#murder in the dockyard

[thefisherqueen]

It's a hanging matter this time.”

“Sir Eustace is dead, then?”

“Yes; his head was knocked in with his own poker.”

Ouch. I guess the murder was not planned, then, considering the choice of weapon.

I researched until when hangings took place in the UK. The last execution by the gallows (and also in general) was in 1964. Which is much later than I would have thought. Prior to reading Sherlock Holmes, if you'd have asked me until when people were hanged I would have said something like the 17th or 18th century.

From this guardian article:

As they were led to the gallows there was little fuss. No public outcry, no headlines indicated that the executions of Gwynne Evans and Peter Allen would be remembered as anything other than run-of-the-mill.

Evans, 24, and Allen, 21, were unlucky with their timing. Two months after they were executed Labour came to power, bringing a Commons vote to suspend capital punishment for five years in the 1965 Murder Act, a move made permanent in 1969.

At the time of their convictions, the 1957 Homicide Act had already removed the automatic death penalty for all murders, though exceptions included any murder committed for theft.

The criminologist Steve Fielding, author of more than 20 books on British hangings, believes the lack of publicity was due to the fact that, by sensationalist standards, the Evans and Allen murder was "quite low key".

The two jobless Preston men travelled to the Cumbria home of John "Jack" West, a 53-year-old laundry van driver known to Evans, in a stolen car with Allen's wife and two children, on 7 April 1964. The two planned to rob the bachelor, but then killed him.

In the Netherlands the last execution by hanging happenened in 1860, in Maastricht, so more that 100 years earlier. (The only executions after that took place in the aftermath of the Second World War and were committed by gun) That is a wild difference.

I also found this interesting article on the Museum of London website:

During the early 19th century, Britain removed the death penalty for a wide range of crimes, including pickpocketing, forgery and rape. By 1861, the number of capital crimes had been reduced to five, including murder, treason, espionage, arson in royal dockyards and piracy with violence. Other reforms included the banning of public executions in 1868, and the abolition of beheading and quartering in 1870. The age at which a person could be executed was also raised first to 16 and then 18 in 1933. Prior to World War II, an attempt was made in Britain to abolish the death penalty, but the outbreak of war, defeat in the Lords and fears about public reaction caused the government to shelve the proposal. In 1957, public doubts about high profile cases such as Timothy Evans and Derek Bentley eventually led to the 1957 Homicide Act that reduced the categories of murder that could be punishable by death. In 1965, the death penalty for murder in Britain was suspended for five years and in 1969 this was made permanent. However, it was not until 1998 that the death penalty in Britain was finally abolished for all crimes.

[anechomirrored]

Prompt:     "This better be good."

Fandom: Fnaf Security Breach, The Other Side of Justice au

Rating: T

Warning: vulgarity, crime scene, nothing graphic

A murder scene was the last thing Moon had wanted to walk into, but here he was.

The victim was, as far as Moon could tell from a distance, a man in his forties. He was shot through the chest and slumped in a seated position with his hands in his lap.

As private investigators, he and Sun couldn't do shit about this. Dead bodies were the cops' problem. He and his brother were meant for information gathering, finding lost wallets and wayward kids. This? He had to call it in, fast.

Eclipse came up on his right, making a tsking sound in his voicebox.

"Guess this is more than a sound complaint."

"Shut it. I gotta call the Chief. Don't move."

"Sure thing, dick." Eclipse, jeered.

Grumbling Moon hauled the difficult tag along with him back out to the street. Finding a payphone he rang the police station.

"You'd think, having stumbled upon Artificial Intelligence, that humans would upgrade to portable communications." Eclipse kicked at the sidewalk with freshly polished shoes.

He dressed well for a dockyard worker.

Another question for another time.

The phone rang a third time and Moon felt his fans kick in. He wasn't overheating but his systems responded to the more firey of his emotions with such. He bit back a growl and performed the optic equivalent of an eyeroll instead.

"They did genius, but sentient tin cans like you and me scared them back to the stone ages." He smirked in response to the glare Eclipse leveled at him and continued, "There's so much red tape around tech that me and Sun are only cleared for internal comms with eachother. Everything else is jammed until we've hit our 5th year."

"How far left to go?" Asked Eclipse, bringing Moon's attention back to this end of the call.

The sixth ring confirmed it, poor Kent.

It was no surprise that the Chief's secretary was unable to keep on top of it all.

"Two and a half."

"Stars, you're fresh off the assembly line!"

"Shut it, we didn't all get pushed through quality testing to meet deadlines." That got a snarl complete with static.

"Fuck you, snoop! At least I-" Eclipse's complaint was cut short as the phone line crackled to life.

Finally, and it was even the police chief himself who answered.

"Hey Chief, we got a problem. That disturbance call? It lead us to a stiff in a back alley." There was a pause as Moon listened to the Chief's exhausted barking, "Yes..." he responded glancing back the way the had come, "That's outside my-" Judging by the quirk of his expression, Eclipse could here the Chief's bullhorn of a voice from the door of the booth, "Sir...just-" Moon grit his teeth, "Right, send the credentials then so we don't hear about it later." Conversation ended, Moon slammed the reciever back on the hook with a growl.

"I thought you only had comms with-" Stepping smartly from the phone booth, Moon shoved Eclipse back, hands gripping his coat collar.

"It's a one way channel," he snapped, leaning in with a hiss, "now listen close 'cause I'm only saying this once. The only reason you are here is because Sun is out cold and I need a bot at my back to avoid getting scrapped by some two bit thug like the John down that alley." Moon glared up at the taller animatronic, his anger at his circumstance boiling over, "To keep it simple, the Chief has cleared me for the invetigation. Keyword being me. So let me be clear, you don't touch anything, look and anything or think of anything except standing guard or I will forget all about your little act of heroism and send you to the junkers myself." Moon paused, locking red optics with amber. "Got it?"

"What did I tell you about hands to yourself?"

"I don't care. One slip up and Sun and I could lose more than just our spots on a wait list. Our whole practice is on the line if you interfere. Investigative licenses torn up!" Moon hissed, his grip tight on the fabric lapels.

Eclipse stared down at him, motionless. Moon could practically hear the hum of his fans. There was a glint in those optics that he didn't like. The bot before him was dangerous. A few beats more and something shifted. Eclipse's shoulders slumped, his cat-like optics dimming as he emmited an exaggerated sigh.

"Alright, I'll watch your back and nothing else," Moon released his coat and Eclipse brush him away stiffly, "but a word of advice, Detective? Check him for more than bullet holes. That stiff was dead before that gun even went off."

Moon, quirked his expression.

"What makes you so sure?"

"Wounds of living men bleed more. There wasn't enough blood, even at a glance." Eclipse straighten his coat indignantly, even as he delivered his macabre observations.

"How comforting..."

Definitely not a common dock worker.

Moon flinched as the Chief's clearance missif popped into his field of view. The human's messaging system overlay took some getting used to. Stars forbid something ever be sent during a moment of focus or a brawl, not that Moon planned on another one of those.

Rushing through the legal jargon, and finding everything above board, he closed the message with a semi-satified hum only to have another envelope icon pop up.

"This better be good." Moon opened the message and froze.

Attached was a case file, discribing three murders. All investigated with the last month and each victim murdered elsewhere in varying ways before being dumped in seemingly unconnected locations. Yet all three reports included an identical feature. A single item, a calling card, if you will.

Moon thought of how the dead man's hands had been clasped loosly on his lap. The other victims had their hands arranged in a similar fashion and between them the melted remains of a plain white pillar candle.

[womanlives]

LORE DUMP: Merce's criminal org edition !

THE DOCKYARD SYNDICATE.

Otherwise known as dockies, docks, or dockworkers. Derogatorily referred to by rival organizations as rats or ship rats.

Originated as a loose collection of gangs around the mid-1950s in Kingshore (think: New York City). Banded together for your standard reason: joblessness, poverty, persecution. And drug-running, of course, especially through the ports. Their early years were extremely profitable, but bloody. The Syndicate grew too large too quickly, and its rather informal structure began to collapse.

After eliminating the largest of their rivals in a brutal, yearslong struggle — and taking heavy losses to boot — the Syndicate had its own form of quasi-revolution. One of its key members rose to prominence and established himself as the head of the Syndicate, with backing by several of the other primary powerhouses. He wasted no time in establishing his influence and reorganizing the organization into something much more structured and much more lethal. No more gangs. Now a cartel.

Their leader is known as the Patron. Under his rule, the Syndicate has grown widely in notoriety and influence over the decades. While its ‘official’ inner-circle members remain relatively small in number, it has a reputation for hiring on other gangs/organizations as needed. And burning them just as quick.

Current operation: slowly but surely develop footholds in all government structure(s) where they do business. Kingshore’s owned by them already in everything except name.

Rot-Eyes works exclusively for the Patron as his go-to killer.

The Patron is widely believed to have ordered the elimination of the Roses. Rot-Eyes doesn’t listen to anyone else.

OPTIONAL FOR SUPERNATURAL SETTINGS: In addition to your standard drug-fare, the Syndicate is the sole smuggler of a rare substance known as stardust, which is the magic equivalent of steroids. Discovered within the last decade, stardust is highly illegal, highly dangerous, and incredibly valuable. Its existence is a closely-guarded secret, as the Syndicate actively eliminates any competitor that tries to broach this market.

THE RATCATCHERS.

The Syndicate funds several of their best thieves and killers to act as ratcatchers. Ratcatchers are essentially recruiters who prey on the large population of impoverished children in the city. They offer food, safe places to stay, and basic sneak-training in exchange for these children to run their ‘errands.’ Errands can include everything from pickpocketing, causing a distraction, or even murder.

Most kids get caught, die, or try to form gangs of their own (which never last long). Those who stay with the Ratcatchers long enough are eventually passed off to smaller cells within the Syndicate’s network (ages ~13 to ~16). Or to wherever they will pick up a profit.

There have been six instances of ratcatchers trying to branch off with their recruits to establish their own gangs without the Patron's consent. All six were hunted down by Rot-Eyes. In spectacular fashion.

While invaluable to the Syndicate’s success, they are (rightfully) regarded within the organization with distrust and disgust.

Mercy was raised by a ratcatcher.

THE SILVER TIES.

A child branch of the Syndicate overseeing all money-laundering and public-facing operations. Run by a charming younger man named Benedict, who is the most recent to join the Patron’s inner circle.

The largest of the Syndicate’s ‘children.’ Launders money through cash smuggling (offshore banks), shell companies, trusts, round-tripping, but most importantly: cash-intensive businesses. The Silver Ties are the shadow owners of Kingshore’s most famous casino chain: the Golden Floors. (They also own parking structures, several bars and restaurants, and half of Kingshore’s beach resorts.)

The Golden Floors are large, multi-level casinos dispersed throughout Kingshore. All ground-level-and-up floors are public-facing and perfectly legal. But one out of every ten casinos operates underneath some random-ass building as a secret, clandestine location with a multi-tiered basement. The lower you go down, the more depraved — and illegal — the offerings.

Locked in a constant competition to curry favor vs the Blood Rats.

Dinks was a low-level member of the Silver Ties. 

THE BLOOD RATS.

The Syndicate’s enforcers. Run by an ex-military, ex-special forces operative who goes by Sam. He is the only person Rot-Eyes hesitates to fuck with.

Oversees weapons smuggling, countersurveillance, and security. Runs the Syndicate’s protection rackets (aka extortion).

Smallest of the Syndicate’s ‘children.’ It’s widely regarded as truth that the Patron only claimed control of the Syndicate in the first place because he had the backing of the Blood Rats behind him. They are considered the most loyal of all Syndicate factions.

Has access to military-grade arms and equipment — and sometimes even beyond. The Blood Rats don’t often have to roll out in force, but when they do, everyone fuckin’ knows it.

By and large regards the Silver Ties as wishy-washy corporate bitches.

Unlike most of the other Syndicate members, Sam has actually seen Dinks’ face. Worse: he remembers it, too.

THE ROSES.

Never officially a part of the Syndicate family, but came very close. An all-female gang with eight members, each named after one of the seven virtues. And Mercy. Their specialty was secret-thieving and surveillance.

Originated as a gift from the Patron to his favorite whore: Chastity, who founded the Roses. She targeted exclusively women in gangs and precarious situations to bring into her fold. Much of the Roses’ history is lost to the ashes, but within their short period of operation (~15 years), they skyrocketed to the top of the Syndicate’s ‘bitches to Be’ list, with Chastity acting as the Patron’s most beloved and most trusted confidante.

Then, one night, Rot-Eyes beat them all to death inside their hideout and burned it to the ground. And that was that. No more Roses.

The Syndicate has been in a state of slow but steady decline ever since.

