#there was also a massive old great wheel that had been gutted

[milkweedman]

Was dragged to a tiny local museum so my sister could flirt with the museum director, but they had some really nice handwoven rugs.

And also a spinning wheel (?) that perplexed me. The flyer is on the wrong way around, for a start, and it's really hard to tell how the treadle and footman were supposed to be positioned (that triangular bit on the side was definitely attached either as the treadle or as part of it, judging by the remnants of the leather straps. Mostly I'm dubious because I couldnt tell if the orifice actually went anywhere, but it didnt look like it did. So I think it might have been a spinning wheel shaped object, but im not sure at all. Didnt get good pictures of it, sorry. It also wasnt labeled at all. Given how the pictures are I doubt theres enough for anyone else to go on but if you have thoughts on it i'd love to hear em !

God, the rugs though. Loved the rugs. Need rugs now.

[izzyfandoms]

Follow The Red String Path

SHIPS: Lomile, side Royality

CHARACTERS: Logan Sanders, Emile Picani, Roman Sanders and Patton Sanders

WARNING: Nothing

GENERAL TAGLIST: @quillfics42 @aj-draws @phantomofthesanderssides @phlying-squirrel @sly-is-my-name-loving-is-my-game @because-were-fam-ily @imtryingthisout @a-creepycookie @emo-disaster @littlestr @spooky-scary-virgil @fuyel @mimsidoodles @soupgremlin @aroaceagenderfluid @birdsbookshiddeninrealbirdsskin @quirkalurk @gingers-trashy-stuff @iinyxtello @justaqueercactus @melodiread @mrbubbajones @glassferns @pun-master-logan @gayturtlez

Masterpost

A Series Of Soulmate AUs Masterpost

The tug at the string tied around Logan’s finger wasn’t an unwelcome one.

An unexpected surprise, sure, but not a negative one. It made Logan look up from his textbooks that were laid out in front of him, and he smiled at the string that no one else saw. Then, he quickly curled his ring finger inwards, tugging the string back. Hopefully it was enough movement for his soulmate to feel, too. It would be nice for them to feel the same comfort he did, so he hoped they could, though he would never admit that aloud.

(Logan had a reputation for being serious and uninterested in relationships, and he wanted to make sure he kept that up.)

He took a moment to watch the taut red string: one long straight line that would eventually lead right to his soulmate. His gaze followed it across the room, up to the opposite wall that it passed right through.

One day, he would follow that string to find his soulmate, but he didn’t know when that day would be.

“Hey, hey, Lo!”

Logan straightened up, pulled from his thoughts, and he turned to look at his friend, Roman, who was sat just beside him.

“What is it, Roman?”

Roman grinned at him. “You staring at your string again?”

Logan felt his face warm, and he looked back down at the textbook between them.

“No,” he lied.

Roman laughed, clapping him on the back. “No need to lie to me, specs. You know I know you better than that. You may have everyone else fooled, but I know what a sap you are.”

“I am not a ‘sap’,” Logan argued, making quotation marks with his fingers. “And I also believe that you are being a massive hypocrite, here. You and Patton are the ‘saps.’”

“You say that likes it’s an insult!” Roman announced, in a much louder voice than he should’ve had in a library. Someone shushed him, and he shot them a sheepish smile and a wave, before turning back to Logan and lowering his voice. “And I am sure that when you meet your soulmate, you’ll be even worse.”

“That is a ridiculous notion, and also, frankly, impossible.”

“Well, you know what they say, opposites attract. And you are going to need the sweetest of soulmates to balance out your sour personality.”

Logan glared weakly at Roman. “Why am I friends with you?”

“Because I’m amazing!”

“That is debatable,” Logan mumbled. At Roman’s overly offended reaction, he sighed. “We are supposed to be revising for our exam this Friday, not having a friendly conversation.”

Roman leant back in his chair, tipping it onto its back two legs. “Psh, who cares about a dumb exam-”

“I do.”

“-all I care about is love! And since I have already found my soulmate, it is my job, as your best friend, to help you find yours.”

Logan gave Roman a flat look. “That is what the string on my finger is for. I will know them when I meet them, so there is therefore no reason to actively seek them out myself.”

“But that could be when you’re all old and grey! Don’t you want to find them now, so you can have even longer together?”

“I will find them when I find them,” Logan said flatly. “Now, we are going to revise, or you will fail math and Patton will be disappointed you. Do you want Patton to be disappointed in you?”

Needless to say, that was the one thing that could get Roman to study. He was always consistent in that way, and Logan was glad that he at least had that to help motivate his best friend to revise with him. Roman wasn’t the best at math, but helping him was good practice for Logan’s desired future as a teacher.

But when Patton arrived at the library and joined them about half an hour later, the studying was clearly over, as Roman was far too distracted by Patton’s curly hair and pretty smile – both things that Logan had listened to his best friend ramble about on many, many occasions – to pay any more attention to the textbooks. Logan tried to keep studying for a few minutes afterwards, but even he had trouble concentrating with a loudly flirting couple beside him.

It didn’t help that they kept trying to include him, which usually he would appreciate, but today he was trying to study, so it wasn’t very convenient.

Logan sighed, closing his textbook and catching the attention of Roman and Patton, who had been holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes for an amount of time that Logan would consider excessive.

“I don’t think we’ll be getting any more studying done, today.”

“Aww, don’t look so grumpy, Microsoft Nerd,” Roman said, letting go of one of Patton’s hands to place his on Logan’s shoulder. “You don’t need to revise, you’re already a genius, you’ll ace this test.”

“Yeah!” Patton agreed. “You’re so smart, Lo!”

Logan sighed. “Yes, well, that will only take me so far, so I was hoping to get some more studying done, but I suppose I’ll have to finish my revision at home.”

“Or,” Roman said, throwing his free arm around Logan’s shoulders. “You could come back to my house with us, and have a Disney movie marathon with us!”

“Ooh, yeah!” Patton agreed.

Logan pulled a face. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude, or – what's the phrase? – third wheel.”

“Aww, don't worry, Lo, you’re always welcome to hang out with us!” Patton said. “If anything, I’m the third wheel, ‘cos you guys are such great friends!”

“Oh, darling, don’t say that!”

“Okay, okay, we can all be the third wheels. We’re a tricycle!”

“I do not think that that’s how it works,” Logan commented as he collected his books and returned them to his backpack. Roman had forgotten to bring his own textbooks to their little library study session, so they’d had to share, which was a common occurrence.

Patton didn’t go to the same high school as them, but the other nearest one, so he and Roman didn’t have to travel far to spend time with each other, and did so almost every weekend. Logan was often invited, too. He liked to pretend he was being dragged along – he had a reputation to maintain, after all – but nobody was fooled.

“So, does that mean you’re coming, specs?”

Logan swung his backpack over his shoulder, making sure to hook both arms through the straps, before pushing his glasses further up his nose. He sighed.

“I suppose I can stay for one movie, but then I really must return to my studies.”

Both Roman and Patton cheered loudly, the former raising his hands triumphantly in the air (including the one still holding Patton’s), causing the two of them to be shushed by someone sat nearby. Roman huffed, and Patton apologised sheepishly, but Logan hardly noticed as his attention was suddenly captured by something else: his string.

It was moving.

Now, movement wasn’t too uncommon of an occurrence, but it was moving quickly, sliding across the room from one wall to another.

“Hey, nerd.” Roman waved his hand in front of Logan’s face. “What are you looking at?”

Logan turned to him, blinking. “I...” He swallowed. “My string, it’s moving.”

“Moving?”

Patton gasped, his whole face lighting up. “How quickly?” He asked.

“Much quicker than I have ever seen it move before.” Logan returned his gaze to the red string, which continued to move across the library, still through the wall. He allowed his hand to follow the motion, though there was nothing actually pulling him, so his friends could have a better understanding of its speed.

“Oh. My. Stars!” Roman’s eyes were bright. “You know what this means, right?” He asked excitedly.

“I- I think so,” Logan said, stumbling over his words in a way he didn’t often.

“They’re close!” Patton squealed. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh! Lolo, you have to follow it!”

“Yes, yes!” Roman agreed. “Come on, we’ll go with you!”

Logan opened his mouth a few times, taking his gaze off the string for a moment to look at his friends for answers. They both nodded supportively.

“Uh... uh- okay.”

“Yes!” Roman pumped his fist in the air.

“Go on,” Patton made a shooing motion with his free hand. “We’ll follow you, start moving before you lose them!”

At that, Logan began to do something he’d never done once before in his life.

He followed the string.

