fat tears leaking out of my eyes.

“I ju-just want to go h-h-home. I s-swear I don’t kno-ow anything!” I shouted in his face. He glowered at me and lifted his hand from my shoulder. My whole body tensed as I readied myself to the impact.

“Johnson.” The door burst open, stopping Johnson from landing another hit. “This is not what you were supposed to be doing.” Suits walked back in the room. Johnson backed down, lowering his hand and turning to the new member in the room. “Sir, I was told to interrogate the prisoner.”

“Yes, Johnson, interrogate her. Not beat her to a pulp.” He gestured wildly with his hand. “If the boss found out you were doing this, he’d have your head on a platter.” Suits took steps closer toward us and Johnson shrunk into himself. “Get out of here before I call him about this.” Johnson nodded quickly and left the room quickly, leaving his tactical vest on the table.

I was still quietly crying while strapped to the metal frame of the chair. Suits approached me while pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket. He raised it to my face and I jolted backwards away from his touch. “Easy now, I’m only here to help.” Is he seriously pulling a good cop, bad cop routine on me right now? He wiped my cheeks of the salty remnants, “Now, how can I help you besides that?”

“You co-could let me go h-home.” I tried to say without stuttering, clearly unsuccessful. I didn’t want to show my emotions but really at this point, could it get worse?

“Awe, girly. You know I can’t do that until you tell me what I want to know.” He began to drag the chair next to me, back to the opposite side of the table. This created an obstacle between the two of us, which made me slightly more comfortable knowing he wouldn’t be able to reach me as quickly.

I heaved a sigh, “but I don’t know anything.” My weeping had come to a definite end, making way for frustration. My face heated for a different reason than being struck several times.

“See, this is where we disagree because I know that you’re lying to me.” He shook his finger in my face and I scrunched my brows together, flicking my eyes between his finger and face.

“You’re kidding me. I told you I don’t know about any missions.”

“Oh really? Then who’s Gemini?” He reclined in his chair, looking smug. “Actually, you know more importantly, who is Libra? The whole thing is just fascinating to me.”

“I don’t know what any of that is. I swear to whatever you want me to.”

“Then why do I have this that says you do.” He held up the manila folder that he first walked in with. I shrugged my shoulders.

“Whatever is in there is lying to you.” He cocked his head to the side and flipped the folder open. He removed a photograph from the folder and placed it on the table in front of me. Staring back at me, was a slightly younger version of myself with shorter hair. A large X was drawn across the whole picture and underneath it read the words ‘Agent Libra.’

My eyes widened, “I have never seen that before, in my life.” Suits sighed heavily and then began flipping through the rest of the papers.

“So what is the Svengali?” He threw out another paper and I glanced down at it. It looked like a typed report of some kind. Much of it redacted by thick black lines. The words Libra, Gemini, and Svengali were visible amidst the sea of dark ink.

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

A ping sounded throughout the room causing the screen of the phone to illuminate. A metal hand reached for the thin device.

New mission alert. You’re needed. Meet at the compound.

Great, this is just what Bucky needed to keep him distracted. Sleep never came easy to him so he was spending copious amounts of time trying to catch up on what he missed out on. Steve told him to make a list and Sam kept rambling on about some gay Marvin man? Bucky much prefered to do things on his own. He hasn’t had help for over ninety years, why should he need it now?

Throwing on his leather jacket as he began to leave his apartment, he checked the pockets for the keys to his motorcycle. He also made sure to grab his gloves. Even though T’Challa and Shuri were good enough to give him a new vibranium arm, Bucky still wasn’t too keen on being stared at in public. It was better for everyone if he just kept the arm tucked away as much as he could while around strangers.

He did one last once over of his apartment before locking the door behind him. He jogged down the stairs towards his bike. It definitely was his pride and joy, it was the first thing that he bought with his own money since 1943. His apartment was courtesy of Pepper Potts, no thanks to Tony’s complaining. Tony and Bucky had eventually worked out their differences, to say the least. Tony still hadn’t fully forgiven the Winter Soldier for killing his parents, and neither had Bucky so they were agreeing to disagree.