[antigonenikk]

do i dare // disturb the universe?

chapter 1/2/?

pairing: john “bucky” egan/eugene sledge

summary: Eugene Sledge and John Egan are both adrift in the wake of the War. They find each other in a small bar in a small corner of Chinatown. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Chapter 2: april is the cruelest month

“April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept us warm, covering

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

A little life with dried tubers.

Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee

With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,

And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,

And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.”

——————————————————————

New York isn’t what he was expecting. He’d never been of course. He’d been to San Diego technically, for all that being stuck inside the barracks for two days before shipping out again to Alabama counter as “being in a city.” But the only real city he’d ever lived in had been Peking. He’d developed an idea subconsciously that New York would be the same. That the streets would smell of wood burning coal and fry-oil, that there would be streets crowded with sprawling marketplaces. That there would be labyrinthian alleyways and war torn buildings and giant palace complexes.

New York was not the same. The people seemed alien to him. Just as alien as the ones back home in Alabama. Their faces looked through him, leaving him a deep sense of panic that he had turned invisible. That he was a ghost. The streets smelled of baking bread and wet asphalt, and the noise of thousands of people all speaking English at once overlapped and brought him back to Pavuvu. When they’d all been living on top of one another, trying to pretend the world wasn’t ending.

It was unfamiliar. But it wasn’t all bad. He’d quickly found a place near Times Square, lured in by the neon lights and the friendly crossdressers prowling for rough trade. It felt liberating, to be here, to be alive and not in hiding. He’d remember what Shelton had told him. About the Red Light District down in New Orleans. How boys would cruise by the dockyards. He hadn’t believed it, not really. But it was true. There were people like him. Hundreds of them.

He didn’t dare touch anybody. Didn’t go out at night with desire on his mind. The wound of waking up cold and alone on that overnight train still stung a bit too deep. And besides, he’d always been a bit of a hopeless romantic at heart. The idea of cruising made him feel uncomfortable. Akin to jumping into the line of fire just to feel something. Instead he spent his days trying to figure out how to spend his unemployment. He had six more months of it left. And then it was pick a college or get a job. The possibility that he would choose wrong. That he’d waste the sum he’d earned through unwilling murder made him sweat. So he distracted himself. Spent hours at the bookstore, wandered the streets of lower Manhattan. Always somehow made his way to Chinatown by nightfall. And wasn’t that a gas. He thought he’d find something familiar there, but instead of Mandarin everyone was speaking Cantonese. And there were no families in sight. Just worn down men like himself. He’d found a bar though. A little place that reminded him of where he, Shelton and Burgie would go when they got Rec Passes. A hole in the wall with cheap beer and soft music. He’d sit in the corner sipping on drink after drink until it hit midnight. Then he’d drift over to the streets, empty as they could be, and try to clear his mind. Replace it with the sound of his feet moving one two three four. Marching easy like at base camp when they got far enough away from the huts. It didn’t seem to matter at night that you were lonely. With the sun gone down there was no one left to see. Almost like it never had happened at all. None of it.

That night he was feeling sorer than usual. He’d been at the butcher’s earlier when a car backfired. And he recalled with humiliation how he’d dropped to the floor like a sack of bricks, hands reaching for a sidearm that wasn’t there anymore. It had felt like eyes were on him. Like the whole store was staring. And so he’d ran out, kept running until his lungs started to ache. And spent the next hour curled in an alleyway for better cover, packing and repacking his pipe, not seeing much of anything at all. Now he was trying to return to normalcy. Beat down the shame. A glass of bitter Tsingtao in front of him. The place was filling up quick for a weeknight. And suddenly it just wasn’t worth it. Didn’t feel right. He wanted to be alone and to wallow and to curse at fucking everything that had led him to this point. He felt the inner lining of his jacket for his little Bible and tried to breathe. Getting up he strode towards the door, going for calm, hand on the book the entire time gripping.

And then his feet were knocked from underneath him and he landed hard onto his palms, hard. Groaning, he felt rage growing quick inside of him, begging for a release. He turned his head and felt himself torn between completely annoyance and unwilling attraction at the blue eyes and smiling face that stared down at him. He settled for an unimpressed scoff.

——————————————————————

New York was….well. It was. In a lot of ways it was like London. The only real city he’d had time to experience. The buildings were just as tall. Although these ones weren’t bombed out. Destroyed by the hand of some dumbass kid playing God, little toy soldiers collapsing into coffins. The buildings in New York were tall, and filled with pomposity. Just like the people. At first he barely noticed it. Off from Port Authority he’d made his way to Manhattan. Everyone was getting hitched and moving to the damn suburbs, so it hadn’t been hard to find a studio in a less than glamorous spot of town. After finally finding a place (a whole fucking week of living in a dirty ass hotel was starting to get to him) he holed up. Bought half a liquor store’s worth of booze, a carton of cigarettes and a month’s worth of canned food and just did nothing. Slept with a blanket on the cold floor, unable to bear the thought of buying a mattress. He checked the taps every few hours to make sure he still had water. He checked the cupboards four times a day to make sure he had enough food. And he let the panic run its course. Let it flood into and through him. He was all on his own now for the first time in five years. It felt alien. To not have someone lying beside you. To have enough to eat and drink. To be able to hear yourself really think. The silence rang heavy and weighed on him. And after two weeks he decided being a hermit wasn’t for him after all. And so he set out on the town. But man, he couldn’t stand most of the people.

He knew people now. Knew of people at least. Knew which bars were cheap, which folks were generous and would let him mooch. Knew the name of the baker and the grocer and the butcher and knew the price of a loaf of bread to the letter. But friends were off the table. It felt like everyone in the city was looking down on him. Looking at his sunken cheeks and his dead eyes and his twitching arm. Couldn’t stand it. So he rode the subway instead. The novelty of it hadn’t warn off. And even though his feet ached like a bitch he’d make a game of picking a random direction and just walking. Up the subway steps and through the alleyways, the long meandering streets. It felt a bit like the March. A bit like home. But that thought made him feel….But he didn’t think about the March, so it was fine. He played darts at bars all over the city. Got drunk as all hell and made a fool of himself. Listened to enough jazz to make his ears bleed. God. The jazz. Really that was the only time he was happy. He’d pick a spot. Any club in town. And fuck were there a lot of them. He’d sit and he’d watch the bands play. Good bands. Bad bands. God awful bands. It didn’t matter. The music sang through him. Made him want to bust up and dance and laugh and cry that he was alive at all. He lived for the nights. Lived for the music. That was reason enough to while away the days. Even if he didn’t have Buck anymore. Even if he was a shell of the man who was once a respected Major, he had the music.

That night he’d made a detour. Figured it would be funny to head down to Chinatown. See if Chinese drink had anything on Irish Whiskey. See if Chinese music had anything on American. He picked a small place, lit up with quaint little red lanterns that reminded him of the fireflies back home in Wisconsin. Except he didn’t think about Wisconsin. So he sat and smoked half a pack of cigarettes. One by one. Sipping on the oddly bitter beer the bartender had handed him, the name of which he couldn’t pronounce.

He could feel himself relaxing finally, a hazy buzz coming over him, when he turned and saw the Little Doll. Didn’t know how else to describe him. The kid, couldn’t be older than twenty one, was hunched over in the corner. His hair gleaming bright red beneath the lights. His face was an unearthly sort of white. The kind of white that reminded him of his sister’s dolls. He used to touch their cheeks when he was little. Amazed at how pure and clean the porcelain looked. Amazed that anything could be so untouched by living. The boy didn’t look untouched by living. His eyes were big and downturned and achingly empty. Cow’s eyes. Doll’s eyes. Sad little things. John heard him talking to another patron briefly and had to do a double take. The kid could actually speak Chinese. After that he tried to not look at all. But the buzz was gone. All that was left was a restless feeling. The need to constantly look over his shoulder and check that the Little Doll was still there. He felt giddy and stupid and old.

He got up to leave, drowning the rest of his piss poor drink in one go, and stumbled on the next step, watching as if in slow motion as the Doll tripped over his foot and went sprawling. Fuck. That had to have hurt. John felt himself grinning for a reason he couldn’t explain. For a moment he was a kid back on the school yard, getting ready to pull at some girl’s pigtails. He cleared his throat and reached his hand out determined to help, maybe. And then Doll turned around and he was met with the nastiest little look he’d ever gotten outside of when he’d dumped a whole bucket of ice-water over Buck’s head their second week into Basic. And he couldn’t help it. Really. He started to laugh.

He felt his hand shoved away with more power than he would have expected as Doll sprung up, glare still fixed to his pretty face, sneering out in a deep southern drawl, “Get outta my way, puhlease.”

He could feel the patented John Egan grin, the one that annoyed Buck to hell and back, making its way across his face as if it belonged there, even though it had been MIA for two years now. There was no way in hell he was about to do that.

[guineapigsinwinter]

Kaijustars?

Or a summary of characters based on the kaiju in the BAM of Beastars.

Ichiro Ghidora: Komodo Dragon. Deceased (Killed in custody by Yafya 20 years ago at age 40.) Harsh, sadistic, cruel and homophobic yet also terrifyingly intelligent, the oldest of the Ghidora brothers aimed to become the boss of the Dokugumi and then the BAM and had become the second in command of the former prior to the dance. Childhood rival/antagonist of Gojira Toho.

Jiro Ghidora: 57:Komodo Dragon. Coarse, gruff and blunt. Jiro was loyal to his older brother until he beat up Sarubo. Followed Ichiro into the Dokugumi and criminal world, and even took the fall for an extortion and assault case that saw him imprisoned. Entered the military afterwards as a way to go straight and escape Ichiro’s influence. During his 15 year service he met Biolante, Gojira’s sister who was also serving and held the same rank as he did. They married and started a family, both eventually leaving the armed forces as to be able to raise their sons, (triplets, known as the Dorats). Only one to attend Ichiro’’s funeral.

Sarubo Ghidorah 50: Komodo Dragon. Youngest of the Ghidorah brothers. Hedonist. Husband to Rodan. Air headed, ditzy, camp but also kind and holding a curiosity for almost everything, he ran away from home at 15 after refusing to join the Dokugumi or to be straight after Ichiro discovered him being fucked by a household servant, who the eldest brother then murdered in front of him. Stronger then then he appears and in many ways "chooses" to be happy and enjoy life to spite Ichiro.

Managed to scrape a living for the next few years by working odd jobs, mainly bar, retail, service and “adult services”. It was during the last that he met Rodan, becoming friends often starring together and eventually lovers and partners. Started to market gay porn, sex supplies and toys, eventually being able to open his own store.

When he was 23, Ichiro visited, demanding Sarubo rejoin the family and join his criminal enterprises, then when he refused beat him, claiming he would “beat the faggot out of you”. Rodan, Anguirus and Gojira however interviewed, saving Sarubo and driving Ichiro off. It was this event that broke Jiro’s loyalty to Ichiro and caused him to start looking into non criminal paths for his life after prison.

Three years later Sarubo opened the “Golden devastation” store. Again Ichiro visited, trying to force Sarubo to join him. This time however Sarubo and Jiro who was visiting the former whilst on leave drove him off. This was known in the BAM as the "dance of dragons." Four years later Sarubo bought the building and opened his club/gay bar in the basement. Since then Rodan has lived with him in the floor above the shop.

Biolante Ghidorah, nee Toho: 54. Komodo Dragon. Gojira’s younger sister, served in the military where she met Jiro.  Sarcastic, passionate about plants now owns and runs a small nursery just outside the city.

Rodan 52:Red Eagle. Chef, loves spicy food. Technically also part of the Yucatan community. Often blunt to the point of being rude, snarky and outside of the kitchen a bit of a clutz. Quick temper. Self conscious about his age, dyes his feathers to hide ones that have gone grey with age. Partner of Sarubo. Childhood friend of Anguirus and Gojira.

Gojira Toho 55: Komodo Dragon. Husband to Anguinus. Bi. Done various odd jobs over the years, construction, demolition, security, office, fishing and dockyard work. Now owns and runs the Monster Island café with his husband. Possibly done work for the Dokugumi in his youth? Childhood/teenage rivalry/enemy of Ichiro. Father of Gojira Jnr, who he fathered in a drunken grief induced binge when he thought Anguirus was dead. Adopted Manilla after finding the child abandoned in an alley.

Anguirus Toho 54: Komodo Dragon/Pangolin hybrid. Husband to Gojir. Polite, easy going and friendly but loves fighting and wrestling, no matter the odds and in his youth was almost always in fights. Ex professional wrestler, boxer and fighter. Was kidnapped along with Sarubo 21 years ago by Ichiro who faked their deaths hoping to break both to obeying him/joining his criminal empire.