Out of the library. Down the street. Around the corner. Across the road.

He quickened his pace as he could feel in his gut that the string was getting shorter and shorter. He didn’t check behind him for Roman and Patton, but he could hear their footsteps and words of encouragement, though his mind was racing so fast he could barely process what he heard.

Was he really doing this? Did he dare get his hopes up, was he really about to meet his soulmate?

He tugged on his string, hoping that his soulmate could feel the sudden pull.

A moment passed, and then he felt them tug back. An answer.

It filled his heart with a hope that he would never admit aloud, even to his closest friends. Roman’s teasing about Logan being a ‘secret romantic’ would increase tenfold if he ever realised it was actually true.

Logan followed the string with his eyes, watching as it cut right through a building to his right. He took a moment to pause and think, calculating his path, before he decided to continue down the pavement he was stood on and turn right. He heard Roman and Patton slow and stop behind him, but before they could say anything, he started running again.

As he ran forward, his shoes thumping loudly against the concrete below him, his breaths short and quick, he watched – wide-eyed – as the string changed too, like his soulmate was moving parallel to him, though at a slower speed, so it was moving slightly behind.

He reached the end of the street and then turned a corner.

Roman and Patton were lagging behind – Patton wasn’t the fastest runner, and Roman would never go ahead without him – but Logan couldn’t focus on that.

He ran and ran and ran and ran.

He turned and-

Whack!

Logan collided with someone else running, and they both tumbled to the ground. He fell on his right leg and arm, and the first thing that crossed his mind when he hit the ground was that he would probably end up with some nasty bruises.

“Oh, gosh! I am so, so sorry,” came the voice right in front of him, sheepish and apologetic.

(A teenage boy, likely around the same age as Logan.)

Logan huffed, rubbing his arm. “It’s quite alright, I was the one who wasn’t looking where I was go-”

He cut himself off mid-word when his eyes landed on his string. It was no longer taut, like it had been every other day of his life, now loose and running across the ground, looping around itself and no longer cutting through anything.

He followed it, and froze in place when he finally laid eyes on the person on the other end of his red string.

From ring finger to ring finger.

From soulmate to soulmate.

“Oh,” Logan spoke in a strangled voice.

“Oh,” his soulmate repeated, in a much softer voice that made Logan’s heart skip a beat.

His soulmate was a teenage boy about his age, with a beige cardigan and a pastel pink tie the same shade as his dyed hair. He had big, round glasses, and his eyes were just as wide and surprised as Logan was sure his own were.

Logan wanted to say something, anything, but stumbled over his own words like he’d suddenly forgotten how to speak, and his soulmate seemed to be having the same problem.

He heard footsteps approach, quick and stopping just behind him, though his soulmate didn’t seem to notice them as his eyes were glued on Logan’s face. Logan hardly noticed, too, as he was also far too focused on staring back at his soulmate.

“Wow,” Roman laughed when he caught his breath. “You two have the same glasses!”

[lluvguts]

chapter one!🌻 🖤

word count: 4,695

pairing: reddie + stenbrough

warnings:  there’s some mentions of family dysfunction and depression, so if you’re sensitive to those topics then you’ve been warned :)

it’s also unformatted (no italics) but the ao3 one has those if you like em

Richie wasn't expecting his thirteenth birthday to be anything special. The usual for the Tozier house was balloons and typically a dessert for breakfast. For his twelfth birthday Richie muscled through an ice cream sundae, so he was hoping that this time it'd be a cake. Or maybe waffles, he loved those. But when Richie dragged his sleepy feet down the carpeted staircase to the kitchen, all his doubts faded away as he was welcomed to the morning smells of a steaming griddle and Maggie, Richie's mother, softly humming a tune while she poured some water into the thick waffle batter. He was about to say something, maybe let out a little mumble of complaint that the sink water messed with the goodness of the waffles (but was stopped by how off her happy hum sounded, at least coming from her usual quiet) when his dad piped up.

"Hey! The birthday boy's up. How about some coffee, son?" Wentworth rose from where he was skimming over the Derry newspapers to give him a smelly, dad-cologne hug. Richie noticed the few doctor's papers Went had brushed under the usual mail before the hug, but didn't say anything.

"He's thirteen, Went. Hardly much of a man to need coffee in the morning," Richie heard his mother murmur absently through his dad's arms covering his ears.

Wentworth released Richie, who adjusted his askew glasses and worshipped the clear kitchen air, then ruffled Richie's already mussed head of black hair. "That's alright, Chee. We'll get her on our side soon enough."

Richie loved that his parents called him that. Chee. It wasn't dopey enough of a nickname for him to hate it, and being thirteen after all, Richie knew he was venturing into the realm where kids thought their parents were losers who were always out to get them. They don't suck a mouth of rocks, Richie thought. They made me waffles and didn't even ask if I wanted syrup and whipped cream on top. They knew I liked it.

"All of my other friends drink coffee," Richie said with his hands playfully crossed. He meant to say, if I had any friends, I'm sure they drink coffee. But he kept his mouth zipper shut.

"Strawberries, too?" Richie appeared at his mother's side and let his hand rest by the soft hem of her nightdress. Her face reflected in the kitchen window looked pinched and tired. Richie held in the bowling boll of worry that rolled into his gut, because even if his mother usually stayed in bed past ten in the morning, it was his birthday, after all. It was only okay with this one exception. Richie's mother hardly got enough sleep. Or rather, she slept often but was never fully rested. It was something to do with the depression conversation that Richie had overheard one night at the foot of the stairs when he should have been in bed. It was odd to him, but his mother simply couldn't get a few good chucks from the sun that shone through the blinds like he did. Maybe she was lonely. Does it get dead boring sitting at your desk, staring out a window that you wished maybe had a few more kids in front of it, or something to see other than the neighbors and all their baby's toys in the yard? Richie wasn't stupid. He knew they were "trying" (a fancy word he also picked up, which just meant they were having sex) for more kids, but just, couldn't? But...wasn't Richie enough? It was the question that kept him up at night, when the Superman clock by his bedside often read midnight, in brilliant red. They wanted a baby girl, they didn't want you. They have another kid and you're all alone now, Richie. It was the topic of discussion that went unsaid in the Tozier household, though to Richie it was the big fat elephant in the room. An elephant with enough weight to send him spiraling under the covers when he should be sleeping, heavy enough so that his sides heaved as the pillow drowned his sobs. An elephant that sat in every corner, even if it was Richie's birthday.

"Of course, baby," Richie's mother took her free hand and hugged the side of his face to her dress, then set the sliced strawberries on top of the whipped cream mountain. She took his plate with both hands and walked toward the table, so Richie steered around her just in time to sit down next to his dad before they broke into the familiar off-key Happy Birthday chorus.

"Was there anything you were hoping you'd get when you turned thirteen, Chee?" His dad asked once Richie had speared a few massive amounts of waffle into his mouth. Maggie smiled politely at her messy eater and then tried to wipe the dark circles from under her watery brown eyes. But things like that didn't just go away.

Richie slung his arm across his lips to catch the maple syrup he felt dripping down his chin then spoke in a careful voice. "I was, uh, hoping to get a bike?"

"And why would you want something like that? Walking to school is perfectly fine. Healthy, even," His dad fired back, but by the way he heard the telltale smile in his voice, Richie knew he was playing, too. Both his parents shared a knowing glance and then turned back to Richie.

"What? You mean, you're serious?" Richie nearly spilled a glob of whipped cream from his mouth. "You guys got me a bike?"

"Why don't you check the front porch, there's a mysterious package with your name on it," Wentworth said.

"Oh, let him finish his breakfast first," Maggie interjected but Richie was already racing out of the kitchen to the front door, his fork still gripped in one hand.

There, shining like a beacon among the weedy yard and creaky old porch furniture was a great lump covered in blue wrapping paper. Richie's favorite color. It was the color of the calm sea he'd seen as a toddler and blue raspberry slushies, the kind that stained your tongue neon blue and made all the hurtful words the bullies said not matter as much when you had a mouthful of sugar. Even that same royal blue of the empty baby's room next to Richie's. But he let those bowling pins stay in place for now. Richie bounded down the steps and didn't bother waiting for his parent's approval to tear through the wrapping paper. Hidden beneath the layers of paper was in fact a bike, but it wasn't one he'd ever seen before. If he had, the monster of a bike was bound to be from a pawn shop or something. The bike was old. With huge fading handles and a package carrier on the back. It even had one of those rubber horns clasped to one of the handles. Richie crouched down to stare at the wheels, where it looked as though his dad or maybe a less experienced man had tried ripping the cards once inserted between the spokes, and left a few wispy pieces of paper as a ghost of their presence. Even more odd, the word Silver was scrawled in a barely perceptible line across the slim body of the bike. Richie felt like he was touching the cool metal of the past, and loved every second spent staring at the bike when he heard his parents step out onto the porch in their house shoes. Richie turned his head and flashed an appreciative smile at the both of them.