The ride to the compound from Brooklyn wasn’t a hard one. It gave Bucky time to appreciate the scenery around him. Slowing to a stop at a four way stop just outside of the compound, Bucky dropped his feet to the tarmac below, stabilizing the bike between his legs. He tilted his head back and felt the warm rays of the sun on his face. Warm was something that Bucky was still getting used to, it was easier in Wakanda. He had his own hut, voluntary therapy sessions, and easy-going check ups with Shuri in her lab.

Everything was simpler in Wakanda, but what Bucky missed most from Wakanda was the stability. He didn’t have to worry about missions, or keeping up with Steve, or the crushing guilt that he felt whenever he saw Tony. After parking his bike at the facility, Bucky made his way to the meeting room. Dark wooden tables in an L-shape appeared in his view. Steve and Sam were standing in front of the large monitor that was displaying images of an unknown, yet familiar looking woman.

“Tony, we don’t know if she knows anything.” Natasha said, apparently trying to rationalize with someone else in the room.

“Natasha, we don’t know that she doesn’t not know anything.” Tony shot back, Sam turned slowly and opened his mouth with a confused expression on his face.

“Tony, we aren’t in an episode of FRIENDS. This is serious. We need to decide if this is worth pursuing or not.”

“Wilson, that’s all well and good but we have to acknowledge that this woman could get us our first real break in our search.” Tony explained while taking deep breaths.

“What are we deciding?” Bucky interrupted as he plopped into one of the chairs. Now that Bucky has been given his freedom back, he’s able to display a difference between his mission self and his regular self.

“This woman here,” Steve gestured to the woman on the screen, “is a member of the Virago. It’s an international branch of SHIELD that was believed to be infiltrated by HYRDA years ago.”

“This is the agent code named Libra. Her last mission was with another agent code named Gemini. The mission report has since been lost to us. All we know is that Libra and Gemini were instructed to watch a Svengali safehouse. Apparently something went wrong and only Libra made it out alive.” Tony added, “Which is why we need to find her and see what she knows.” “Tony! There’s no guarantee that she has any knowledge of this mission.” The redhead stressed as she leaned over the table towards the man she was speaking to.

“I think we should find her.” The words left Bucky’s mouth before he could stop them. All motion in the room stopped.

“Um, did the Manchurian Candidate just agree with me?” Tony questioned as the rest of the room remained quiet.

“Look, I’m not necessarily agreeing with you.” Bucky started.

“Nope, can’t take it back.” Tony mused, “Already said it.” Bucky sighed and shook his head.

“Why do you think we should go after her Buck?” Steve inquired. Bucky’s brows furrowed and he shrugged his shoulders.

“I think I know her from somewhere.”

[n0-eyedtaissa]

Introduction to Clementine Adams (Outer Banks OC)

Like everyone else recently, I’ve been obsessed with Outer Banks and I literally couldn’t resist making my own character lol. 

Clementine cuts her hair in the bathroom mirror with her father’s kitchen shears, doesn’t say a word about it when she sits down at the dinner table that night. She doesn’t cry at her mother’s funeral. She swallows the knot in her throat and bites at her bottom lip until she tastes warm copper blood. She makes gum-wrapper chain necklaces and blows big bubbles that leave sticky pink residue on the tip of her nose. She stands on the back pegs of her sister’s bicycle as they make their way to the docks after school. Wants new boots for her birthday, and doesn’t mind waking up at the crack of dawn in order to hit the water earlier. Still closes her eyes when her dad’s gutting fish. Hates the briny, too-wet smell of the rope nets full of fresh catch. She ties her father’s old flannel shirts tight around her midriff and stands with her shoulders far back, gets bored trying to bat her eyes at the tanned abs of the First Mates who work on the boat with her dad. Clementine’s too clever for her own good sometimes; a sweet talker and a story-teller, complete with broad gestures and a tittering laugh. She knows that to be able to keep up with the big dogs, being loud is better than fading into the shadows. Her dad tells her that she swears like a sailor, calls her unladylike as he scratches the stubble on his perpetually sunburnt face. 