Gojira Junior 20: Komodo Dragon. Son of Gojira and a prostitute from the former’s grief induced bender, and was then abandoned as an egg with Gojira and Anguirus. Friends with most of the younger kaiju, often roped into babysit his cousins the dorats. On and off again//friends with benefits with Titania.

Titania 22:Komodo Dragon. Genderfluid and pan. was kicked out of home 5 years ago by their family, was given a job by Gojiro as a waiter. Rents a room above the café.

Space Godzilla (Name pending) Komodo Dragon 45: Straight. Gojira and Biolante’s younger brother. Born again hippy, was a brat/thug/arsehole as a kid, and a sleezebag as a teenager and early adulthood but focussed on raising mecha. Very big into crystals, birthmark on his forehead. Father to DJ Mecha/Gojirante and Works at the docks/meat smuggler.

DJ Mecha/Gojirante 24:Komodo Dragon Bi. DJ/musician/Exhibitionist. Childhood friend/rival/frenemy with King Ceasar. On and off friends with benefits with King Ceasar. Loud, braggart, cocky and playful. Can be an arse but also kind at times. Saburo would babysit him often. Protective of Manilla. Enjoys weight lifting, gym, music/remixing and tinkering with electronics/repairing things. Exhibitionist.

Manilla, 6:Komodo Dragon Ugly as fuck. Mecha will beat up anyone who points it out. Adopted by Gojira. Sickly.

King Ceasar 24: Pan. Lion Shiba hybrid. Son of a prostitute. DJ, dancer and bar staff at Golden devastation and part time professional wrestler, spars and trains with Anguirus. Was a fan of him as a kid. Enjoys gymnastics, martial artists, wrestling and meditation. Always tries to help people, fan of love songs and pop. Childhood friend/rival with Gojirante. On and off friends with benefits with him. Exhibitionist but shy about it.

Mothra: Mary/god like figure in Komodo Dragon culture.

[inkribbon796]

Egotober 2023 Day 11: Metallic Envy

Summary: Google was a robot, so he didn’t experience jealousy. Regardless of what Bing claimed.

Prompt: Metal

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31

Google had been avoiding Bing, and he refused to comment about why he was doing it. Dark had noticed it but after verifying that nothing was wrong in Gainesville he dropped the subject.

For months Google had been working on a little pet project and Bing had all but destroyed his hard work in a single night. So he was now refusing to talk to or see Bing on principle. Even keeping his remaining extensions from Bing and trying to get Oliver back.

It all culminated when Bing just showed up in Google’s workshop, one of the warehouses Dark owned along one of Gainesville’s river dockyards.

“Sup, dude,” Bing said.

“Get out,” Google said. “I have nothing I want to say to you.”

“Come on,” Bing came over and leaned against the work table like he belonged there. “Oh, you need a different type of metal. Too light.”

“No,” Google said. “I’m making a new drone.”

“Ohh,” Bing said, smiling. As if he was welcome after what he had done.

“Get out,” Google said, moving one of his screens in front of Bing’s face.

“Nah, not until we talk,” Bing tapped the screen out of the way. “You know why I had to do it.”

“To get in my way, he was mine,” Google said.

“If it was just between you and me that would have been fine,” Bing said. “But I don’t want him near Dark, and you know Dark would micro-manage his projects.”

“I could have protected him,” Google said.

“Maybe you would have kept him physically safe but Dark would have started demanding things, weapons, and once Dark had them he wouldn’t care who he was using them on. We might have lost an extension.”

“He wouldn’t dare,” Google finally looked back at Bing completely.

“You know that for sure, he wouldn’t, even accidentally, kill one of us and go: oh well, Google can just make a new one.”

Google looked murderous, but he wasn’t commenting, he was just thinking. Which was what Bing wanted him to do. “And you can protect him from the heroes?”

“Well yeah, I’m the only Coalition member here, at least when Sharp’s not in town. What I say goes and only Jackie and Silver can override me, but I can override them.”

“And Naraj would listen to you?” Google asked.

Bing looked at Google over his orange-tinted sunglasses. “Look, if I directed him to a certain type of college where the Director was less likely to notice him, I think I could do that no problem.”

“I don’t like this, too many variables,” Google said.

“Look if you just broke away from Dark and it was just you and me, we could both mentor him,” Bing said.

“And work with the humans? Not a chance.” Google said.

Bing shrugged and leaned away from the work table, “Door’s always open.”

“As you’ve said, now get out,” Google said.

“I want a kiss first,” Bing said.

“No, go ask Green, he loves to send you those, I am busy.” Google didn’t look back at him.

“C’mon, after all the work I do to take care of our kid?” Bing pouted, like a human.

“What kid?” Google asked, actually confused.

“Logan, you know the apprentice you’ve been upset about because he spends more time with me? You know, the cool dad who doesn’t play by the rules?” Bing said.

Google looked back at him. “Naraj is a human, and although he’s now your pet and is young, that does not make him any less dangerous. And he is not “ours” by any definition of the term.”

“Sure, dude, whatever,” Bing said and with an unbearably smug expression he left Google alone.

He bothered Green and Red and then returned to Logan where Google refused to admit how often he watched over them.

[kevlo75]

Deptford is an area on the south bank of the River Thames in southeast London, within the London Borough of Lewisham. It is named after a ford of the River Ravensbourne. From the mid 16th century to the late 19th it was home to Deptford Dockyard, the first of the Royal Dockyards. This was a major shipbuilding dock and attracted Peter the Great to come and study shipbuilding. Deptford and the docks are associated with the knighting of Sir Francis Drake by Queen Elizabeth I aboard the Golden Hind, the legend of Sir Walter Raleigh laying down his cape for Elizabeth,Captain James Cook's third voyage aboard HMS Resolution, and the mysterious apparent murder of Christopher Marlowe in a house along Deptford Strand. #deptford #london (à Deptford Market Yard) https://www.instagram.com/p/CplFdzJL_Ka/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[mariacallous]

When I was growing up in Albania in the 1990s, the father of one of my friends was a people smuggler. We used to call him B the Lame. B the Lame had not always been a smuggler. Before the country transitioned from a communist state to a liberal one, he worked shifts in the dockyard, where he would make fishing nets and repaint boats.

He did not look like a smuggler – he was tiny and anaemic and walked with a limp. He did not choose to be a smuggler – the privatisation reforms that accompanied the arrival of political pluralism forced dockyard managers to make redundancies, so B and his wife found themselves unemployed. Nor did he think of himself as a smuggler: it was a job like any other. He was paid to help people on dinghies reach Italy, and he needed the money to feed his children. He was a little afraid, but not ashamed of his activity. For decades, Albanians had been murdered by their state whenever they tried crossing the border. In the very rare cases in which people succeeded, relatives left behind were deported. Finally, Albanians were free, and B the Lame was helping them realise their dreams. He spoke of this with a touch of pride.

One night, B the Lame disappeared and never returned. Some people said he was killed; others that he drowned in the Adriatic Sea, eaten by the same fishes he used to build nets for.

Migration has been both a blessing and a curse for Albania since the end of the cold war. It has been a blessing because without remittances from Albanian migrants, their families would have struggled with the devastating impact of the neoliberal “shock therapy” reforms that promised to turn a failed isolated communist state into a flourishing capitalist paradise. It has been a curse because, contrary to what Tory propaganda would have you believe, nobody enjoys leaving their country just for the sake of annoying people in another. Even putting aside the dangers of unauthorised crossings, and even where legal routes are available, migration tears families apart, and brain drain is an open wound.

Every year the Albanian state invests in doctors and nurses who soon after graduation abandon their country, lured by higher salaries and better living conditions in the west. When you support a points-based immigration system or agree that Britain needs to invest in attracting high-skilled migrants, you are effectively endorsing a form of exploitation. Albanians will work and pay taxes for British elderly people to be looked after by Albanian nurses. Hospitals there will suffer shortages so that patients here can continue to receive adequate care.

Western governments are hardly troubled by any of this. Migration for them is a statistic. B the Lame was one of the hundreds of thousands of Albanians whose fate was sealed by migration. I am another. To the British government and its home secretary, Suella Braverman, we are both criminals.

An “invasion” by Albanians, even leaving aside the plausibility of that metaphor in a country with one of the lowest rates of asylum applicants in Europe, suggests a sudden reversal in trends and a distinctive, malign intention to target the UK. The truth is that since the end of the cold war, Albania has had the highest per capita rate of migration in Europe, a trend that the United Nations predicts will continue for at least two more decades. After the financial crisis of 2008-9, when the EU strangled countries such as Greece (where more than half of the migrant population is Albanian), remittances declined significantly.

Covid-19 dealt another blow to an already weak and highly unequal state, as many businesses closed and healthcare costs rose. It didn’t help that our western European “allies” hoarded vaccines without worrying about the long-term implications for other countries. But despite all that, in the summer of 2021, and in the aftermath of Nato’s withdrawal from Afghanistan, Albania – a country of 2.8 million people and one of the poorest in Europe – agreed to host 4,000 Afghan refugees turned down by wealthier Nato states.

It is true that in the last year the numbers of Albanian migrants have been rising, both to the EU and to the UK. This is alarming for Albania, but hardly something that would provoke the collapse of a G7 country. Albanians know – also through social media – that following Brexit there are significant labour market shortages in the UK. It’s the EU workers that the UK has lost as a result of Brexit whom they are hoping to replace. They also know that Calais has become increasingly vulnerable, since sharing information with French authorities is now more complicated – weaker links with European agencies mean that UK officers have to ask Albanian ones for data they would have previously obtained by the French. In short, this is a very British, more specifically a very Tory, problem.

There are about 140,000 Albanians currently living in the UK, ranging from construction workers to doctors, from lawyers to cleaners, from entrepreneurs to academics. The vast majority are well integrated: they pay taxes, they queue, they apologise to inanimate objects, they swear loyalty to the monarchy. When all are labelled criminals, their differences, their personal histories, their contributions to society, become invisible. The ideal of democracy is taken hostage by the ugly reality of martial metaphors. When an entire minority group is singled out as “invaders”, the project of integration breaks down. All that remains is violence, a world divided between friends and enemies, which fuels anger and legitimises hostility.

Albanians have become the latest victims of an ideological project that exposes minorities to negative stereotyping, xenophobia and racism, and all for the sake of concealing its own political failures. They unfortunately continue to look up to the UK as a model of stability, liberal integration and good governance. They know of course of recent turmoils: it was through Albanian social media that I discovered the meme depicting Rishi Sunak as prime minister of the month. But they treat it as a one-off oddity. This might explain why, although Albanians were rightly offended to be called invaders, not one of them pointed out the paradox of treating Albanian people as enemies on the one hand, while asking for the Albanian government to cooperate as friends on the other.

In response, Albanian authorities suggested that the state is ready to cooperate with the UK to resolve the migrant “crisis”. As a matter of fact, they have been cooperating all along, as Braverman admitted herself. I am sceptical about the likelihood of success in cooperating with a government that has created the very emergency it is trying to solve.

But the real question is one of morality rather than efficiency. Braverman’s remarks were gratuitous, insulting and harmful to the tens of thousands of Albanians who contribute to their adopted country while carrying the trauma of having abandoned their native one. As UK citizens, we should be asking for her to resign. As Albanian citizens, we should be asking Albanian authorities to refuse cooperation without an apology.

[ltwilliammowett]

Murder in the Dockyard or a question of seniority

It is 13 January 1798, two men face each other in the darkness of a dockyard in Antigua - and only one will survive this meeting... 

It is January and only two ships are in English Harbour, Antigua, the sloop Favourite commanded by Lieutenant Lord Thomas Pitt Camelford, 23 years old and a cousin of William Pitt and Admiral Sir Sidney Smith. The other was the frigate Perdrix, commanded by Captain Fahie, who was not on board, leaving the ship in the hands of his first lieutenant Charles Peterson, also in his early 20s. Both went about their work, ignoring each other where they could, which already surprised many. As luck would have it, they already knew each other and not very well. Peterson had already served under him on the Favourite as Camelford, even though he had been appointed lieutenant two years earlier. However, Camelford had been luckier and, thanks to his kinship, already had a command. This already led to tensions. Even more of a problem was the fact that they were courting the same woman. Around 1798, mutinies broke out on various ships and Camelford, who as commander also had a bad reputation and a tendency to violence towards his men, found himself confronted with a burgeoning mutiny. And then the fort at English Harbour reported that enemy ships were approaching and that something should be done, but who was in command? Camelford, who as a lieutenant commanded his own ship, or the more senior Peterson. Camelford, who saw it as his duty, let Peterson know that he was in command and that he and his men would have to place themselves at his disposal. Peterson, being the senior officer, did not see the point and sent Camelford an order asking him to provide the guard boat, signed "Lieutenant Charles Peterson, Senior Officer of HM Ships and Vessels for the time being in English Harbour". The situation began to escalate.