"What do you think?" His mother held her hands firmly to her stomach, wringing them when Richie remained silent. "We found it over by Center Street. Some fellow, Denbrough something or other was giving it away, but I had to pay him at least something-"

"I love it!" Richie flung himself up to wrap his skinny arms around his mother equally skinny waist, then buried a string of thank-yous into her nightdress. He held her tightly and hoped his words were proof enough for her to believe it. He wasn't lying, he did like the bike. But he liked knowing he could race past the houses and cars, right to school. Right past awful Henry Bowers and Victor Criss.

"You're welcome," Wentworth and Maggie said with a high laugh. Well, his father laughed but his mother's didn't go past her lips, like maybe her mouth remembered how to be happy but the rest of her didn't.

"You're growing up, Richie. Thirteen now, but soon you'll be twenty and never even realize it...Then you'll be having kids of your own..." Maggie trailed off, no longer meeting her son's wide eyes.

"...Mom, you okay?"

His father butted in once more when he noticed Richie lingering far too long on Maggie's frown. "You wanna try it out? I'm sure you've got hardly any homework to do on a Saturday."

"Can I?" Richie asked his mother, who only replied with a nod. He sure did have an ass load of school work to do, but he didn't want his mother to worry over him even more.

"Don't be out too late, or I'll be sending the hounds on you, mister."

"Dad, we don't have any dogs, remember? Maybe I'll ask for a puppy for Christmas! How bout that, eh?" Richie laughed, but it died when he saw the pained, fragile look in his mother's eyes.

Went took Maggie by the shoulders and guided her into the house, where the sound of her short little cries escaped past the front door. Richie waited with his eyes shut till he couldn't hear the stifled sniffling to slip back into the house for his messenger bag in his bedroom then quietly shut the front door. He didn't want to be in the way, not after seeing how worked up she had gotten. He mounted the bike--Silver, or whatever name it was to the last kid that used it--and fastened the radio from his bag to the basket in front of him. A cool rhythm played out along the Derry streets as Richie pedaled (or tried to, as he'd only ridden one bike before maybe-Silver, when he was only five) toward his freedom. He had the whole day to himself, whether it be spent at Costello's for some candy in exchange for the loose pennies in his short pockets, or at the library for a new comic. Or, on a completely different note, on the burning asphalt because Richie had sped up too fast around a turn down Jackson with his head floating far above the clouds, leaving him jolting back awake and not nearly enough time to break. The bike swung him forward, angrily bucking like an untamed horse, and Richie slipped off the seat and into the sidewalk as the radio strung out another cheery, soulful tune. The sun-scorched mounds of rubble ground against his cheeks and Richie thinks for a second that maybe riding a bike (especially such a behemoth like this one) was such a good idea. His glasses flew off into a patch of dying grass a few feet in front of him, and when Richie found his bearings he realized he hadn't fallen along the sidewalk at all. In fact, there was no sidewalk. The road ended a mile or so back, and all that remained was a few rundown houses showcased by uneven edges of asphalt and sidelines of jagged gravel that cut into his bare knees and chin.

I knew I should have worn pants today, Richie thought as he scrambled over on his stomach for his glasses. He blinked up for a street sign, but there weren't any of those, either. The last one he'd remembered seeing was Neibolt Street, and the realization alone made his body shiver despite the throbbing heat from the scrapes and cuts. This was exactly where his mother might pray Richie wouldn't end up. The houses on Neibolt (if someone were to really call them homes) were scattered and obviously vacant, with boarded up windows and an overall stench of mildew rot that hung over each property. Richie righted his bike and switched off the radio, worried some hobo were to peek their grimy head out from a near window if they heard the music. The closest house loomed over him, it engulfed the entire street with its dark wood-rotted panels and what seemed to be a garden, perhaps in a happier time, but had gone straight to hell. The porch was barely visible through a twisting snarl of rosebushes, the only colorful thing about that wretched house as Richie could see. Those scarlet blooms called to him, and Richie couldn't help but take a tentative step with his battered sneakers up to the chipped picket fence, staring out into the dead quiet for a sign of life inside the house.

A flash of chestnut zoomed past one of the roses, and Richie stopped dead in his tracks. His hand was hovering above the unhinged gate for more movement, holding his breath. A bird must be caught in there. That dark brown softness hesitated behind the bush, then disappeared under the porch and what looked like into the caved in cellar. Oh my god. It's not a bird...that's someone's hair. It's a boy.

"Wait!" Richie called out, abandoning maybe-Silver at the corner but still had his messenger bag slung across his sweaty chest. He dove toward the rosebush, his head full of wonder as to why a kid would hang around a dump like this, and not the least bit concerned for his own safety as the thorns tugged on the soft flesh of his forearms and ankles. The boy had maneuvered through the sharp pieces of the broken porch to get to the cellar, and Richie whined despite himself at the pain as he crawled on his hands and bloody knees to the shattered entrance. It was beyond dark in there, but it seemed quiet and barren to Richie so he stuck one leg into the mouth of the cellar and jumped down. Nothing seemed new, as it all sounded so ancient and tomb-like as the dust from his fall settled, the leaves definitely weren't from this season and the glass wasn't sharp to the touch of his soles. They were worn into the decaying earth of the cellar floor, like they were used to being stepped on. Richie nearly tumbled into the boy when his feet connected with the spongy spring leaves and glass shards.

"Oh! Jeez, I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd be-" Richie started to say, but stopped himself short when what spare light flickered across the boy's face let Richie really get a good look at him. Though bathed in darkness and musty shadows, the boy looked young. Maybe thirteen, like he was. But what made Richie's heart speed up to an unsteady clang in his dry throat was the boy's face. His lips were parted, as if in awe, and as he did so a thin trickle of a black sticky something dribbled down his chin to his shirt collar. The boy only wiped it away, as if it were a pesky fly and nothing more. His fingers and hands were stained too, with that syrupy something. It couldn't be...blood? It's too dark to be blood, really. Unless it's so deep inside him that it's- God, stop it Rich.

Richie reached out a hand to the boy. "Jesus, are you alright? What're you doing down here?"

He couldn't really make out the words through the stream of blood or mucus passing through the boy's mouth, but he heard something along the lines of, "You can see me?" With this was the kid's hands recoiling from Richie, until he stumbled against the brickwork behind him.

"Um...Yes?" He blinked, still staring, completely fascinated by the way the boy didn't really care about his bloody speech impediment. "Say, what's that all over your mouth? Some costume?"

"I wish," The boy hiccupped, or let out some sort of wheezy intake of breath, and more blood coursed down his front. It reminded Richie of when Ron had cursed himself in Harry Potter and began to hurl mouthfuls of slugs. Except that was a fairytale and this was actually happening. He didn't just say that he casually throws up blood. Or black loogie stuff. He couldn't have.

"You mean that," Richie pointed to his stained lips, making him frown. "Happens all the time?" Richie gaped at him, and the other boy only looked away into the depths of the cellar with the lines of his cheeks dark in embarrassment.

"Don't act so surprised, if you'd been through what I- Oh, never mind," He turned back to Richie and wiped his mouth. "What're you doing down here? How did you even find me?"

Richie glanced at the chips of glass by his shoes, feeling stupid. "I fell off my bike. But I saw some idiot wandering into a haunted house and wanted to make sure they weren't going to get their guts unzipped." At the last of his words the boy's brows furrowed and he was glaring with pursed, blood-stained lips. Richie couldn't help the few extra words that often times were the garnish of his sentences. It just came out. His tongue usually betrayed him like that, and these little blips in his brain were the main cause for the teasing at school. Teasing was putting it lightly, though, Richie knew. He didn't come home with black eyes and a practiced lie to his mother for some teasing.

What'd ya say, trashmouth? How about I smash those buck teeth in for ya, faggot?

The boy considered this, his brown eyes softening in the dusty light. "Well, next time don't go chasing a stranger into someplace you don't know. And it isn't haunted."

"I'm only a stranger because you didn't ask for my name."

"And I still haven't," He spit back.

"It's Richie."

"Eddie."

Richie held his hands up in defeat. He wasn't exactly an expert in the making friends department, though he wished he was. God, he did. "C'mon. I just met you and you're already mad at me. Must be a world record or something."