Clementine actually likes school, actually likes people. Hates that she’s been carted around from seaside city to small town, following where the fish were and the work was. She wants to have roots somewhere, like the big willow tree in the front yard of her childhood home. She can remember the blue shutters and the creaky third step in the staircase, running down the hardwood hallway at full speed and slipping in her pink fuzzy socks. That’s how Clementine got the scar that no one but her can still see. She has an elephant’s memory and is stubborn like a mule. She hums two bars from a song she heard on the radio a week before and grits her teeth as she tries to remember the lyrics to no avail. Clementine’s never smoked a cigarette and had zero plans to start. If she swore like a sailor, she drank like one too. She doesn’t remember it, but Kimber could tell the story in great detail: last year on New Year’s Eve, Clementine got locked in the downstairs bathroom at Aunt Ellie’s house and found the stash of brandy in the linen closet. When they found her hours later she was two sheets to the wind, reclined in the clawfoot bathtub with vomit all over her party dress, cuddling the empty bottle. Kimber had to steal cousin Terry’s two-speed to take Clementine home, trying to steer while balancing Clementine’s lanky limbs on the handlebars and having to stop every few blocks in order for her to blow chunks. Clementine stays away from dark liquor now, tends to stick to the organic stuff. She hides her weed pipe and her stash box in a shoebox in her closet, some old tattered cardboard box that a pair of high heels came in. She only wore the wedges one time, to her mom’s funeral — though she took them off ten minutes into the service. Kept her head held high as she walked barefoot through the aisles of church pews in order to give her speech about her mother. Clementine is the spitting image of her mother, with a big heart and a big mouth that often lead to trouble. 

Clementine thinks that if the Outer Banks are really like “heaven on earth,” more people should reconsider their stance on religion. But she liked driving the moving truck down the dirt roads and watching the brown dust clouds dissipate in the wind. She liked seeing a bunch of people her age around, riding their bikes and laughing. She liked that this felt like a place where they could stay for a little while, like maybe this could be home someday soon. Her dad got a job at the docks; apparently after that summer’s storms, the sandbar shifted and that means the fish did too. July did a number on the island, well, on one half of it. Clementine knows enough about wealth disparity to realize how her dad was able to afford a house on this side of the island. It wasn’t like the big Colonial houses with air conditioning and Escalades parked in the driveway atop the stamped concrete. They didn’t have a dock that led straight from their backyard down to the water, or a big boat with an ostentatious name. It was a humble home and that’s all that Clementine and her father needed. It’s exactly what they were: humble. Clementine Adams meets Kiara Carrera at a time that feels like fate. Like maybe magic was still real and there were still good people left in such a cruel world. She finds out that the good people are great and the rich people were worse; money can buy a lot of things but it can’t buy community. She finds out what it means to be a Pogue and how that set her apart from other people, quickly finds out that the world is still cruel and would always be to the little guys; the throwaway fish like Clementine and her almost-friends. Almost, like Clementine was still unsure if she’d be kicked to the curb after one wrong move. JJ called it her “interview,” but Pope promised that she fit in easily, that John B would’ve taken well to her. She didn’t know anyone named John B and she wasn’t introduced to one, but she saw how people’s features creased when the name ‘Routledge’ was mentioned and she’s smart enough not to ask any more questions. She likes mysteries, liked being able to put all of the puzzle pieces together to see the bigger picture. She liked being three steps ahead of her opponent, whether that was in life or in chess, and that was a skill that made her useful to the Pogues.

[empressxmachina]

by Imperial-Radiance (es yo)

Zwischenzug - 2

A few days had passed since Ren’s big reveal, and Freya was still stuffing cake in her mouth.

Up until now, surprising to her family – well, all but her mother – she didn’t try to skip work or ask for time off. Not that she’d be guaranteed any, her tenure and various overtimes would’ve earned it. Everyone knew she was truly devastated, bawling on the inside, but her outsides were hard as concrete as if nothing had occurred. They neither could chip away any kind of weakness from her, aside from their attempts to take the cake away, nor could they pull out any solid answers about why she was upset.

Read more on DA, see this on Wattpad, or...