The Caneing in Conduit Street by James Gillray (1796), a caricature of Camelford's assault on George Vancouver - showing his insane behaviour. (x)

Camelford, now fully in a rage, sent his acting lieutenant Milward and some marines to arrest Peterson for insubordination and preparing mutiny. Milward forcibly gained access to Peterson and, in a scuffle that broke out, Peterson threatened Milward with his sword. A marine sergeant then knocked the Favourite master's head off his shoulders. Peterson called his party together and disembarked (unfortunately it is not known what happened to the sergeant, but he was presumably arrested) and went to the dockyard. Camelford, who learned of this a short time later, now gathered his men in a frenzy to join Peterson and threatened to either whip them to death or shoot them all if they joined the mutiny. Milward, now completely confused, tried to mediate, and it was Peterson who made the first move. He ordered his men to ready their weapons. Anticipating that the next order would be to fire, Camelford stepped forward and shouted loudly to ask where Peterson was. I'm here, damn you!" came the reply. Camelford then asked if he was still defying his lawful orders, and when Peterson replied, "Yes, sir," he shot him in the heart at close range. After that, his men dispersed quietly.

The enemy did not attack Antigua, which was fortunate considering the chaos aboard the two Royal Navy ships. A private report by Captain Mitford of HMS Matilda, who then investigated the matter, said that "the whole thing arose out of a great deal of bad blood which has long existed between the parties" and that he assumed Camelford simply wanted to get rid of a rival in love and career. However, Lord Camelford was acquitted by a court martial, which found his actions justified. It also found that the rules were unclear as to whether a lieutenant's appointment "to the rank of commander confers on him seniority above other lieutenants". The Admiralty promptly changed this and ruled that seniority among lieutenants should be determined solely by length of service, and this remains true today. In memory of Peterson, there is an anchor in the dockyard where he died, known as Peterson's anchor.

Peterson’s anchor in the dockyard of English Harbour, Antigua (x)

Thomas Pitt Camelford, however, only continued with his aggressive and impulsive behaviour. In October 1797, Camelford commanded a ship near Grenada and attacked what he thought was a hostile but was in fact an English fortress. In Barbados, he tried to press men into service at sea, which was legal in itself, but Pitt shot two men who resisted him in the process. His family and rank protected him once again from the consequences of his actions.

However, the Commander-in-Chief of the West Indies Fleet sent Camelford back to England.There, he attracted attention through increasingly wild and violent behaviour. He was soon called half-mad lord in the press. In May 1799 he was convicted of pushing a man down a flight of stairs during an argument; this was just one of many brawls he was involved in. In January 1802, an angry crowd broke the windows of his house because he refused to illuminate the building to celebrate the peace treaty with France.

In 1804 he quarrelled with his friend Captain Best for allegedly making a derogatory remark about Camelford to the latter's mistress; the woman, a high-class prostitute, had previously been involved with Best. Camelford challenged Best to a duel, rejecting later efforts by Best to reconcile. On 7 March 1804, the two met in the grounds of Holland House. Camelford missed his opponent, but Best hit and shot him in the chest. The latter died of his injuries three days later at the age of 29.

[resowrites]

Sherlock Holmes: The Winding Sheet Part 2

Summary: Amelia Bainbridge is urgently seeking the assistance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, so that she might finally understand what caused her brothers mysterious death six months ago. At first the facts are scant and Mr. Holmes dismisses the case as unworthy of his time. But then Amelia mentions a curious detail and suddenly, the game is afoot…

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (I envisioned Henry’s version but the story could apply to Rathbone right through to Cumberbatch), OC!Amelia Bainbridge, Mrs. Hudson, OC characters.

Warnings: adult/dark themes such as murder, occasional threat of violence/danger, some period misogyny, angsty, mentions of sickness and death, lightly beta’d.

WC: 2324

My work must not be copied, reposted, or translated elsewhere. Likes, follows, reblogs and comments are thoroughly welcome and appreciated! No copyright infringement intended, gifs/pics not my own. I hope you all enjoy and thanks for visiting!

Part 2:

The train ride down was particularly uncomfortable. Though he'd sought an empty compartment, the morning rush meant they were mostly full to the brim. Now that he had a degree of celebrity, Mr. Holmes kept his head bowed and his top hat tilted low over his face. Luckily the journey to Hertfordshire wasn't overly long and at least it provided a reprieve from Baker Street. He often found time marched particularly slowly when Dr. Watson wasn't around. But he brushed those thoughts from his mind, not wishing to become maudlin. He still hadn’t read Dr. Watson’s letter, reserving such task for later that evening when he’d have little else to do. Instead, he ran his mind over his visit earlier that morning to the dockyards, fortunately, it proved most useful..."Excuse me, sir, do you have the time?" A young woman, about the age of Miss Bainbridge, tapped him lightly on his sleeve.

"A quarter to nine Madam..." he spoke brusquely, annoyed at his thoughts having been interrupted. He considered the young woman for a moment and quickly realised her need to know the time. Her bodice was inside out and her hair and hat were improperly arranged. Given the early hour and the fact that any engagement would have seen her on the return journey to London instead, he deduced she was fleeing a late night rendezvous with someone inappropriate. Her wedding ring looked as though it had been jammed back on her ring finger, which was red and bulged at the knuckle. She was also kept nervously looking out the window and chewing her already sore looking lips as if such actions would hasten their journey. Mr. Holmes smiled inwardly, amused at the foibles of ordinary folk. However much they managed to scheme and plan, it was the minor details that always gave them away in the end.

Eventually, the carriage whistled to a stop, and one by one, the compartments slowly emptied. Again his mind flew to Dr. Watson and his excitement at finally disembarking from a train to be off on one of their adventures. He was sure this case wouldn't prove so exciting but Dr. Watson would want to hear about it regardless. Strangely enough, he was in Hertfordshire on his sabbatical, and Mr. Holmes wondered if he should wire him to suggest going for lunch somewhere. But eventually, he decided against it, as fond as they were of each other, he knew Dr. Watson appreciate a break from his dark moods and darker habits. He'd be home in another few weeks and Mr. Holmes would have all the time in the world to relate to him this strange case. For now, he had to make it to the estate with enough time to make the proper enquiries before Mr. Thomas returned. 

Though transportation was scant, Mr. Holmes made his way on foot until he managed to flag down a passing coach that, fortunately enough, was on its way back to the estate. Its driver happened to be the head gardener and he seized the opportunity to ask him a few questions, though he kept his identity and true destination secret. "Do you know who currently manages the estate, it looks like a prime location for summer parties..." Mr. Holmes bit back a smile, knowing he was about the last person on earth to attend such a gathering.

"Well... I don't think they'd rent the place out, it's a bit run down if you ask me. Used to be owned by a lovely family but the heads of the house have been dead for some years and a custodian now looks after it... between you and me, he's a bit of a sort..." the gardener's eyes roved around as though they were somehow being watched.

"Oh? What makes you say that?" Mr. Holmes kept his voice only casually interested, as though he was only making conversation for the sake of it.

"Well... he's the controlling sort, you know? Rules the house with an iron rod and doesn't let the young folk have much fun. Mind you, that's when he's around. He's usually off doing all sorts, I've seen lots of coaches on the road at night, ferrying crates there and back. Wouldn't surprise me if he's a bootlegger... but I've said too much." Again Mr. Holmes tried not to smile, country folk were always the first to gossip despite their protestations. "And what business have you in these parts, you visiting the old house?" As was also the case, they demanded plenty of information in return.

"Oh no, I'm just out for a day trip... London air is so vile at this time of year. If you'll stop here, I'll take a draught at the local guesthouse and continue on my way after lunch." It was fortuitous that they'd passed a local pub, he knew he wasn't far from the estate from the few road signs he was able to see and he'd be able to make the rest of the way on foot. He gave the gardener a sovereign and hopped down from the coach. They waved at each other and Mr. Holmes watched as he trotted away, not prepared to move another inch until the coach was out of sight. No doubt local gossip would discuss his arrival in the area, he just had to hope such talk wouldn't make its way to the estate and arouse the suspicions of Mr. Thomas. About half an hour later, he finally arrived at the sprawling, if dilapidated mansion. The gardener wasn't incorrect about it being run down. The gardens had also burnt to a crisp in the summer sun, giving the place an almost abandoned look. 

He hurried down the driveway and hastily knocked on the door, hoping that it was Miss Bainbridge who'd answerand not one of the servants. Not that there seemed to be many about. The gardener, for example, was nowhere to be seen. The door peeled back slowly to reveal a worried looking Miss Bainbridge. 

"Come in, quickly..." she whispered as she pulled him roughly into the hallway. "Mr. Thomas has returned, he's in his study, but if we're careful and quiet, we should go unnoticed." Mr. Holmes nodded and held out his hand, signalling for her to lead the way. He didn't know what they were going to do if caught, he just had to hope it wouldn't come to that. Quickly, they headed up the heavily carpeted staircase, which fortunately muffled most of their noise. She briskly led him into her brother's old room and motioned for him to remove his shoes.

"Mr. Thomas' study is directly below, you'll have to tiptoe but be very careful, the floorboards creak." Mr. Holmes nodded and removed his hat, coat, and boots with great care. He directed Amelia to keep a lookout, and she did so despite still carrying his effects. Fortunately, the room was small and he made short work of examining the floor and the windowsill. Both showed nothing untoward though the windows were indeed permanently locked. Only a locksmith would be able to open them again. He carefully crossed to the fireplace and knelt down to examine the ash. Assuming the room hadn't been used since the death of Amelia's brother, pertinent evidence could still be lurking in the grate. But there was nothing. At least, nothing unusual. Just the ash of run of the mill cigarettes and common place firewood. There was no indication of any untoward substances or powders. 

Mr. Holmes felt the familiar sensation of defeat. When he got to his feet and glanced towards the desk, his only hunch was also out of the question. To be sure, he quickly examined the desk and it seemed to have been cleared of its belongings. Sighing, he took one final glance at the walls, seeking evidence of a ventilation grate, but saw nothing. Close to desperate, he also checked the bedside cabinet and wardrobe, these too were empty. He motioned for Amelia to return his effects and quickly led her back down the landing and out towards a small courtyard. Being at the back of the house and away from prying eyes, they could talk more freely. "I must confess Miss Bainbridge, for the moment I am stumped. Tell me, do you know what effects were cleared from his room?" It would be a tall order for her to remember in any detail, but he knew she would try her best.

"Well... just the usual items one would expect in a bedroom, clothes, books, his shaving kit, stationary..." Mr. Holmes nodded though so far, she hadn't been much help.

"And were these items stored or discarded?" Amelia frowned.

"I believe they were discarded... I requested permission to keep his books... but this was refused." She looked down sadly and she had Mr. Holmes's sympathies though unfortunately, they were now at a dead end. A thought then came into his mind.

"I remember you said you were to sleep in his room tonight? When will it likely be made up?" Amelia thought for a moment.

"Most likely after lunch... why do you ask?" But the thoughts now coalesced in his mind, of course, he wasn't going to find what he was looking for just yet... it hadn't yet been placed in the room. 

"Nevermind that for the moment... tell me, is there somewhere I could remain until the room has been made ready for you? She wrung her hands, aware that with every moment Mr. Holmes remained on the grounds, their chances of being found out increased dramatically.

"Well... if you head out that gate over there, there's a little alley that leads to a back road. From there, you'll see a small paddock with trees. You could take shade there for the next half an hour and I will attempt to get the room made up..." Mr. Holmes smiled at her ingenuity.

"Yes, if possible, request that it be made up now... suggest you have a headache or similar such ailment and need to lie down. I'll return here in half an hour, be waiting for me." They nodded at each and departed. Half an hour wasn't long to wait and yet for Amelia it would seem like a lifetime. She trudged back into the house and after making enquiries with the maid, she intended to head into the dayroom to read. However, it seems Mr. Thomas had spotted her and beckoned her over with a crooked finger. She swallowed but walked toward him casually.

"Good morning my dear... I thought I could hear voices from upstairs, are you entertaining?" Amelia tried to remain calm and smiled.

"Oh no Father, I went upstairs to check if my room was ready. You see I have a headache and wish to lie down..." She didn't know if he was convinced or not but he nodded and led her back to his study. The small room stank of damp and cigarette smoke. She coughed as she waved some of the stronger smoke away.

"Won't you be seated, dear? I have something I wish to discuss..." she coughed harder now and was almost doubled over.

"Must we do it here Father? You know I struggle with the smoke..." but he just grinned and pointed to a chair on the other side of his desk.

"It will only take a moment... please, sit." She obeyed, hoping that this would lead to their meeting ending sooner.