"I'm not mad at you. You just shouldn't be here, Richie," Eddie interrupted himself with a wicked gasp and another gush of blood glistened along his already stained shirt. "It's not safe."

"And why not? Why did you ask me if I could see you? What, are you a ghost or something?" Richie asked playfully, but Eddie's face paled. Water shuddered with a groan through the pipes, somewhere above them, making Eddie jump slightly and then wince at the blood that was caked on Richie's knees and bare arms, as if seeing it for the first time. His next words were grave and demanding, and Richie didn't feel up to debate when such a small thirteen year old kid looked so terrified of some plumbing.

"You need to go," Eddie stated, but didn't try to push Richie away.

"What's the matter? Afraid you won't get any hot water in your shower tonight?" His traitorous mouth spat out.

"Go Richie! You need to get out of here!" Eddie's breath came in ragged pants, and with it more gross blood oozing like snot from between his chattering teeth. He really is scared shitless, Richie thought.

His feet wouldn't move, only lock up in the crazed moment he remembered the glass underneath his shoes and their cool, hard presence like an old knife against his toes. The water in the pipes reached a new height, and the noise stopped directly above them, where a resonant thud pounded across the ceiling and made a few scraps of paint tumble down. Richie felt the world settle around him too, maybe for the first time in the past few minutes, and that was when he felt the weight of his messenger bag grounding him to the earth.

"Here," Richie flipped open the front of his bag and handed Eddie an empty potato chip bag he'd left in there. He didn't know why he was handing him some week old trash, he just thought that it would help the boy's...problem. Eddie only blinked at him, incredulous, before snatching the bag with a shaky hand.

"So you don't ruin any more shirts," Richie explained, then mimed the action of throwing up into an invisible baggie. Eddie's face got that weird pinkish tinge again, and Richie thought the boy was going to say something, or maybe giggle just a bit, but the memory of the creaking and angry pipe sounds made his soft features fall.

"What're you still doing here? Go before it's too late!" Eddie waved his hands frantically at Richie, looking conflicted between shoving his skinny ass up and out of the cellar and perhaps curling into a ball. Maybe he can handle the loogie stuff better that way, Richie thought. He spun around and leapt for the small crag of windowpane left in the cellar, with just enough leverage to haul himself up and back underneath the porch of the house on Neibolt Street. As he half-crawled, half-staggered his way out from under the dry stench of the porch, he didn't hear any more groaning from the pipes. But if Richie stood by the rosebush and bent his head down toward the wooden skirt, he swore he heard Eddie's short sobs, much like his mother's. They were the type that didn't care if you had something to say. They raged through your lungs and out your throat with a little dash of tears to go with it. Except, among the hushed rustle of nearby rosebushes, Richie realized that Eddie's choked sobs were fearful. Like that raging something was attacking him instead.

He found maybe-Silver perched just where he'd left it, the only breeze of reality that allowed Richie to swing his stinging knees across the seat and pedal for home. Get out before it's too late, Eddie had said. Before what?

"What harrowing tales does Richie the Brave have for us tonight?" Wentworth asked. Richie sat across their little kitchen table, the one that collected hospital documents and angry-seeming papers with debt scrawled in red ink, and was shoveling mashed potatoes and burnt asparagus into his mouth. Richie's mother had went to bed early, her dinner going untouched next to Went's empty chair (which explained the over-cooked dinner but not the extra plate and silverware. Did he think she'd come down and inspect the house for fire once she smelled the burning chicken?). After the outburst from this morning, Richie guessed he was too scared to wake her to eat. Richie didn't blame him.

"Oh, not much," Richie began, and made a little mashed potato ski slope as he thought over what to say. He knew it were best to leave out the creepy house on Neibolt from his daring tales, but maybe adding a new character to the story wouldn't hurt anyone. "Went to the trainyard and accidentally busted up my knees. But I made a friend on the ride back home."

This was good, he knew. It wrapped up his fake story with enough packing peanuts that it passed as the real one, with his injuries all accounted for, and Richie even had the guts to tie a little ribbon around it and say he actually made a friend. It got Wentworth listening, which was the real bow on top. His dad grinned and pretended to pull wax from his ears.

"A friend? That's great, son. What's he like?"

Richie stared into the mess he'd made of his dinner. He wished his mother were downstairs too, just so maybe she'd smile at how great his day had gone. He missed her smile.

"His name's Eddie. I don't know much about him, we only talked for a few blocks before he had to turn back and see his ma, you know? But I think he's got some trouble breathing."

"Asthma?"

"Huh?" Richie looked up from his plate, sure his dad had just said ass mom.

"Maybe your little friend's got asthma, Chee."

Richie shrugged. "Maybe. But he's got it real bad. Coughing up blood and stuff." He didn't mean for the last part to trickle out, but like Eddie's weird blood fits he fell into, it just came out.

"Coughing up blood?"

"Yeah. Like motor oil," Richie bit his lip but still the words came. His dad only gaped at him, not looking the slightest bit convinced but all the same concerned.

"Do Eddie's parents know about this? That doesn't sound good, Richie."

The boy's name didn't sound right coming from his dad's mouth, and on top of that he used Richie, his full name. This was unfamiliar territory Richie had land-mined himself into. When was the last time his dad had called him by his real name? Or sounded as skeptical as he did now?

"You think I'm making it up, aren't you?" Richie asked, not knowing where this foreign anger had come from or why it decided to pump through his veins, white-hot energy straight to his brain. Wentworth's face faltered, but he gained some composure. For the first time Richie realized how tired and strained his dad's face looked. Not just his face, but his whole body. His shoulders were curved and hunched, as if pressed down by some invisible weight, circles tracing his brown eyes, a nervous twiddle of his index finger around his wedding ring. His dad looked exhausted, and old, and Richie wasn't sure what to make of that.

"I- Of course not, Chee. I'm just trying to get a better picture. You said your friend has asthma-"

"Can I be excused, dad? I'm not really hungry." Richie was super hungry, after all that had happened today, but wasn't liking the idea of having to conjure up more lies to string along his story. I should have just kept my goddamn mouth shut. He hardly knew why the hell Eddie was down in that disgusting well house, let alone his odd habit of throwing up blood. It all seemed too peculiar, but not fake enough for Richie to just shrug it off. It was real. He could smell those dead leaves in his nose, still feel the thorn pricks burrowing shallow nicks in his skin, the coppery stench of Eddie's body once only a few feet from him, making the stuffy cellar stink like old pennies. All because of Eddie. Eddie, with his pinched face and tiny arms. Eddie who was probably the same age as Richie was but still had a tender childlike orbit to him, even if it got swallowed up by the crippling fear he'd seen smash into those bright brown eyes-

"Richie? Are you okay?" His dad was leaning across the table now, his plate clean and pushed aside. Richie brushed his advancing hand away and gathered his own plate.

"Sorry, yeah. Dazed off for a bit." But Wentworth was still staring fixedly at him, like maybe he'd never believed a single thing uttered from Richie's trashcan of a mouth since he'd came home.

"Alright, well goodnight then. And happy birthday," His dad grabbed Richie's arm before he could run away (and Richie did his very best not to cry out as his dad's fingers squeezed the sore scratches) and brought him in for a side hug. He cringed out of the hug, but couldn't stop the broken-looking smile that stretched across his face. It showcased far too much teeth.

"Thanks, dad." Richie wrinkled his nose at how strained the conversation sounded, like neither really wanted to sit down and play house while their missing piece of the puzzle wasn't there to complete them. Richie just wanted to sleep away whatever had happened between him and his mother, but the Neibolt house tugged at his consciousness through his aching muscles and tiny scabs. And that equally striking pang of worry for whatever had Eddie trapped inside its walls.

[thatbloodymuggle]

the one with the contaminated beer bottle

Tongue Tied 1/?

masterlist

word count: 2.6k

warnings: cursing ig? mentions of death

read it on wattpad

playlist

-

"Miss Connolly, what makes you think you'd be a good fit for emancipation?"

The unbothered judge flipped through a stack of papers, glasses nearly falling off the bridge of his nose. The seventeen-year-old shifted uncomfortably in her seat between her uncle and her lawyer. It was painfully evident that all four of them, the judge, the lawyer, the uncle, and the girl, would rather be anywhere else.

"Well," the girl coughed to clear her throat, "I believe that I have the facilities to thrive on my own. I have a paid off house and car in my name from my mom's will, a sizeable amount of savings from my dad's, and a steady income from my job. It's not huge, but I'm hoping to build it up over the summer. I'm also on track to go to UNC Chapel Hill with my test scores and my dad's legacy, so education won't be a problem."