They knew that Ren – Prince Silas, son of house Maddox, heir apparent of the Zronian monarchy, to be specific – was a literal, big liar. However, it seemed that his actual size and hidden nobility were not her issues. Every time that she was asked of them, she would reply with something along the lines of ‘That’s not the problem!’, wouldn’t finish or continue with the thought, and would leave them in the dark.

Now, in the present, it was near midday, and only due to a canceled appointment at her workplace, Freya was thus the only person inside the house. Miriam was helping a neighbor, the elder men were already out working, the teens were on their way to work, and the youths were playing in the backyard as little kids do. Freya had half of a mind to tend with the older half or chaperone the young ones, just to work the stress out, but the sweetness of morning dessert and silent solitude was too perfect to give up so soon.

She had just finished her last bite of breakfast cake in her room, hearing the cluster of kids run past her walls toward the front of the house, when, “Freya!”, two of them called her. They all sounded so similar that she couldn’t tell which pair was speaking. Though, at that moment, it didn’t matter.

“What!?” she shrilled back, seething but not enough to point blame to family. They were annoying, sure, but not her reason for it.

They replied, still in tandem, “You got something!” She… got… something?

A gift, package, or some other kind of mail was the farthest thing from Freya’s mind. If anything, it was probably some sort of payroll statement from work, if they had finally switched to paper vouchers… with revenue that she could actually use. She knew more industrial workers, including humans, got paid in such a fashion, but what value could paper from that side of life possibly have? Would anyone in hers even dare to trade it with her, knowing the baggage it held from its origins? She didn’t know.

Nevertheless, she had something, and she had to see it for herself, eventually.

“Just bring it and leave it on the table, then,” she suggested, leaving her room only to place her dirty plate and eating wares in a washing bowl.

“I… I can’t!” one of the brothers – most likely, ten-year-old Adrian – declared, sending Freya another bother she didn’t need, right after waking up. What could be the reason that he can’t do one simple task? He then elaborated, handing her a brow-raising response. “It’s too big!”

The only logic Freya could figure was if the item was too heavy, thus causing him to get another brother or herself to lift it for or with him. She deeply hoped it wasn’t another one of the village families trying to swoon her into coupling by gifting another cattle spawn. Of all things, hers did not need more cattle.

“It can’t fit through the door!” another faceless brother – presumably Sascha, two years Adrian’s senior – added. Well, that technically struck out cattle. At least an animal – well, a human animal – could get through the door. So, what was it? The idea of the thing truly being hers was going out of the window.

“Then, how do you know it’s even mine?” she tested. If it turned out to be some kind of ruse to kick her while she was already down, then she knew that things would become dangerous. Dangerous maybe for the youngsters, perhaps her whole family, but not her if she had any say about it.

Isaak’s answer – he, the seven-year-old youngest Müller – wasn’t any sort of help in deciphering what it was, but he did make her curious enough to go take a look for herself. “Because your name is on it… in HUGE writing!”

“What the-?” Freya immediately rushed to the front door, “Guys, what in the world are you talking ab-?” Whereas her mind was ready to fume, her jaw dropped at the sight behind the door. “Oh, my…”

The entryway of the home was blocked by a gloriously massive bouquet.

It was a colorful, varied blend with many types that she had never seen in her life – thankfully, none sprouted an allergy – and with its gorgeous arrangement and shiny wrappings around the stems, she knew that it couldn’t have been cheap. But she just couldn’t get over how immense the collection was. There was most likely enough paper and plastic to make her entire cottage into a holiday present of its own, like giving a Drachian child a fantasy dollhouse. Yet, the icing on the cake was the large, sealed envelope tucked within the rainbow of petals, with her name written atop of it in gold calligraphy.

“Uh, why don’t y’all go back to playing in the backyard, huh?” Freya directed to her brothers of varied expressions – awestruck, confused, and intrigued – still gazing at the gift. “Maybe check if everything’s still counted for in their areas, while you’re there?” She pointed them toward the gardens and crops, hoping that was enough incentive to leave her alone with the delivery. Although they were a bit hesitant about it, mostly Sascha, they eventually complied, skipping down the hill to be impromptu inspectors.

Now, Freya was, once again, all alone to deal with this surprise on her own.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped outside barefoot, closing the front door to a crack behind her, and inched toward the big bunch. Being so close to the sizable flora now made them seem fantastical, enough to get lost in. With the envelope addressed to her so far within them, she knew it was going to be a struggle to retrieve it.