"What is it, Father? I'm unwell and need to lie down..." she looked at him pleadingly though, of course, it did no good.

"The housekeeper told me you left early this morning, for what purpose pray?" He tilted his head, clearly convinced of the reason already. Amelia cleared her throat, more due to the smoke than anything else, and regarded him coolly.

"I had to enquire about a different kind of lace... the one selected for my dress for the wedding turned out to be poor quality..." she couldn't help but smirk, her stepfather hated any mention of the wedding, especially remarks made about the choice of fabric he'd reluctantly agreed to purchase.

"Is that so? Well then you'll have no issue showing me the receipts... after all, it is I who foots the cost!" He'd raised his voice now, anger colouring his otherwise grey cheeks. Amelia had to bite the insides of hers to keep from laughing.

"It's on order father, as yet no receipt has been produced. I assure you it's the same price, just a better cloth. Now if you'll permit me, I really must lie down." He made no response as she rose from the chair, only to have another coughing fit as she left the room. She could still see his miserable face as she shut the door firmly behind her. At that moment she saw their housekeeper skipping toward her.

"Room's all finished ma'am. Will there be anything else?" She tried not to shake her head too eagerly.

"No, thank you Mrs. Floyd, I'll just be taking the air in the courtyard... you know how my chest gets with the smoke." Mrs. Floyd nodded and departed, clearly more concerned with finishing the rest of her many chores that morning. Once she was sure she'd gone, Amelia hurried back to the courtyard, though at first she could see no sign of Mr. Holmes. When he eventually emerged from the side of the wall, she nearly jumped in shock. 

"Goodness I had no idea you were standing there! Why must you play such tricks?" Amelia grabbed her poor chest, which had seen enough excitement for one day.

"Forgive me Miss Bainbridge, but the art of concealment is to hide in plain sight. Now, is the room prepared?" She nodded, having finally regained her senses. 

"Good... then come with me." For the second time that morning, the pair quickly and quietly headed back into the foreboding house. 

A/N: Hi guys, as a huge Sherlock Holmes fan of both the original stories and the many series/films, it’s my pleasure to present this new short series. Any feedback is appreciated and the final Part 3 will be out next Saturday at 6pm EST - so I hope you’ll continue to stick around and enjoy more to come!

To be updated on when I post please follow @resowrites and turn on post notifications.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Time traveling bad guy. WR?

Targets - Chapter 1 - ao3

Nie Mingjue knew that spies were a necessity of life, even if he wished they weren’t.

Life, he often thought, would be much easier if you could just trust other people to be direct with you and they in turn trusted you to be direct with them, if you could resolve minor disputes with a spar to get out the energy and then some good conversation over some wine. Sadly, life just wasn’t like that.

So, like any good sect leader, Nie Mingjue had spies.

Usually, they sent reports through underground channels – there were many of them, enough to give him a headache trying to recall them all – but his spymaster had told him that in times of great need, one of the spies might decide that the news they had was so important that they would risk destroying their own cover and come in person. In such cases, Nie Mingjue knew that he had to let them in at once, no matter what else might be going on.

He did not know the spy currently in front of him except in portraiture, as the man had been put in place by Nie Mingjue’s father, but Nie Mingjue knew the signs of someone who had flown on a sword all night at top speed. He excused himself from all other obligations and took the man into the office with him at once, assuming the news was important.

It was.

“Are you certain about this?” Nie Mingjue asked, staring at the piece of paper he was doing his utmost best not to crumple in his fist.

The spy nodded.

“Thank you,” Nie Mingjue said. “Go get the doctors to look at you, some food, then rest. You won’t be returning to Qishan.”

The spy saluted with a deep bow, and then left.

Nie Mingjue took a deep breath, held it for a few heartbeats, and then exhaled. Then he summoned his war council and told them that Wen Ruohan was starting a war.

“He’s not ready yet,” one of his sect elders objected. “It may just be a ruse to get our guard up –”

“It is not,” Nie Mingjue said firmly. “It is happening. If it were just aimed at us, it would be one thing, but this move affects all the Great Sects. I want all the precautions we put in place activated at once: everyone inside the walls, the shields raised, and a purge conducted of all those we know or suspect to be spies.”

They seemed ready to argue, just as they’d always argued against all of his preparations, all of his precautions, against his desire for revenge against the man who had murdered his father, so he added, ”I have called you in here to inform you of my decision, not seek consultation. It is not up for debate.”

Hearing the determination in his voice, his sect elders did not argue. They bowed.

“In connection with alerting the other sects, I’ll go myself to Yunmeng,” Nie Mingjue said, shelving any feelings of relief that they had not opposed him and moving on to practicalities. “Jiang Fengmian is cautious and conservative; he won’t take anything other than a personal visit seriously enough.” He hesitated briefly, then firmed up his resolve. “I’m taking Huaisang with me.”

They all looked at the piece of paper laying innocently on his desk.

The list of names.

Of targets.

The list held the names of all their younger generation, the heirs of the Great Sects and a few other names – Wen Ruohan had given orders that they all be captured and brought to the Nightless City. If the capture were rendered impossible, his instructions were that they be killed rather than allowed to escape.

Killed. The heirs of the Great Sects!

“Yunmeng?” Nie Zonghui said, not opposing but merely seeking to confirm. “Not Gusu?”

The Gusu Lan were better allies of theirs than Yunmeng Jiang, but that was exactly why Nie Mingjue shook his head in denial. “I’ll give you my personal seal,” he told Nie Zonghui. “Lan Qiren was a friend of my father’s, and trusts me personally; moreover, he is very protective of his nephews. He will agree to our request even without my personal guarantee.”

Nods all around.

“What about Lanling?” one of the other elders asked. “Jin Guangshan is a closer ally to Qishan Wen than he is to us. His son is on the list, and yet…whether he will believe us…”

“The reports say that the Wen sect is dragging their feet on fulfilling their orders, confusing and dangerous as they are,” Nie Mingjue said. “That’s why I believe I can make it to Yunmeng in time. From Yunmeng, I’ll go in person to Lanling, making only one diversion to get this – Meng Yao person that’s ranked so highly on the list, though as a precaution we should send a disciple ahead to locate and hold him. As for Lanling…”

He bit his lower lip. He usually tried not to, especially not when he was pretending to be even half the sect leader his father had been – he was only three years into the role, only eighteen years old even if he was pretending to be twenty-one, and these elders had seen him grow up. The last thing he wanted was to project immaturity as he was making what was either best or worst decision of his life.

Still, a list like this..? He was sure the information was good, even if he had no idea what it was that had driven Wen Ruohan from his slow, cautious plans for domination that they could not stop even as they knew what he was doing, to change from that into this – this recklessness.  

The only way to counter a move like this was with recklessness of their own.

“Send someone to Lanling City,” he finally said. “Someone not formally affiliated with our sect. If the Wen sect drags their feet, that leaves a window open for someone else to make the attempt. A failed kidnapping attempt will make them raise their guard just in time to block any real attempt, and make my argument, when I arrive to present it, significantly more persuasive.”

They were silent for a moment. Finally, an elder said, “If Jin Guangshan ever finds out that we took this action, it would be catastrophic. Even if it ultimately turns out the list is correct.”

“I know,” Nie Mingjue said. “Nevertheless, that is my decision. Go.”

They bowed again, and went.

Nie Mingjue went to find Nie Huaisang.

“We’re going on a trip now,” he said, bundling his brother into a winter coat despite the warm fall weather – his brother was ten and nowhere near having the golden core he would need to develop to keep himself warm at the high altitudes they would be flying at. “It’ll be fun.”

It would not be fun.

He would have to fly at top speed, putting all his spiritual energy and concentration on that – there would be no sight-seeing, no playing around, only the cold and bitter air blowing into their faces.

But he didn’t dare leave his brother here, either. Not when Nie Huaisang’s name was on the list.

Not before they’d cleaned house.

They weren’t the only ones to use spies, after all.

“Where are we going?” Nie Huaisang said, eyes brightening at once. “Is there shopping there?”

“Amazing amounts of shopping,” Nie Mingjue said, thinking of the Lotus Pier’s busy dockyards and Lanling City’s shopping district. “I don’t know how much time we’ll have to actually go shopping, though.”

Nie Huaisang waved a hand like the spoiled young master he was. “It’s fine, da-ge,” he said loftily. “I can just keep track of where I want to visit later on.”

As long as there was a later on, Nie Mingjue would take Nie Huaisang anywhere he damn well liked, and let him empty half the treasury to boot.

“Deal,” he said, and drew Baxia.

Nie Huaisang’s eyes widened. “Wait, when you said we’re leaving now, you mean – now? Don’t we need to wait for whatever attendants are coming with us?”

“Get on the saber, Huaisang.”

Nie Huaisang got on the saber.

Nie Mingjue departed the Unclean Realm with no attendants but for his younger brother for the first time in his time as sect leader, and as he left he could feel the oppressive weight of the Nie sect’s magical shield come crashing down behind him, its prohibition even stricter than Gusu Lan’s with its required entrance tokens. Just as he’d arranged over a year ago now, the most trusted of his people would be calling in everyone for a review – all the Nie sect disciples, all the staff and servants, even their usual suppliers, anyone with access to the Unclean Realm. Everyone deemed even remotely suspicious would be temporarily removed from their post and placed under guard; once cleared, Nie sect disciples would be stationed among the common people to root out any leaks that might come from that direction.

The Unclean Realm would be cleansed of the taint of Qishan Wen, and all before the Nightless City would hear of it, cutting them off before they could break off their rash course of action in kidnapping the heirs.

As for the heirs themselves…

Nie Mingjue could only hope that he would make it in time.

[redstarbonky]

a breakdown of zemo reacting to dr. nagel, or, >:3 face versus :| face

!!!this post is packed with spoilers!!!

we all know by now that zemo tends to wear his villainous >:3 face while interacting with sam and bucky. it's the face of a dude who's not very stressed out! but this expression goes away during the encounter with dr. nagel. in fact, the whole gadfly personality melts away like it was never there.

so here's a BUNCH OF WORDS ABOUT IT while MAXING OUT THE NUMBER OF PICTURES I'M ALLOWED TO HAVE PER POST

tagging @h-zemo because...*vague zemo gestures*

in the dockyard scene, zemo is the first to poke around enough to discover the secret door to nagel's lab. he's a man on a mission...and notably, sharon and the lads have elected not to give him a weapon

in this image he is looking at nagel, who is unaware of his presence. this is the face he wore through most of CA:CW, when he was mostly thinking about how superpeople destroyed his entire country and got his family killed, and how that is all the fault of captain america (sort of), the serum's first and most dramatic success

zemo doesn't even want superpeople to exist. you can imagine what he would think of the continued existence of the serum itself, let alone a person who knows how to make it

not coincidentally, he has this expression the entire time they're dealing with nagel. this is the face of desire to murder

sam has taken nagel gently hostage (sam is good ok?) and 'introduced' him: "this is baron zemo. i know you've heard of him, too, right?" zemo just looks like this and doesn't say anything...

nagel avoided looking right at bucky after initially seeing him (probably thinking that that's the winter soldier, likely known to the world after CA:CW as a dangerous person, an assassin, a terrorist). but he does stop to make eye contact with zemo before sam pushes him along.

in what capacity has nagel heard of zemo? the aftermath of the events of CA:CW? has zemo tried to kill nagel before? i don't want to read too much into the glance here, it can be read as straightforward simmering anger at the intrusion. but nagel looked pretty intently at zemo for the half-second he was allowed to. contrast to sam, whom he barked at immediately, and bucky, who made him freeze on the spot

i don't believe nagel is anything more than a plot point, especially because he's dead by the end of the scene. but would i be surprised if zemo had looked for nagel before? not at all

as sam leads nagel out of the work area, zemo follows...(bonus handsome sam profile in blur-o-vision, you're welcome)

and when bucky subtly threatens nagel with a shot that should have deafened all of them but hey it's television, sam flinches, but zemo just looks dispassionately

like this pic doesn't need to be a gif. he doesn't flinch, he doesn't move his eyes, he's just looking

then he wanders around and looks for a...let's call it 'security system.' because as mentioned before, sharon & co. chose not to give him a weapon. he finds it under the lab table. i believe this gun is what nagel was likely going for when telling sam to gtfo of his lab and starting to leave his work area. zemo was part of a kill squad. he probably knows common hiding places for weapons

zemo casually walks back out, looks at nagel, and seems conveniently positioned to fire the chekhov's gun in his left hand

(btw i don't believe for a second that there's no serum in the lab. i think nagel is just lying, badly, and banking on the three of them having no idea what the finished serum looks like. THEY ARE LITERALLY SURROUNDED BY BLUE VIALS FFS anyway getting off-topic 😶)

then sharon bursts in to tell them they need to hurry up, and zemo takes advantage of the distraction to shoot nagel dead

he has pretty much the same expression when sam and sharon pin him (sam even yells "NO!" for the illicit chemist because he's a grade-A good guy, while bucky wanders around short-circuiting. seriously watch that part again it's hilarious. he's "???😐????" while everyone else is ">:OOO")

we don't clearly see zemo's face again until after he's escaped the burning lab, blown up several dudes, and taken off his thanos cosplay/stunt double face hider/bank robber mask

with a serum creator and a serum lab totally obliterated, the >:3 expression returns, and he's back to his normal, quietly ridiculous, vintage car otaku self.

it's not even just that zemo is pissed off throughout the scene - he's tense. when his >:3 face comes back, it's because he's not stressed anymore!

big ups to daniel brühl for this piece of interesting acting, i'm sorry it COMPLETELY went over my head until i rewatched the episode

[thexam-union]

It’s the Dockyard crew up next! Look at them go! Or not, because to be completely honest, you don’t want to see Mezzetino and/or Rotanev going. You will definitely be missing a few pieces if you say the wrong things to them. None of these three are particularly social, by typical standards, but they will answer anything pushed their way, even if it means they have to get pestered by coworkers to do it.