The air in the room seemed to get thicker with each word. The girl's throat was drying, and she felt the sweat building up on her palms. The office was silent apart from the nail-tapping of the lawyer, the occasional cough from the judge, and her uncle's chair squeaking.

"Overall, I think I'm just as capable to provide for myself, if not more, than my uncle. I believe I am responsible enough to be recognized as an adult, and I really want this for myself," she finished.

The girl let out a huge sigh she hadn't realized she'd been holding in. The drab room grew silent again apart from the bored "hmm" from the judge. Her uncle squeaked in his chair again. The nail-tapping from the lawyer continued.

"Mr. Connolly, do you believe your neice is a good candidate for emancipation?"

The greying man didn't hesitate to grumble a rushed 'Yes' while stroking his untamed beard. The judge nodded in response.

"And Mrs. Watson, based on your assessment, do you too believe that Miss Connolly is a good candidate for emancipation?"

The lawyer stopped her nail tapping and shot a plastic smile towards the judge. "Yes Sir. From my meetings with Miss Connolly, I believe she is a perfect fit," molasses dripped from her deep voice, gravelly from years of smoking.

"Well," the judge shuffled a few more papers, "Then it seems you've made my job here easy. With great references and support from your uncle and reviewer, I don't see any reason to deny you what you want. By the power vested in me by the North Carolina Judicial System, I declare Rose-Ann Mae Connolly to be an emancipated minor."

The air in the room thinned and Rosie felt a massive weight lift off her shoulders.

The next few minutes of papers and signatures were a blur. Her body carried her through the motions, but her mind was elsewhere. Somewhere in the realm of 'Holy shit. I'm free'. She swiftly shook the judge's hand, and collected her paperwork. Her uncle was already out the door, and she didn't hesitate to follow.

The pair weaved in and out of hallways and staircases towards the exit in silence. Rosie's mind was reeling with too many emotions, and David Connolly just wanted to get home and continue his marathon of Duck Dynasty. Before she knew it, they'd reached her mom's Mini-Cooper and his 2004 Toyota Corolla parked side by side. David Connolly continued to move in silence as he transferred a large suitcase from his trunk to her backseat.

"Well, uh," he swung the door of her red car shut, "I guess this is it."

He shifted awkwardly, and scratched at his overgrown beard. The Connollys cleared their throats simultaneously in a pathetic attempt to fill the awkward silence.

"Yeah, looks like it," Rosie sighed with a tight-lipped smile. Her uncle nodded sharply and unlocked his dented car door.

"Drive safe, then. You have my number if something goes wrong," the greying man grunted while climbing into his beat-up car.

Rosie waved a breathy, "Bye," just as he slammed the car door shut. He didn't hesitate to pull, quite recklessly, out of the parking lot. The 17-year-old watched the Toyota drive away until she could no longer see it. She shook herself back to reality as the car blinked from existence. Slowly, a grin took over her face. Her heart beat out of her chest in excitement.

She could finally go home.

Rosie jumped into her infamous red Mini-Cooper and slammed the door shut behind her. She gripped the wheel, her grin growing so wide it hurt. She released the scream of excitement bubbling inside her. She must have looked crazy to anyone passing by, but Rosie didn't care.

She was finally going home.

The young girl forced herself to settle down, but a smile remained. Rosie inserted her mother's Beatles for Sale CD into the car player and prepared herself for the 2-hour drive to the OBX. The engine revved in sync with the silky, smooth voice of Paul McCartney. Rosie zoomed out of the parking lot in record time to begin her trek down the North Carolina state road. Signs, farms, and gas stations passed, but the only thing on Rosie's mind was home.

God, she'd missed her friends. She'd missed late nights at The Wreck with Kie, and study sessions on the docks with Pope. She'd missed impromptu races against John B, and the whole crew dog-piling on John B's hammocks. Hell, she'd even missed rolling blunts with JJ and their constant bickering.

Rosie's fingers drummed against the steering wheel to the beat of Eight Days A Week. The warmth in her stomach and the smile on her face felt unfamiliar. This was the first time she'd felt true joy since her mom had passed just 4 months earlier. Finally, everything seemed to be falling back into place.

By the time the teenager had reached the ferry, she'd cycled through two Beatles CD's and one Bob Dylan. Just a little further, she thought to herself as she boarded the large boat. Her phone buzzed beside her. She scrambled to grab it, nearly dropping it.

12:01 P.M   Kie: any news?

1:43 P.M   Pope: How'd it go?

1:44 P.M   Pope: Btw, if u can't come back we'll survive. U know like good riddance see u never  type vibe

1:45 P.M   Pope: Sorry that was JJ

1:45 P.M   Pope: He's an ass

3:59 P.M   JB: ur KILLING us here. what's the verdict!?

Rosie grinned at the texts she'd received from her friends over the past couple of hours. She began to type a reply, but deleted it midway. She was so close by now that it would be more fun to surprise them instead.

The teenager leaned against the railing next to her car. The salty smell and cool breeze tickling her nose was a bliss like no other. Rosie peered into the distance, catching sight of a blurry island in the distance. A soft grin tugged at her lips. She closed her eyes and threw her head back, enjoying the ocean air and peaceful waves she'd missed oh-so-much.

The warmth in her gut grew as the ferry approached the dock. Within minutes, Rosie was driving her Mini-Cooper off the massive boat.

The Outer Banks. Home. She couldn't believe she was finally back. Rosie turned onto the main road and drove towards the small home one of her dearest friends inhabited. She'd drop off her things at her own house later. She just couldn't wait a second longer before seeing her friends.

Rosie usually hated driving through the Figure Eight, but even the sight of the lavish houses and boys in polos put a smile on her face. It was the first sense of familiarity she'd felt in months. Minutes passed and her heart raced as she got closer and closer. Before she knew it, the Chateau was just in the distance. Another uncontrollable grin took over Rosie's face. She was bouncing in her seat in excitement.

She pulled her small car onto the gravel driveway and jumped out. Rosie stared at the shack in disbelief for a brief moment. She was afraid she'd never see the beat-up place ever again, but here she was. Kie's familiar shriek sounded from inside the house. This was enough to send Rosie racing towards the front door. The screen door nearly swung off its hinges from her force.

Four startled faces shot towards the door. There was a moment of silence: Rosie beaming in the doorway, John B dropping a half-full bottle of beer, Pope hanging sideways off the couch, Kie dropping her jaw, and JJ, well, JJ looking unbothered

The few seconds of silence were short-lived as the room burst out into indistinguishable screams.

"Oh my god!"

"You're alive!"

"She's a free woman!"

Rosie was tackled by Kie, quickly followed by John B and Pope. The four teenagers nearly tumbled to the ground.

"Guys... can't.. breathe..." Rosie struggled from underneath John B's armpit.

"It's what you get for leaving us hanging all day! We thought we'd never see you again," Kie laughed, squeezing her friend even tighter.

"Oh come on, Kie," Rosie wiggled out of the suffocating group hug. "I wanted it to be a surprise! I did good too, didn't I? Gotta keep you on your toes," she giggled.

"It was a pretty good surprise, Kie," Pope laughed, swinging an arm over Rosie's left shoulder while John B took her right.

"I've seen better. You know, could've added some flair: fireworks, balloons, a unicorn. 5 out of 10 at best," a certain blond piped up from the couch.

Rosie Connolly locked eyes with JJ Maybank. Usually, her mortal nemesis—a pest, if you will—but today, a friend. A mischievous grin took over her face, matching his playful smirk.

"Hey to you too, shithead," she quipped. "Aw, how sweet! You got me a 'welcome home' gift," Rosie swiftly shot forward and snagged his beer bottle mid-swig. JJ yanked her arm back in an attempt to salvage his beer, but she'd already stuck her tongue inside it.

"Oh, sorry, did you want this?" Rosie cocked her head at a pissed off JJ. "How rude of me! Here, you can have it," the girl feigned innocence, but couldn't wipe the devious smirk from her lips.

JJ snatched the beer back, "Oh nah," he spit inside the bottle, swirled it around a little, and handed it back to Rosie, "It's all yours. Welcome home, bitch."

She crinkled her nose in disgust at the contaminated drink. JJ leaned back in his seat, clearly pleased with himself. Rosie moved to dump the drink over his head, but John B intercepted before it could escalate.

"Hey hey, no need to get all loved up now. Let's keep the PDA to a minimum," John B snatched the bottle and set it on the counter. He tossed two new bottles to his bickering friends. Rosie caught it gracefully, and fell back onto the couch next to Kie.