A struggle, definitely, but it wasn’t impossible.

With a bit of a running head start, she leaped high enough to grab onto two of the packet’s edges, doing so tightly enough for gravity to send her back down to the ground with it still in her hands. Unfortunately, such a slick move on a not-so-slick texture resulted in some of the skin of her hands being slit open, leaking little beads of blood onto the cardstock-like paper. However, if anyone soon walked up to her and noticed, then the drops would easily blend with the Royal crimson wax seal holding the envelope closed.

Running her hands over the crushed wax approximately the same size as her head was surreal. Running them over the monogrammed initials of a specific heir to the throne in the center of it, on the other hand, was sickening. Nonetheless, the message had to be seen, for her sanity, and she was going to do whatever she had to do to see it.

Gently biting her lip to distract herself from her hand pain, present and future, Freya braced herself and dug her nails into the wax seal to rip it off. Said tugging released not only the message inside on another piece of thick paper but also a sweet fruity fragrance that was unexpected, unfamiliar, and unfortunately pleasing to her all at the same time. When she looked at her hands upon completion, they resembled the aftermath of a deathmatch with someone’s heart ripped out. With the drama she dealt with in only a matter of minutes not yet a week ago, that’s how she felt and what she wished to do to the gift’s obvious sender.

Despite that, she had enough restraint to, at least, read his words before taking some kind of action. Removed from its casing, the note read:

“Freya,

“I know that you’re upset with me, and you have every right to be. But you have to understand that I never wanted to hurt you. Not you, not your wondrous mother, not all of your kind brothers, and not even your family extended and those of your surrounding community in the fewer times we met.

“I lied – I lived a life not mine – and I’m not denying that. I can’t do that, not anymore. I kept such a large part of my life from you (no pun intended), and I truly was going to tell you myself at some point. I wanted to, then, and I still do. I still do want to tell you myself, not because I’m not a human, not because I am a prince, but because I do not want to lose what we had and now have, whatever it may be.

“With this request, I also send aromas and flora from home: my birth home. Forgive me if they are more a nuisance than anything of good use. They, in their differences, reminded me of you – their uniqueness, strength in sweetness, and beauty – and I felt you should enjoy them like I’ve been able to. Perhaps, in them, you may learn more of me, maybe even enough to finally conquer Caissa.

“There’s so much that cannot and shouldn’t be said in a letter, no matter how long or wide. So, I won’t. I want to tell you in person, as I am, and see you again, one-on-one. By the gods above and the magic that brought us together, I just hope that you allow me that chance.

“-Ren”

Freya read the message ten times over before she made any kind of remark, and none of them had a sense of positivity. Rather than being touched by his sentiments, she filled with disgust, infuriation, and all-around bother, raising her frustration about the entire situation to a new zenith.

“What… is this nonsense!?” she asked herself in anger. “Is this a joke? Is he trying to play with me!? He lied to me for five years, right to my face, and he expects me to just believe him? To slog back to him? Is… Is he stupid!?” She then started to pace, huffing air like a speeding locomotive. “What did he possibly think I was going to do with these flowers… and this card!? Use them for fertilizer or a damn soup? They’re bigger than the fucking door – the whole house, even – and my hands are cut now!”

She took about a minute to cool off and try treating her hands with some rainwater caught in a bucket before facing the struggle again.

“Posh bastard with your fucking flourishes and glamour, this seems really humbling, doesn’t it?” she critiqued the message contents, growing more enraged with every word. “Flaunt your wealth and omnipotence from afar just because you can, why don’t you!? And… and that crap ‘allow me that chance’. How in all depths of the underworld am I supposed to do that!? It’s not like I can just walk to Drachian Lucia! Am I supposed to just stuff myself in this envelope and just wait for some damned colossus to-!?”

At a sound coming from the trees across from her house, she paused herself. If it was just a rustle, like an animal scurrying around, then she wouldn’t have been worried. But the sound was fairly loud and mechanical – nothing that she was used to hearing in her little farming village – almost grating to the ears. Plus, with how the sound seemed to come down to her and how reminiscent of her workplace it was, there was no way someone like her caused it.