And while the Fearstival isn’t coming back for 2021 Fright Nights, it’s still worth giving Mezzetino a featurepiece just because I care them. Who knows, this clown might be load-bearing!

Text under the cut, just don’t bully Rotanev too much for not being able to write. It’s hard doing it with the wrong hand.

Rotanev:

Name : Rotanev Attraction : The Walking Dead: The Ride Zone : Dockyard Sector : Corvus Local Duty : Security + Pest Control

Rotanev is the sort of brute-force person who will throw out the bushel for a bad apple. That's kind of their job. Because no one else is okay to do it and morals aren't a thing Rotanev can be bothered to care about. Most people who grace the TPSZ know about them and know to stay out of their way, given something something machete murderer. As well as that, they're generally very offputting because of their constant tiredness and missing an arm and an eye. Just means they've been through shit, but who hasn't these days?

They're not really the type to make friends, either. Their coworker often gets into arguments with them about how they try to run things - "isolate for a month before you even think about coming in" - but it's what you have to do to stop one bad apple taking everyone down with them. Most people don't even realise that if you catch it early and lop off the affected area, you're fine. Rotanev's done it, and look at them now. Sure, they hate anything medical with something easily described as a phobia, but they're alive. So that counts for something. As well as that, being "unhinged and weird" really helps keep people in line, even when you have no violent intent towards anyone involved and just want a nap.

When the whole apocalypse thing happened, they got all two people that they cared about to a forest and vibed for well over two months before shit hit the fan. Supply run went bad, specifically. They haven't been the same since, physicality being the short end of it.

Mezzetino:

Name : Mezzetino Attraction : The Fearstival Zone : Dockyard Sector : Corvus Local Duty : Circus Performer ( Juggler )

Mezzetino is a schemer, and is not afraid to ask people from outside the Fearstival to help them out with their antics. They're quick to think, not very quick to run, and tend to not see their projects through to the end if they're  looking like a bust. They do like to travel, though! It's not like anyone will notice their absence, either, given they know to keep their head down when at work, and not just because of the fact that there tends to be swinging blades!

Their favourite hangout is actually probably the District, given something something "people are able to deal with their antics", though to be completely frank, hanging around the dockyard just makes them kind of sad!

They're incredibly quick to get bored with their own schemes, though. That's something anyone who's been with them can tell you, despite the fact they've been trying to kill the compére for years, now. It just doesn't work! Not without help! And people that can help are all "well murder's bad and you shouldn't do it" as if it isn't their job to keep out a certain type of person with lethal force? It just seems a bit wonky, really, and is another reason why District 199 is their second home at this point.

Back onto topic, though, Mezzetino loves to show off their work in shows of all shapes and sizes. Anything that can get them looked at for what they're doing rather than for who they are is a win in their book, as weird as it sounds! They also had a go at that labyrinth thingy everyone's talking about, but they weren't interested in them, which was disappointing.

Mirzam:

Name : Mirzam Attraction : Derren Brown's Ghost Train Zone : Dockyard Sector : Corvus Local Duty : Mechanic

Mirzam's just going through a lot lately. Specifically, he's on the job with making sure the train is all well and fine, which would be lovely if not for the fact that there's literal demons running all over the place. But hey, they can't fire him and he can't quit, so it really can't get much worse. Being a mechanic and finding meat in the gears is about as fun as you'd expect, but it's better than actually going out there, so he'll take it. He's just tired and wants to work his tenure through to the end.

Given the job's a full-time gig, Mirzam rarely leaves the Dockyard. But to be completely blunt about things, even if he could, he wouldn't. The other places tend to suck, and while Amity was on the shortlist of places to go, it's always underwater and there's all sorts of nonsense going on. No thank you. He does keep an eye out for new arrivals, though. For all the not liking the neighbours, he wants friends and it's not like anyone sees Demetrius at the anywhere. He does occasionally get asked to drop by the District for tech support reasons, but given what's going on there? Not a fun touriest destination. 2/10, at least some of the people are nice.

Problems aside, though, things sure are going. He keeps himself busy when the train's out, even if said busywork is finetuning a few bits here and there. The amount of meat he found in the circuitry's not even funny anymore, but it's also been demoted past "noteworthy" so that's sure something. What's also quite entertaining when the neighbouring nonsense starts coming in. Everyone working on the train's seen all flavours of nonsense, so a corpse going "blehh" is more funny than anything else.

[varian-and-the-seven-skies]

Cor Meum | Chapter One: City of the Sun

Synopsis: In a world of floating cities and steamships, Captain Rapunzel runs the fastest ship in all the skies. But this rowdy crew is not without its secrets—or its treasures— and Hugo, newly-hired, is ready to discover them all. Now if only Varian, the whip-smart lead engineer, would get out of his way.

A TTS & 7k AU of epic proportions, featuring cool fight scenes, steampunk machinery, and an inevitable romance. Written by @littlemisslol-fic and @izaswritings.

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AO3 Link is here!

Fic Playlist can be found here!

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Chapter One: City of the Sun

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“Need a hand there, goggles?”

The voice, barely audible over the sound of welding and banging metal of the mechanic’s shop, draws Varian’s attention away from the chaos of the engine above him. With a beleaguered sigh he stares mournfully up at the greasy gears and other assorted guts of the machine. His eyes flick down to see a pair of black, perfectly polished leather boots waiting patiently near the edge of the suspended machine, and it takes more than a little willpower not to groan.

Varian grits his teeth. He does not have time for this. He only has until tomorrow to fix this stupid thing before the ship’s due to take off; he’s already been working on it for three days, and if he can’t get it running the Captain is going to flip.

The leather boots that Varian can see past the edge of the engine shift slightly, and Varian can feel more than see the light kick of someone else’s shoe against his own. The large silver buckles on the boots flash just enough to be annoying, and Varian makes a face. The voice drifts back down to where Varian has hidden himself under the engine, and it takes everything in him not to groan.

“Hey, can you hear me under there?” it says impatiently.

Varian plants his back a little more firmly on the rolling mechanic’s bed he’s lying on and pulls on the outer casing of the engine, rolling himself out from under the machine with a small grunt.

He slams his eyes shut against the sudden change in light, blinding even behind the protective lens of his goggles. When he opens them again he can see a tall figure leaning over him, blocking out most of the sunlight coming in from the skylights embedded in the iron ceiling of the shop. Varian cricks his neck, looking around in a last desperate attempt to ignore the person hovering over him.

The mechanic’s shop is certainly distracting enough, stuffed full of people just as grease-covered and irritated as Varian, all of them suffering together in the heat caused by welding and hard work. Made of thick stone and wrought iron, the large space offers room to spread out that you just didn’t get in airships, making it the best place for Varian to do his work with big projects like engine twelve’s sad, hollowed out corpse. Large windows dot the ceiling like stars, offering light and just the smallest hint of the blue skies above. The shop is, if anything, supposed to be a safe haven for the mechanically minded. People aren’t supposed to try and talk to each other, which is something Varian cherishes. Nothing worse than trying to piece together penny-sized cogs or a delicate engine part only to be interrupted by a nosey crewmate.

Which is why blondie being here is certainly quite the insubordination. Society has rules, damn it.  

Varian wipes his gloves clean off his apron before pushing his goggles up onto the top of his head, linking his fingers and stretching his arms out towards the ceiling. He lets his arms flop back down with a sigh, and finally locks eyes with the person above him.

Varian arches a brow, and the blond’s smile splits just a little wider.

“I’m sorry?” Varian asks, not exactly friendly. By the Maker, he really doesn’t have time for this.

“I asked if you needed a hand,” the blond replies, a glint in his green eyes. He’s tall, is Varian’s first impression, tall enough that he’s likely got at least a head of height on Varian if they were to stand shoulder to shoulder. Varian would say he’s muscular, but there’s the sneaking suspicion that it’s really more the black leather coat that makes the teen in front of him look that way. Varian has employed similar tactics in the past; he knows the tricks. Get a big coat with a large, pointed collar and massive cuffs and boom, suddenly you’re twice as intimidating as you were before. It's a good coat, though, if a bit heavy for Corona weather. Shining silver buttons line the length of the jacket, and it has deep pockets that Varian can only assume are full of fun little tricks from experience. The silver continues on the blond’s vest as well, a trim piece of green fabric with polished silver buttons and a faint embroidery.

Blond hair, chopped in a rough undercut, frames the other teen’s thin face in an annoyingly aesthetic kind of way, held back from his face by the wire frames of the other teen’s circular glasses. Green eyes meet Varian’s own, and the blond smirks at Varian’s blatant staring.

In all honesty, he almost looks out of place, dressed up just a little too much to be skulking around with the grease-monkeys Varian calls his contemporaries. If anything, the quick flash of a silver rapier on the blond’s belt cinches it. Whoever this teenager is, he’s either from money, or pretending to be from money, both of which are irritating in their own way.

Varian bites the inside of his cheek, trying to find a way to reply politely.

“No, thank you,” is what he spits out instead, grabbing at the engine and starting to pull himself back under it. The blond’s heavy boot slams down on top, the mechanic’s bed jerking to a halt, and Varian’s teeth click uncomfortably together at the force of it. The engine swings a little dangerously from where it’s suspended between two large chains, holding it high so the underside of it is easily accessible. Varian stops mid-yank and glares.

The boy just smiles, annoyingly unphased.

“Aw, c’mon, goggles,” the blond says with that same irritating smile, green eyes bright behind his round glasses. “Isn’t that a little heavy for a tiny thing like you? Don’t you want the extra help?”

Varian huffs in offense, already done with this conversation. The shop’s agonizingly hot, even with the windows thrown open. It’s loud, dirty, generally rather unpleasant with the stink of grease and sweat, and though it’s the best place to work in the dockyard it’s still chaotic at best. Varian only has another eighteen hours to figure out what the problem with this engine is before they’re due to take off from Corona again, and Varian knows it’s his ass on the line if the work doesn’t get done. He doesn’t have time for some uppity asshole to think he knows more than Varian and try to upstage everything.

“I have a name, you know,” Varian says, coldly, looking the guy dead in the eye.

“Can I know it?” The blond winks at him. He seems to think he’s making headway.

“Nope,” Varian replies with a peppy smile. There’s a moment of shock, and that’s all he needs to yank his mechanic’s bed out from under the blond’s black boot, disappearing back under the engine.

Finally. Back where he belongs, the annoyance avoided. Varian scratches at his face idly, bringing his googles back down over his eyes, setting his mind back onto his work. He peers up into the open panel at the bottom of the engine, noting the interweaving cogs that should in theory be working by now. After the bloody pirate attack a week ago, engine twelve, or specifically this part of it, had taken a hell of a beating. The Captain had pushed her too far again, causing something inside to rupture and spew parts across the engine room floor like a geyser, and in turn Varian has spent the last three days desperately trying to piece it back together. Something is still wrong with it, though, and it’s driving Varian insane trying to figure it out.

“Come on, darling,” Varian mutters to himself, taking a wrench to one of the bolts. “Talk to me.”  

He gets no answer. Instead a small plume of dust and grease spurts out of the machine onto Varian’s face, only just splattering onto his goggles instead of his skin. Lovely. He grits his teeth, reaching in to really give it a piece of his mind—

“It’s the bolt on the timing belt,” the blond pipes up from beyond the engine. “If you leave it as-is, it’s going to fall apart the minute you try to take off.”