"I swear, in some past life you two were an old married couple," Kie laughed, draping her legs over Rosie's. The Pogues chorused in laughter, apart from JJ and Rosie. He shot her his infamously infuriating smirk, to which she took a massive swig of beer.

"Damn, I've missed this," Rosie moaned at the bitter taste. "Haven't had a drink in four months."

Rosie brought the bottle back to her lips to take a second sip, but paused upon the realization that all four pairs of eyes were trained on her expectantly.

"What?" she cried, "Can I not have a drink without being stared down?"

"What do you mean what? We haven't seen you in four months and all you've gotta say is how much you love beer?" Pope deadpanned.

"Rose-Ann Mae Connolly, I knew you were always just mooching off of me!" John B jokingly accused. Rosie rolled her eyes at the two boys and set down the bottle.

"What've you been up to without us? How was the end of the school year? How was the trial?" Kie ignored John B and turned to face her friend with curious eyes.

"School? Boring. Living with David? Boring. Trial? Boring. And there you have it! 4 months in 5 seconds!" Rosie entangled her legs with Kiara's, letting her feet fall onto John B's lap.

Kiara began to protest at the severe lack of information, but was interrupted.

"A woman of many words," JJ grumbled from across the couch with his eyes closed as if he were mid-nap.

"Seriously, guys," Rosie huffed, "That's all it was—boring. But I'm here now, a legal adult, and I just wanna have fun, so let's do something fucking insane!" she diverted her friends away from asking anymore questions.

Truth be told, the last few months had been absolutely miserable. Grief is a heavy emotion. The great thing about having a family and friends is they can help carry some of the weight. But Rosie had been forced to spend those months grieving over the loss of her mother alone, and she was ready to move past it.

"Fair enough. Why don't we go late-night diving off the cliff up Old Miller Road later?" Kie suggested.

"Do you want to die?" Pope deadpanned at the same time that JJ spoke, "Sounds exhilarating".

"Oh, come on Pope. It's my first night back! Do it or you're lame," Rosie laughed at her nervous friend.

"Then I'm lame."

"Well, 4 to 5 majority rules," John B clapped his hands, "we'll leave from here at 10:00."

Four out of the five teenagers cheered. Pope crossed his arms and grumbled in disapproval.

Rosie pulled herself from the confines of Kie, "Sounds like a plan, but I should probably head back to my place for a little bit before. Need to unpack and, uh, clear some stuff out," she coughed awkwardly at the last part. Her friends nodded in understanding.

"I can come with if you want? You know, help you unpack and stuff," Kiara offered a warm smile.

Rosie smiled back, but shook her head, "Thanks, Kie, but I've got it covered."

"Are you sure?" John B added.

"Really," Rosie emphasized. "I'll be fine. I need to sort some papers out, anyways." The newly-emancipated teenager reluctantly lifted herself from the comfy couch and the warmth of her friends. "I'll be back soon. Don't you worry your pretty little head," she made a show of ruffling John B's untamed hair.

"Hurry back!" JJ's voice dripped with sarcasm underneath the hat that was now covering his face.

"Just for you," Rosie quipped. She did one last once-over at her friends before swinging the unstable door open. "See you soon!" she called as she strode back to her car.

The chatter of her friends died out as she moved further from the house and closer to the Mini-Cooper. A different sort of happiness flooded her body. Being isolated from the people she loved for so long was like losing a piece of her heart, and she'd finally found it. It was a warmth like no other, and as she drove home, she could only count down the minutes until she'd be with them again.

-

this is unedited oops

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part 2 coming soon!

[an-apocalypse-of-magpies]

On the world of Mortal Engines, class, and the metaphors of consumption

This is less an essay and more a collection of thoughts. Basically I just saw a video on the Mortal Engines film and its being a civilisation too stupid to exist. I got fed up, mainly because so many of the criticisms amounted to ‘the book did it better’ with little elaboration but also the arrogantly grating voice of the presenter got on my nerves, but I cannot deny the points made and in fact wanted to elaborate further on the worldbuilding of this series and, while unrealistic, look at why the books were so engaging.

Some background to start off - Mortal Engines is a four-book series (and three-book prequel sub-series) written by English author Phillip Reeve, and depicts a bleak post-apocalyptic world. North America is uninhabitable and lost to the sands of time, irradiated, poisoned, and flattened by war. Eurasia is mostly barren plains. And, of course, the central premise - towns and cities have raised themselves onto mobile platforms and trundle about. Well, mostly. A major antagonist to this system is the Anti-Traction League, a collective of nations hiding out in old east China, the Indian subcontinent, southeast Asia and some of Africa. They are seen as barbarians and heathens by much of the world for refusing to mobilise, instead hiding in stationary citadels behind their mountains. The Traction Cities near-universally engage in a philosophy of Municipal Darwinism, a savage system of bastardised pseudo-biology where cities literally predate each other and ‘consume’ each other for resources. Cities eat towns, towns eat smaller towns. Some towns and cities deliberately adapt to cheat the system and make themselves a less appetising target, or for that matter a more aggressive and efficient hunter.

THE TRACTION CITIES

The first three books tend to focus their action on one or two cities, whereas the last is a bit more of a road trip. The other consistent thread is multiple characters’ stories running concurrently, usually reconnecting near the end. This allows the books maintain an open, almost global scale - you’ll nearly never not be moving, even sitting still on a city, which reinforces the theme of unnatural life. The first book focuses on London, which has been sulking in what was once Britain (by sheer happenstance on their part and pure irony on ours), and is suddenly running at full pelt back into Europe and eastward as fast as her engines can carry her. Why? London’s not the biggest city around, and the vast expanse of Eurasia is now the Great Hunting Ground - it’s where the big boys play, and by play I mean ‘savagely predate each other’. It’s dangerous territory for a little city. But over the first book, it becomes increasingly apparent that Traction Cities are increasingly non-viable option for existence. Fuel is scarce, prey moreso, and what morsels London can confidently snap up will not sustain it for long. There is an ecosystem at play here - static settlements can farm resources, but are universally seen as food, either by small bandit settlements to raid for supplies or for larger towns to just straight-up eat. Small towns too small to hunt tend to be miners or gatherers, either mining minerals to use or trade, or gathering resources like wood from natural deposits or sifting through the waste heaps left by bigger cities. Most cities bigger than that are ‘urbivores’, or hunter towns, that hunt and eat smaller prey or opportunistically scavenge the ‘carcasses’ of dead cities. I mentioned specialisation earlier, and like in nature, species and cities can occupy a niche that gives them an advantage and thus increased chance at survival. Airhaven, for example, is a politically-neutral city in the air that floats around Eurasia seasonally and serves as a rest stop, fuelling station and trading exchange for airship pilots the world over, Tractionist or no. Tunbridge Wheels is a pirate-run town that has a lightweight wooden chassis and flotation devices to hunt amphibiously in a world where many small towns escape threat by setting up on islands.  Panzerstadt-Bayreuth is a conurbation of four massive cities, too big to survive long without prey, they banded together to take down the biggest of prey (it’s unclear whether they achieve this through sheer size or whether they decouple and become a pack hunter). Anchorage, the last American city, neutered its own jaws to increase mobility, skating around the frozen north too fast for threats to catch up with, and survives on trade. Brighton is a pleasure city that paddles around the warm Mediterranean, technically still a predator but with no real agenda and about the only city left that can be called a tourist city (it’s run on the back of brutal slave labour). And these are just the major ones. Throughout the books, cities are treated like living things ... like mortal engines.

And like living things, they need resources to survive.