It may have been a spy or worker of her size hired – an idea she briefly considered, based on some certain, past assignments she had for work. But bearing in mind the events of that week and the over-sized objects in front of her, still, only one type of ‘person’ made sense, and she, letting anger overlay common sense, didn’t care if it was probably dumb to call it out.

“If you’re going to watch me, then you might as well expose yourself!” Freya then shouted to the woods, hoping that the possible giant watching was listening to her. “Or, are you doing your job by staying in camouflage? Because spying on a person – a woman – at her own home isn’t illegal or anything, right!?”

She stood quietly, waiting for a kind of response, but nothing came. Yet, she was still confident someone was there, so she continued throwing verbal blows.

“Well, fine! Don’t show yourself! I know why you’re here. You’ve got something to do with this stuff and Ren- no, ‘Prince Silas’. My bad. He knows someone’s out here on his behalf – he probably ordered you out here, himself – because that was his handwriting. I’m sure whenever you go back, he’s probably going to ask something like ‘What happened?’ or ‘What did she say?’ since I’m damn well not going to leave a reply letter for you to disregard as a scrap somewhere! Though, I’ll give you something to tell him, alright.”

***

Miriam was walking up a pathway on the incline to her home, and the stone abode wasn’t even in her sights when she began hearing screaming from somewhere ahead. Because of its proximity to her children and its panicked tone, she hustled as quickly as she could to observe and help. In the end, however, she was met with quite an interesting sight.

A bouquet at a size that only magic could make laid in front of her doorway, and in front of it laid flat, blanket-sized parchments and stood her daughter with hands dripping some red-tinted liquid, screaming an expansive vocabulary of expletives to seemingly nothing but trees until she wore herself out, made a suggestive hand motion toward them, and trudged into the house with a scowl on her face.

Only partially worried that her only little girl was finally losing it after losing a friend, Miriam took her time before making her reappearance into the home. As she traveled to the door, she glanced at the parchment – no, just thick paper – and caught sight of her daughter’s name written upon them. She then cautiously looked behind her into the woods for a possible onlooker, instinctively placing a hand in a skirt pocket for what was held inside, only to sigh and retract her hand after seeing no one.

With no other concerns in mind, aside from her daughter, and blooming a smile at her youngest children being good boys in the backyard, Miriam plucked the tiniest bud out of the bunch to try growing one of these foreign flowers on her own. Taking in one last panorama of the outside for the moment, she backed herself into the home, closing the door as softly as possible.

The air inside was still and soft for the first time since the huge house guests came, and knowing it’d be disrupted as soon as she spoke to Freya, Miriam just went to her room and examined her find, absorbing its details until it was time to soak up her daughter’s sorrows.

As the tiny, wooden door of that small, stone house had shut, a breeze began to blow with just enough power to reveal the street lantern that was the unlit flash of a digital point-and-shoot camera high above the ground in the front-facing woods. Its Drachian owner had been seated in near seclusion, watching the near-still life scene that was the diminutive damsel and her delivery unfold.

He sat, watched, and made notes in his head of the spectacle he had catalyzed, disguised as and by comparatively minuscule branches and leaves, ever since the matriarch of the home left that morning. He had moved swiftly to follow orders and place the prize, having accurately calculated the short duration of clearance he had before another resident – a trio of brothers, in this case – would enter the area and spot it.

His watching of the voluminous bundle’s intended receiver’s handling of the ordeal was not only humorous but also a surprise. While he had been told that the human in question was ‘something else’, her spunk and her awareness of her reality were unexpected. But the spy didn’t act on them, other than simply following Royal orders. His mission would be accomplished at the storing of his camera in his bag behind him and sending its pictures and videos to the palace through the airwaves.

Having only slivers of knowledge of the prince’s relationship with some human girl, most of it consisting of her reaction to the gift and what he could make out of the message through his lenses, the spy was curious yet aware of his place. It wasn’t his concern to ask, and so he wouldn’t, but he hoped whatever the prince wanted with this minute miss – what he did all of this for – would, like the flowers, bloom soon enough.