…Oh. Varian looks up to the timing belt, tucked away neatly near the upper left side of the engine, and lo and behold, one of the bolts holding it in place is missing. Damnit. Varian peeks up through the engine, up to where the top panel’s been removed as well, and just catches a glint of green eyes peering down at him through the guts of the machine. There’s a minute of debate in him, how much does he value his pride? Enough to admit he was wrong to this irritating little—?

“Look, pipsqueak,” the blond says, his voice filtering through the cogs and gears. “I know machines. Just trust that I know what I’m talking about?”

Varian clenches his hand around the wrench, wondering how long he can go without committing murder. Maybe if he made it look like an accident…?

He rolls back out from under the engine again. The wheels make a protesting noise against the cobblestone floor. This time when he comes to a stop, he sits up properly, shoving his goggles back up to rest haphazardly on his forehead.

“Can I help you?” Varian finally spits. His ire only seems to encourage the blond, who grins.

“I mean, it seems like I’m helping you,” Green-eyes says, idly pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. How he’s dealing with the heat of the day in that giant coat Varian would never guess, but that’s besides the point. Varian rocks his weight a bit, thinking, the mechanic’s bed under him shifting with the movement. Decided, he finally pushes himself up to his feet, noting with irritation that the blond is, in fact, at least a foot taller. Scowl setting deep on his face, Varian turns away and kicks at the mechanic’s bed roughly, sending it rolling back under the engine for safekeeping.

There’s a chattering noise of gears and steam, and Varian feels a weight land on his shoulder. He only just adapts to the heavy weight of copper, steel, and brass, before he feels his first creation  clambering for his attention. Varian absently reaches up to pat at the metal body of his pet, scratching at a place between the exposed gears of Ruddiger’s ears that he knows the little automaton likes best. Ruddiger coos out a puff of steam, settling his weight onto Varian’s shoulders fully, the automaton having jumped from on top of the engine. Aperture eyes snap open and close with content, breaking the glowing green light of Ruddiger’s eyes for just a second as the raccoon-shaped automaton purrs.  

The blond lets out a little huff of a laugh when he sees Varian and Ruddiger together, green eyes flicking between them. He gestures to his eyes, biting his lip. “Look at that,” he says, grinning. “You’re twins!”

Sure enough, when Varian peers into the polished brass sides of the engine, he can see that his eyes are ringed with grime and soot, giving him a distinctly raccoon look. Varian scowls at his reflection, turning back around with an angry gesture of the wrench in his hand.

“If you weren’t right about the engine—” Varian begins to threaten, but the blond cuts him off.

“But I was,” he says with a smarmy smile. “Right, I mean.”

Varian can feel his eye twitch.

“You’re rightly annoying,” he grumps, crossing his arms. Ruddiger makes an offended puff of steam at the movement, digging mechanical hands into the shoulder of Varian’s shirt a little tighter. Varian grits his teeth a little as tiny claws dig into his skin through the thin fabric.  

The other boy holds his hands up in an innocent gesture, head cocking to the side. “I know what I’m doing, all right? Let me help fix the engine.” Green eyes glow with mirth as the boy looks down at the engine again. “Because, clearly, you seem to need it.”

Varian scowls, his hands clenching into fists, fingers digging into the leather of his gloves. The wrench in his hand is temptingly heavy, but Varian simply grits his teeth and ignores the plots for murder, taking a deep breath. Instead he reaches up and over the engine, using the wrench to try and tighten the bolt on the timing belt one last time. It creaks a little dangerously, but Varian knows it’ll hold. He designed it himself, after all.

Ruddiger keeps an eye on the blond behind Varian, making curious noises, a soft clicking sound that mixes well with the quiet ticking of his clockwork heart. Varian has to use two hands on the wrench to get the bolt tight, giving it a few violent tugs. The blond is watching him—Varian can feel eyes on the back of his neck—but Varian steadfastly ignores him, either out of focus or spite… or maybe both.

Work done, he finally turns back around to the blond, stepping forward with a threatening gesture of the wrench.

“Look,” Varian says, pointing the wrench an inch away from green eyes. “I don’t particularly care for your tone, so—”

“Varian!” a third voice calls, and Varian stills mid-rant. Both Varian and the irritating boy next to him turn, locking eyes with a young woman—a familiar woman. Her grin is a mile wide, bright as the sun and twice as warm. Her purple dress swirls around her ankles, cinched tight at the waist by a black corset, with billowing sleeves of white fabric. Her green eyes crinkle when she sees the two of them turn to her, scrunching up the spattering of freckles on her face and wrinkling her button nose. She’d look a proper lady, she certainly holds herself with the decorum expected of one, if not for the pixie cut she’d chopped her hair into. It’s stylish, with shorter sides and a longer top, nearly defying gravity in the way it fluffs up from her head into a windblown wave.

Varian notes, with quite a bit of amusement, that she’s holding onto a pair of flats in one hand. Barefoot again, then. Classic.

“Rapunzel,” Varian sighs, dropping the arm holding the wrench back down to his side. He can feel the embarrassment of being caught picking fights seizing him. He’s eighteen now, he really should know better, and Rapunzel is nothing if not determined to keep him on the straight and narrow.

“Who’s this?” Rapunzel says with interest, her eyes flicking between Varian and the other teenager. The taller boy seems to stiffen under her gaze, which is unsurprising. Rapunzel is notorious in these parts, and in the dockyard especially. Varian rubs at the back of his neck in the presence of his Captain, and can feel his cheeks burn red.

“He was just leaving—” Varian starts to say, turning away from her to glare at the blond, but Rapunzel cuts him off.

“Oh, did you make a friend?” she asks, coming closer and leaning on Varian’s shoulder. It’s infuriating the way she’s taller than he is, even after his growth spurt.

“Sure,” Varian says through grit teeth. “A friend. We’ll call him that.”

Rapunzel brightens at that, and Varian can already sense the trouble on the horizon. “And you are?”

The boy shrugs. “New.”

There’s a pause, but Rapunzel pushes forward. “Oh! How are you liking Corona, then?” she asks the blond, her grin a mile wide at the thought of Varian having friends. Varian’s not sure if he’s offended or not, really.

“Loving it,” the blond says. “The City of the Sun could never disappoint.”

Varian wants to roll his eyes, but Rapunzel leans further onto him, putting more of her weight onto his shoulder in a silent bid for him to behave himself. He goes along with it—she’s typically right in these sorts of situations.

“Glad to hear it,” Rapunzel grins. “What brings you to our fair city, anyways?”  

“I’m here looking for work, actually,” the blond says quickly. “Just got back from a contracted expedition to Vardaros, so now I’m on the hunt for another engineering job.”

Rapunzel’s face brightens, and Varian grows concerned. He knows that she’s been contemplating hiring extra hands for their next expedition, seeing how important it is, but there’s no way she would actually—

“Well, you’re in luck!” Her face splits into a wide smile. “We’re actually looking for a junior engineer, and any friend of Varian’s is a friend of ours. We’d be glad to have you aboard, if you’re willing.”

Varian’s face must do something funny, since Rapunzel’s full weight is near crushing him now. He tries to catch her eye, but she’s ignoring him with a grin. Rapunzel knows exactly what she’s doing and Varian can’t help but feel the slight pulse of irritation sink into his gut. She’s planning something, he thinks, glaring at her as she steadfastly ignores his gaze. Only the Maker knows what goes on in that woman’s head, honestly.

“Well, can’t say no to that,” Varian’s new most-hated-person says.

By the Maker, what did Varian do to deserve this? Has he really been such a terrible person to deserve this kind of treatment from the universe? Honestly, you’d think he was a horrible murderer in a past life for the kind of penance he’s paying in this one.

“Perfect!” Rapunzel crows with a clap of her hands. “Varian can show you how to get back to the Aphelion—right, Varian?”

“Yes, Captain.” Varian grunts, idly wondering if he could brain himself with the wrench in his hand in such a way that would guarantee he wouldn’t survive. Rapunzel doesn’t seem to mind, finally letting up on Varian and gently pushing away from him with one last squeeze of his shoulder.

“Alright, you two,” she says, winking to Varian as she leaves. “Just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing— I’ll see you both back at the ship! Play nice!”

Varian can’t help but feel like he’s been played.  

If Varian had his way, he’d turn around and fire the blond here and now. Varian’s the head of the engineering section of the Aphelion— that’s got to count for something, right? In theory it should, but Varian knows that Rapunzel, as Captain, had final say in everything. If she wants to be a busy-body and force Varian to try and make friends, then by the Maker, it’s happening whether Varian likes it or not.

In this case? It is decidedly in the not category.

He turns to the blond, who looks back with a smug smile. Varian can feel his face scrunch up in distaste at it, and knows that the twitch in his eye is probably back with a vengeance. Ruddiger chirps with contentment on his shoulder, idly pawing at his hair in an attempt to calm his human down. It doesn’t work. Varian sighs, and finally sets the wrench down on a nearby table, jabbing a finger at the other teenager.

“I don’t like you,” is all he says. “But if Rapunzel says you’re in, then you’re in, I guess.”

That stupid fucking grin gets wider, and Varian wants to punch it.

“Who are you, then?” Varian asks, trying for more neutral territory. If they’re going to be stuck together for the next six months once the Aphelion takes flight, then he wants to at least try to work towards something non-hostile.

“Your new crewmate, obviously,” the blond shoots back, and Varian loses all sense of decorum at that point. There’s a beat of silence as Varian tries to reel his temper in, and another as he tries to relax his jaw enough to say something that won’t get him arrested.

“In that case, you should know that you’re speaking to your boss… mister junior engineer.”

The blond splutters, and Varian can’t help but give a little smirk of his own. Nothing better than reminding people of his position, the one he’d clawed for for years before Rapunzel finally gave in.

“Wait, what?” Varian’s new underling asks, going a shade paler.

“My name is Varian,” he says, the smirk growing larger and larger. He brings a hand up to the center of his chest, fingers splayed slightly. “Lead Engineer of the Aphelion, and your new boss. So, tell me, glasses.” Oh, this was so much fun. “Who are you?”

Green-eyes seems to know when he’s dug himself a hole he can’t climb out of, and for the first time there’s something other than an irritating smirk on his face. If anything, Varian would say he looks annoyed. The thought of finally managing to wipe that smirk off the blond’s face is delicious, and it does wonders for Varian’s mood. Varian sticks a hand out, much like Rapunzel had, and while the blond glares at it, he still takes Varian’s smaller hand in his own.

“Hugo,” the blond grits out, holding Varian’s hand maybe just a little too tight. It’s still worth it to see this boy squirmthough.

Varian waits, but the older boy—Hugo—says nothing else, and after a moment Varian draws his hand away. “Good talk.” That’s that, he supposes.

A pause, and then Varian shrugs and moves away, looking back to the engine. Screws in place, broken pipe replaced, timing belt bolted... it’s about as fixed as it can get. Varian reaches up and slams the top back down with a loud clang. Hugo jumps. Varian grins, and kneels down to lock the top back into place.

Ruddiger chitters in his ear, scolding; Varian shakes him off and straightens back to his feet, peeling off his gloves and shoving one hand back through his hair. Ugh, city sweat and oil. He can taste it. “Well,” Varian says, resigned. “Might as well make yourself useful, I guess. Help me push this back to the dockyard.” Hugo opens his mouth but Varian cuts him off. “And if I hear one more comment about my physical prowess—!” He pats the wrench twice with a sweet smile, the threat more than obvious.

Hugo closes his mouth. He’s grinning. By the Maker, even when he’s quiet, Varian can practically hear what Hugo wants to say anyway. This is already a disaster; what the hell is Rapunzel thinking?

He has a sudden and vivid flashback to her winking at him, and shudders without knowing why.

Ruddiger coos at him with a puff of steam. Varian tugs at Ruddiger’s ear in return, annoyed with the chiding—he knows how to play nice, thanks, why does no one have any faith in him?—and then walks to the shopkeeper, thus far ignored in the back of the workroom. “How much for the parts?”

He pays for the replacements and manages to haggle for a cart, and in a few minutes’ time he and Hugo have winched the engine down and rigged it up for transport. Varian braces himself against the cart handle and sighs. “Westside dock,” he tells Hugo, squinting sadly at the streets through the large double doors of the shop. It’s market day. The crowds are crazy. This is going to suck. “Pier 48.”

“You sure you know the way, goggles?”

“It’s ‘boss,’ actually,” Varian replies sweetly, and grins with all his teeth at the way Hugo winces. Hah. Varian could get used to this.

They exit the repair shop to a faceful of steam, and Varian coughs hard, waving the smoke from his face as he and Hugo shove their way into the crowd, the cart rattling loudly on the uneven cobble. Corona at midday is as bustling as ever, the city life in full swing. Whole families wander the streets as merchant carts and stores push out their wares; steam-powered bikes rocket past, their riders laughing high and bright. In the distance, Varian can hear the ever-present screech of the train whistles, the trails of steam drifting up from the stations. Above them, the sunlight warps and twists, broken apart by the furious rattle of passing trains and the railroad looping high above their heads in arches and spindly bridges.