A DYING WAY OF LIFE

The books are inconsistent on the origins of Traction Cities, as it turns out deliberately - history is written by the winners, after all. But it’s all closely tied to the ‘apocalypse’ part of the post-apocalytic I mentioned earlier. Long ago in-universe, long into our future, was a terrible event known as the Sixty Minute War. This war tore the world asunder with nuclear and quantum energy weaponry. America, the epicentre, is simply no more (it turns out there are some fertile areas in Nova Scotia, but for the most part America is dead). Entire new mountain ranges were born, notably the Tannhäusers in East Asia that shield the heartland of the Anti-Traction League. There was a long period of geological and tectonic instability. According to legend, Traction Cities arose to escape these instabilities. In other words, like animals will flee a volcanic eruption, cities first became mobile to escape and survive. Trade was likely facilitated by towns literally being able to park next to each other. Ironically, London was also where everything changed. After Nikola Quercus conquered (static) London with his mobile fortresses, he decided to upgrade and raise London onto wheels to become the first fully-mobile city. And he did it for war. After all, there’s no better comeback to ‘you and what army’ then literally rolling up with your entire city. By the series present, the idea had caught on and grown into the ideology described above. But herein lies the problem. Early Traction London was a tiny little thing. Now it’s not even the biggest fish in the pond, but it’s still HUGE. And, as we all know, big things need lots of energy to go. London is described as having a top speed of about sixty miles per hour at the height of a hunt. So, you need fuel. There is still oil in this world, mainly because they now have no qualms about mining Antarctica, but if you think there’s nearly enough crude oil to run a world full of cities like London you are sorely mistaken. Wood’s not much better off. And, of course, Traction Cities tend to run on some form of internal combustion engine - it’s only at the very end of the traction era that science has advanced enough for a town to experiment with magnetic levitation. So what do they burn? Well, bits of other prey towns. Do you see the problem? Use fuel to hunt towns, burn those towns for fuel. What next? And it’s not just fuel. London captures a little salt-mining town called Salthook at the beginning of the first book to introduce us to the concepts at play, and we see what goes on in the Dismantling Yards - part of a system literally called the Gut, in case the metaphor wasn’t clear yet. Everything is recycled. Bricks, mortar, steel, wood, everything. Because the state of technology is so weird in this world, Old-Tech (technology from before the SMW) can be incredibly valuable to history and/or science, and London is keen to snaffle that up too. The people are interred into refugee camps, though if you know anything about how real-life Britain treats refugees you can probably see where that is going. And it’s not enough. It’s never enough. Food is an even more pressing concern. Unless you’re very rich (more on that in a mo), food is mostly algae-based, then hardy vegetables that grow quickly like cabbage. And it’s running out fast. And London’s a big city with a lot of resources at its disposal. Most cities don’t even have that. A lot of cities are starving on the wheels, city and populace alike. A lot of cities run on slave labour, and feed those slaves as little as they can get away with. Shan Guo, home of the Anti-Traction League, is a green and vibrant land only because it doesn’t have cities running over or eating its farmlands every other day (and, again, city folk generally don’t know this - they’re given endless propaganda that Anti-Tractionists are barbarian warbands a la Mad Max). A lot of the A story is told from the point of view of Tom Natsworthy, who until the events of the book had never left London. He’s never seen bare earth or walked on mud before. He’s never seen a horse. The idea that you can survive, much less thrive, outside of a Traction City is alien to him. But on the city he came from, everything is rapidly running out, and some cities are turning to desperate measures to survive, including Arkangel openly bribing pilots to sell out the locations and courses of nearby cities. A chilling scene in the first book even has Tom see, from the safety of the air, the corpse of Motoropolis, a city not unlike London that literally just starved to death, running out of fuel and helpless as the scavengers closed in. It’s been weeks since the city stopped, and the narrative description evokes the grotesqueness and sadness of a whale carcass. Sheer Jingoism is about the only thing keeping Municipal Darwinism alive - Traction good, stationary bad.

CLASS, CLASSISM, AND OTHER SOCIAL OPPRESSIONS

In a world so starved as this, compassion is hard to come by. Cities still exist mainly by virtue of rigid social stratification, and often that stratification is literal - most medium-to-large cities have tiers, and will generally arrange those tiers based on social class. London, for example, has seven tiers. The bottom two tiers are dominated by the Gut, the engines, and homes and communities of the workers who keep them running. Tiers 4 and 3 are miscellaneous proles of increasing social standing. Tier 2 is mostly what I’d call ‘tourist London’ - lots of the nice bits and the establishments that London likes to be proud of. Because of his work at the London Museum, this is the quality of life Tom Natsworthy was most used to. Tier 1 is High London, where all the rich live and have their amenities and nice parks (and even that doesn’t last - London’s food shortage means even the High London parks are eventually, begrudgingly, turned over for food production). Katherine Valentine, the hero of the first book’s B plot, lives here. Finally there’s Top Tier, which is purely administrative. The only buildings are the Guildhall (the seat of government), St Paul’s Cathedral (which the Engineers’ Guild have secretly been installing a deadly superweapon in under the guise of ‘restoration’ work) and the headquarters of the Guild of Engineers, the most powerful of London’s Guilds. Social stratification is nearly non-existant, and people are shown to get very uncomfortable when out of ‘their space’. Tom is sent to work in the Gut during the capture of Salthook as a punishment before the plot ejects him from London, and he notes being actively intimidated by the claustrophobia, the dirt, the rough and burly labourers, and the noise. But despite Tom’s relatively privileged life - he lives near High London, above the heat and noise and smoke of the engines, in the care of one of the top four Guilds of London - he is of very low social status. Tom Natsworthy is an orphan; his parents were Historians, but were killed when an accident occurred and part of Tier 3 collapsed, crushing anything on Tier 4 beneath. Even before that, the Natsworthys were middle class at best, but being orphaned meant being left to the care of an orphanage run by the Guild of his parents, the Historians. The Historians were Tom’s only source of education, and eventually they would employ him, but with no parents or money, Tom can only afford a Third-Class apprenticeship. He has no upwards mobility within the Guild, and with no money he can’t leave and train with another. His dream of being a pilot trader, or better yet adventurer, will never come true under normal circumstances. The rich live in a completely different world yet. Katherine Valentine, daughter of the Head Historian and the Lord Mayor’s ‘right-hand man’ Thaddeus Valentine, has a positively bougie lifestyle with not a care in the world. Ironically, though, it is through Katherine’s eyes that the horrors of London’s class system are revealed. Trying to find information about her father’s would-be killer, Katherine finds herself regularly travelling to the Gut, eventually befriending an apprentice Engineer who witnessed the attack. But in the Gut, life is very different. It’s not just a life of hard labour and smoke - petty criminals and the aforementioned ‘refugees’ are tasked with working dangerous and sickening jobs like managing the city’s sewage. And by that, I mean ‘harvesting literal faeces to be converted into food and fuel’. The foreman overseeing their work admits they feed such criminals nothing else. And he has the gall to be annoyed that they keep dying of diseases like cholera and typhoid! These people are denied medical care, denied treatment, denied even basic food other than being told to literally eat sh*t. And when they inevitably die? They get sent to the Engineerium to be turned into robotic zombies that can never get sick, tired or unhappy. And, eventually, they’ll be put right back to work. The crimes these criminals did to deserve this, remember, include petty theft, criticising the Lord Mayor, and living aboard a town that got eaten. The foreman literally cannot fathom why Katherine would care about these people’s wellbeing - after all, they’re just criminals. The Engineerium’s end goal in all this is, again, to staff the entire lower tiers with robot zombie workers who will never grow tired, get sick, complain or protest their lot in life, and will never disobey orders, and just enough human overseers to keep things running smoothly ... because that’s what these people are worth to London, cheap, unending labour. Katherine can’t even bring herself to tell her high-class peers about what she learned down there, because it’s such a different world that they would never empathise, much less care. Again, slave labour is common in this world, especially child slavery - Brighton runs on it to maintain its image as a floating Caligula’s Palace, and in Arkangel slavery is so normal that we watch a rich man beat a slave nearly to death for the crime of bumping into him. In the second book, we see the logical end-point of this. Anchorage’s social structure has completely fallen apart due to a plague in recent years that turned to once-proud ice city into a ghost town manned only by a skeleton crew. The margravine, Freya, is only 14, but with her parents dead, she finds herself in charge of the whole city. She has no household staff, apart from Smew, who finds himself constantly juggling outfits to adopts the roles of steward, chamberlain and so on. His official role before the plague was ... erm ... the Dwarf. He was there in a manner similar to a court jester, for the amusement of the margrave due to being a little person. But the head navigator is just ... the woman who kept the maps. The head engineer is going half-mad, seeing his dead son staring at him from the shadows, and the only reason the town’s still going is because his systems are the best on the ice and can mostly run on automatic. They have no doctor. The only other people of consequence in Anchorage are the Aakiuqs, the Inuit couple who run the air-harbour. The common workers of Anchorage number in the mere dozens. And yet, because they’re so fixated on their traditions, nobody will drop the formalities and just admits that they’re trying to uphold a class system that doesn’t work anymore. No, that’s not quite right - everybody realises it’s pointless to maintain the artifice of Anchorage’s social heirarchy, but nobody wants to be the first one to say it out loud. Much like Municipal Darwinism, nobody want to address the elephant in the room, that the system is broken and that people hold onto it because it’s comfortable in the face of uncertainty. Only in Anchorage’s darkest hour, when everything has been turned upside down and the conquerors are on their doorsteps, do the agree to drop the formalities, drop the artifice of class, and address each other as people, say what they think, and work to save what they have left. And of course, there’s the racism in the world. Life on mobile cities has made cultures smaller and more insular, considering we mainly see this series from the point of view of culturally-English towns. Throughout the first book there is a clear west vs east divide - the Traction Cities are generally English-speaking or multicultural enough that English will get you by. The Anti-Tractionist League, meanwhile, are south or east Asian, or else African, and are commonly understood to be ‘those brown people’. The only ethnically white Anti-Tractionists are from ‘Spitzbergen’ (likely Scandinavia/Finland and northwest Russia) and Hester Shaw’s family, and the latter lived on a town that floated out to an island and gave up running from predators forever. The way Tom reacts to this attitude calls to mind the way racists might refer to ‘race traitors’. There’s even an in-universe slur for people who live in static settlements; ‘Mossies’, because ‘a rolling town gathers no moss’. However, when Tom is taken to Shan Guo itself, he realises that all the propaganda he’d been fed his whole like is exactly that - propaganda. Shan Guo is described as beautiful - an endless patchwork of rolling fields and farms, colourful, bright, vibrant, heaving with life and energy. The Anti-Tractionists aren’t vicious savages, they’re just ... people. Tom can’t understand it at first. He wonders how people can live without the hum of engines or the vibrations of deckplates - he subconsciously equates city life with, well, life, and the absence of that makes him uneasy. But he can also see this culture before him, thousands of years old, outlasting even the end of the world, and he realises there is another way. The next time he sees London, he sees it from outside, from the side of the hunted, and he realises it’s not beautiful or efficient, just dirty, and huge, wrapped in its own waste smoke and driven only by destruction. For the rest of the series, even with the rise of the radicalised Green Storm (Anti-Tractionists Lv2), large Traction Cities are consistently the enemy. Tractionism as a culture is understood to only represent imperialism, destruction, and consumption, literally and figuratively.