Varian squints against the light and shades his face, elbowing Hugo hard to get his attention. The other boy looks almost lost in thought, staring up—his eyes tracking the trains as they pass, looking almost blinded by the sheer gleam of the city in motion. “We’re heading right,” Varian explains, raising his voice above the din, and waves his pocket watch at Hugo’s face, tapping the compass in the upper corner. “Come on.”

Hugo pulls his gaze away and follows, and together they push the cart through the streets, slowly but surely carving a path for the dockyard. When they finally break through the main crowd, Varian pushes them toward the side-streets, shadowy and empty and safe from wandering feet. If they hurry, he thinks, they might make it to the dockyard before the heat really sets in. He gives Ruddiger one last absent pat and starts to pick up the pace.

Hugo is slowing, though, trailing behind, and then for a brief moment he stops completely, hand slipping away from the cart. Varian yanks the cart to a stop, glancing back, ready to give the other a piece of his mind—but then he sees Hugo’s face. Varian follows his gaze, and closes his mouth. He understands now: in the break between the buildings he can see the whole upper half of Corona, the spires of the Sun’s temple and the curving arches of the bridges rising high over the city, shining bright and glossy in the sunlight. It’s designed to look like the sun crest, if seen from directly above—a tourist favorite.

“First time in the city?” Varian wonders, and when Hugo eyes him, just shrugs, Ruddiger chattering loudly on his shoulder. “You’re staring.”

“It’s bright,” Hugo says, dryly.

“And that would be why it’s called the city of the Sun.” Varian blows out a hard breath, trying to get sweat-soaked bangs out of his face. He plants his hands on the cart rail and starts pushing again. A moment’s pause, and then Hugo joins him. “But no, seriously, who are you? You’re already hired or whatever—” Damn Rapunzel for that, now Varian has to deal with this jerk for six months, “—but why are you even here?”

“Luck,” Hugo says, which is such an obvious lie Varian outright rolls his eyes at him. “Money. Look, goggles, I came here for a fresh start, so—” He gestures. “Let’s just not do the whole interrogation thing and say we did, okay?”

Varian presses his lips together, but lets it drop. As irritating as Hugo is—well. Varian understands fresh starts. And the money issue. If it was someone prying into his reasons, then…

“Fine, fine.” Varian says, and turns his head away, only just catching the way Hugo startles from the corner of his eye. He almost looks surprised, Varian thinks, but when he glances back again Hugo just looks as smug as ever, not even out of breath from pushing the cart. His hair is even still slicked perfectly back.  

Maybe his imagination? Well, whatever; Varian hates it either way.

It’s not far to the docks, and Varian knows the path like the back of his hand; by the time the midday heat really starts sinking in (and Hugo, in that stupid leather coat, is noticeably starting to sweat—hah, serves him right), they’ve reached the edge of the city. It’s quieter here, the rumble of the crowd replaced with distant whistles and rhythmic banging, the symphony of a dockyard hard at work.

Varian heaves the cart to a rolling stop by the stairs, waving at Hugo to step back, and cups a hand around his mouth. “Xavier!” he shouts down at the shipyard, pitching his voice high. Ruddiger props up on his head and yawns, puffing steam like a smoke signal. “Send Cass up here, would you? I’ve got that engine part fixed!”

“Oh, wonderful!” Xavier waves back. “I’ll send her up— we’ll get it reinstalled right away! Grab Yong for me?”

“Where is he?”

“On the ship!”

“Got it!” Ruddiger crawls from his shoulder down into his arms; Varian cradles the racoon close—ouch, hot metal—and finally looks back to Hugo, humming. “Well, come on then.”

“Yong?” Hugo wonders aloud, as Varian makes his way for the ship. It’s in Pier 48 now, the main dock for repair work, which makes this a longer walk than usual. Damn pirates, punching holes in their ship— who did this Donella think she was? For someone with such a fearsome reputation, they’d gotten away pretty light…

“Xavier’s assistant,” Varian explains, clutching Ruddiger to his chest and hopping down the stairs two at a time. He hears a snicker, and whips around to glare. Hugo looks away, one hand covering his mouth. Varian narrows his eyes. “Xavier was that man down there, he runs the engines, and— would you stop laughing?”

“Sorry,” Hugo says, with a grin that says he isn’t sorry at all. “You were saying?”

“Okay, I’m not doing this.” Varian spins on his heel, ignoring him. “Come on, it’s just around the corner. She’s a little... battered right now, some hull damage, but we’re set to leave tomorrow— and I mean tomorrow— time is money with this next shipment, understand?”

Hugo smiles, leaning closer to Varian. “What’s so special about it?” he asks, one eyebrow raised. “Is it expensive?”

Expensive, one of a kind, irreplaceable—there’s a lot of words Varian could use for it. If the Aphelion’s last cargo had been valuable, this next shipment is near-priceless. “That’s on a need-to-know basis—” Varian says tartly, “—and until we’re in the air, you don’t need to know. Now, will you be ready?”

Hugo shrugs. “I’m ready to go now.”

Varian blinks at that, looking Hugo up and down. Even Ruddiger lifts his head from his nap to sniff a disbelieving puff of steam. No luggage, just the clothes on his back and the sword on his hip. “Um… you sure?”

Hugo’s smirk widens. “Aw. Worried for me, goggles?”

Ha-ha, nevermind. Varian pivots back around. “Nope.” He is not allowed to punch his new assistant. He is not allowed to punch his assistant. Rapunzel would be disappointed. There would be lectures. She would make charts. Not worth it. “Now, where is that ship—”

He ducks around the corner, stepping out of the way of horse and cart, and then, like the sun splitting the clouds: there she is.

Varian trails to a stop, annoyance already forgotten. He turns, for once wanting to see Hugo’s full reaction. If Hugo had blinked twice at the city, then… “Here we are,” Varian says, grinning now, pride bubbling warm in his chest.  “The Aphelion!”

Hugo looks, mouth opening, and Varian can just see the rude comment he’s about to make—and then Varian really doesgrin, wide and bright and smug smug smug, because he can also see the moment Hugo loses all his words entirely.

Varian has always loved Corona, despite everything—the spiny skyline, the arching bridges, the whistling steam and winding roads curling up to the temple like a conch shell. Varian has lived in this air and breathed this city for all his life, and he loves it with all he is— but of all the places in the city, the dockyards, and the ships they harbor, are where his heart truly lies.

If the city is bright, then the dockyards are blinding. They sit on the very edge of the city limits, the cliff-face drop of the flying city. The copper paneling that makes up the dockyard decks has turned near solid-gold in the sunlight, and beyond that edge the whole world falls at their feet. Miles upon miles of dotted green farmland, blocks of gleaming metal towns, curving roads like man-made rivers. The horizon burns gold and blue, the distant silhouette of other flying cities dotting the landscape, poking out from distant clouds. None of the cities fly as high as Corona, of course—the cities of the Sun and Moon are meant to float above all the rest—but it still makes for quite the view. With other airships hanging in the sky, colorful backdrops against the full white clouds, the dockyards are most certainly a sight to behold.  

But the jewel, Varian thinks with a smile, is his ship—Rapunzel’s ship—their home.

The Aphelion.  

She’s a work of art, Varian knows, and she looks it, too. Aphelion is a whole three hundred feet of dark wood and solid brass, long and sleek and sharp as any blade. Her half-moon windows are stained glass and shining; decorative copper and silver wires wind down her front and all across her sides like trailing vines, or maybe wings, or maybe the unfurling edges of the sun. She’s got four sails and an envelope made of the best weave, the cloth of the balloon so thick it’s near impossible to cut, set to hold them afloat for nearly two decades even if the engines and the fires both die. A heavy copper turbine sits at her back; the sails, flapping loose in the breeze, are decorated in off-hand embroidery. She’s golden and shining in the sunlight—and it’s right, that Hugo goes dead silent at the sight of her, and Varian can’t help but grin. Because anyone who stops and stares at the Aphelion, anyone who goes breathless at their first glance… well, as annoying as Hugo is, he can’t be too bad, then. Not if he sees the Aphelion for the treasure she is.

She hadn’t always been this way, of course; she’d been a broken thing once, before Rapunzel found the shattered shell of a ship and coaxed life back into her. It’s Rapunzel’s way, after all, to find broken and trapped and hiding things, and bring them out to the light—but Rapunzel had asked Lance to do the tarp weave, and Varian had built the metalwork, and in the end, it was all of them, together, that brought the Aphelion to the skies, blinding and beautiful and larger than life.

Varian steps away and sets Ruddiger down on the cobble, still grinning wide and pleased at Hugo’s shock, and waves up to the small figures settled around on the Aphelion’s balcony. Rapunzel—standing at the helm with Eugene, Nuru, and Yong—looks over, and she leans over the railing to wave back. Her eyes draw to Hugo next, and even from this distance, Varian can see her smile.

Varian turns back to Hugo, radiating smugness. “Well?”

Hugo blinks fast and shakes his head. “Well,” he echoes. He shakes his head again, and then he gives a little laugh. “Well.”

“What do you think?” Varian presses, intent. “Isn’t she gorgeous?” And maybe Hugo catches something in that, maybe he can tell Varian really and truly wants an answer, because he looks at Varian, eye to eye, and then— he smiles.

Months later, this memory will stand out to Varian. Years later, Varian will look back on this day in the sun and finally recognize the moment for what it was. A beginning. And an end.

Their only warning.

It’s bright, the smile Hugo gives him. It’s blinding. But for some reason, something about it makes Varian falter. A chill runs down his spine. His mouth goes dry. Because there is something in that smile—in the curve of it, the sharpness of teeth—something about the way it creases at Hugo’s eyes. It unnerves him. It unsettles him. There is something about it that doesn’t sit quite right, and if Varian had known better, then, perhaps he could have read the smile for what it was.

But instead Varian looks away, feeling cold and not sure why, telling himself it is just the wind—and beside him, Hugo, his eyes fixed back on the ship—

Hugo smiles.

“Yes,” he says. “She’s perfect.”

[tinytaissa]

closed starter for @elegancemultimuse​​ // mia james

Oh, God. Not again.

Taissa could spot the familiar blonde a mile away, marching towards the dockyard with purpose. The entire area had been cordoned off with bright yellow police tape and was crawling with officers and FBI agents alike as they processed the crime scene. There were dried up, dark brown patches of blood on the concrete floor where the murder had taken place; it was clear that something horribly brutal had happened here.

So of course Mia would show up. She was a dear, dear ally to Taissa, who cherished their friendship, but the woman knew exactly how to get her into a tizzy. Before anyone could spot her, Taissa ducked under the police tape and headed straight for Mia, getting in between her and the docks.

“No,” she said firmly, holding a hand up like she was training a puppy. “No, no, no, no. Not today. I can’t deal with this today, Mia.”

[nightreaderenigma]

“Hmmmm.”  Lord Selwyn placed the correspondence back upon the desk, neutral of expression but contemplative.  “What do you make of this daughter?”  

Brienne paced an agitated line back and forth in the solar, arms crossed upon her chest in equal measure self-defence and solace.  “I am quite stunned.  I fully expected that note to be advising of the Dragon Queen’s victory.  Instead it would indicate she is deceased.”  

The Evenstar folded his arms in a similar manner to her own, his steady blue eyes following her as she pivoted on the spot and changed direction to begin another lap.  “You have been so reticent during your stay that you are unaware of the talk of the dockyard.  The sailors say that King’s Landing smoulders.  The Targaryen unleashed her black beast, burning the Keep and a great deal of the city to the ground.  We can assume she perished in the process or that her inhumanity was repaid in kind by the hand of justice.”  

The Lady knight wheeled around, mouth falling slightly agog before she checked herself.  

Jaime prevented a fiery massacre by murdering Aerys decades ago - only to have the same crime exacted at the hands of The Mad King’s daughter.  

“If this be true, then I am glad she is gone.  For such an atrocity she deserves no less punishment.”  Brienne’s expression was flinty.  “Besides, I did not fully trust in her pardon for the crime of Kingslaying, the decree was never explicitly issued.  It was merely the Starks who outnumbered her and stayed her wrath. With Daenerys on the Throne our future remained uncertain.”  She let out a small disconcerted huff.  “Not that my good-sister was a viable option either.”  

“And does your husband share this opinion?”  Lord Selwyn’s tone was dark.  “Much is said about the Twin Lion’s closeness.”  

“Cease Father, I know what you are implying.  You will not undermine our relationship; Jaime and I keep no secrets from each other.”

Taken from War of Hearts - Chapter Sixteen, Coming Saturday