SCIENCES SANS FRONTIERES

It should be noted that science and technology are not universally reviled by the series. As a dieselpunk series, a certain degree of technology is fundamental to the series existence. But this is a very different world than the one we know. On the one hand, engines exist that can drive entire cities. On the other, computers basically do not exist. The rare few that still exist are not in working condition, and nobody knows how to restore them. Heavier-than-aircraft don’t really exist - the third book introduces some, but they’re small, experimental ... barely more than short-range toys designed for flashy air shows but not real travel. The main form of personal locomotion in this world is by airship, and this world’s airships are far beyond anything we’ve made in our time. But lost technologies are heavily associated with the hubris and destructiveness of the Ancients. Until now. Like I said, the most powerful Guild in London is the Engineers’ Guild. And they got that way under the leadership of now-Lord Mayor Magnus Crome. It should be noted that Crome genuinely loves his city and wants it to survive no matter the cost. But under Crome, the Engineers began to dabble in sciences considered unethical to downright taboo. Most notable is the MEDUSA Project. Through Thaddeus Valentine, London came into possession of an energy weapon from the SMW ... and, more importantly, the working computer that runs the thing. In terms of Darwinist Evolution, this is like giving a monkey a gun and teaching it how to use it. MEDUSA exhibits a level of power no other force on Earth can match, and London is forced to deploy it early in a crisis. Originally, the plan was to march up to Batmunkh Gompa, the Shield-Wall that represents the only break in the mountains around Shan Guo big enough to permit a city, and blast it to cinders. Unfortunately, London attracts the attention of a bigger, hungrier city about halfway there, and is forced to fire MEDUSA at it to save its own skin. The sheer terror of what that weapon represents is revealed then. Panzerstadt-Bayreuth was the fusion of four massive cities, each one bigger and more powerful than London. MEDUSA killed it dead in one stroke - the energy beam set the entire city ablaze and ignited its fuel stores. Her engines nearly immediately exploded. When the fires go down enough for an Engineer scout ship to investigate, the people had been almost flashed into glass. The flash of light from the attack is so bright that, hundreds of miles to the south, Tom and Hester see the sky light up like a new dawn. The people of London are relieved, of course, that they didn’t all die that night, but more than that the entire city become suffused with the excitement of just how easy it would be to kill ... well, anyone they like, really. London doesn’t even stop to devour Panzerstadt-Bayreuth, as the Engineers can’t afford for the Shield-Wall to prepare for their arrival. Appropriately, and karmically, the finale has an accident lock down the computer lock down, with MEDUSA unable to fire but unable to stop gathering energy, and London melts under the heat of MEDUSA’s glare. But that wasn’t the only scientific sin committed by London’s engineers. I’ve already mentioned London trying to repurpose faeces as food, but we need to talk more about the Stalkers. Stalkers are kinda like discount Cybermen from Doctor Who - dead bodies, threaded with weird old machines and coated in armour, their brains hooked up to simple computers. Originally conceived as soldiers, they were believed long dead. However, one survived to the modern by sheer survivor instinct - Shrike. Through negotiations that are not the purview of this essay, he allowed the Engineers of London to take him apart and figure out how he worked, and hoo boy they did. The Engineers figured out how to manufacture their own Stalkers. The first batch are used as law enforcement like the Worst Robocops, but, again, the plan was to have Stalker workers all over Low London. Katherine, learning this, likens it to London ‘being a city of the dead’ (Apprentice Engineer Pod, to whom she is talking, grimly notes that the Deep Gut Prison is so awful, so callous with human life, that it already feels like that). Logically, the end-point of this idea is to have all workers in London be the resurrected dead, with just enough living to keep things in order ... oh, and they’d all be loyal to the Engineers, because remember, no Freedom of Speech here, and you can be sent to do the worst form of prison labour for dissenting against the Lord Mayor. With Crome being both Lord Mayor and Head Engineer at once, the Engineers’ creed is as good as law - traditionally, London Lord Mayors forsook their former Guild allegiances to show their representation of all of London, and Crome’s refusal to do that caused a bit of a stir. The Engineers are also keen to arm their security teams with some form of energy pistols, despite guns being outlawed in London and the police are only allowed crossbows. Crome’s rationale is the same as every two-bit mad scientist villain, of course - that science should not be held back by moral restrictions, and that progress for progress’ sake is essential for London’s survival. Really, it’s the Engineer’s survival, as they’re rather loathe to share these advancements except to exert power on those around. London isn’t the only example of technology being used to leverage control and benefit the ruling classes. Grimsby is a sunken wreck of a city somewhere in the north Atlantic, yet due to a complex series of airlocks the interior of the city is a secret hideaway of the Lost Boys, a society of children stolen from aquatic towns and trained to be thieves under the watchful eye of the mysterious Uncle. They will then take submarine walkers, attach to passing towns, steal whatever tools, fuel, food and riches they can carry, and vanish back into the depths. Uncle, naturally, takes the lion’s share of the haul. But Uncle maintains his power by careful access to technology, only letting the Boys have what they need and juggling the power structure by choosing team leaders, and punishing insubordination harshly and publicly. Uncle sees and hears everything in Grimsby with his surveillance network, and can address any give Boy in a heartbeat, training the Boys to never expect privacy from him, so that when he demands a progress update from a mission, they never question him. He rewards Boys who do well on burglaries, but more importantly than that, he chooses team leaders according to apparently inscrutable whims. The Boys believe it’s a mark of favour from Uncle, and thus social status, to be trusted with the limpet command and all the tech that comes with. Really, Uncle carefully give command to people he can trust to remain loyal to him, even if that means passing over a more talented Boy who might get a bit uppity. Even in a more mundane way, higher status in the Lost Boys means you can move closer to the heart of Grimsby, where you’re less likely to wake up and find your bedroom wasn’t as watertight as you thought and flooded in the night. Uncle, naturally, doesn’t care if a few Boys drown, so long as he doesn’t lose anything useful. Technology, and in particular access to unusual technology, is the dimension on which power is really decided.

THE END OF AN ERA

We’ve already established that this world is not a sustainable one. There are only so many cities. The inherent entropy of Municipal Darwinism is really showing. Once upon a time, big cities could ‘reproduce’, creating little satellite towns that could grow and become independent - even London had some - but those are no more. In a greedy desperation to keep moving, the predators are not reproducing, and static settlements can’t spread and grow fast enough to count there. The attack of London, and MEDUSA, turned staunch opposition into outright war, with the Green Storm being willing to doublethink their way into using the weapons of the Traction Cities in their fight to stop the Traction Cities, even recruiting ex-London Engineers to make weapons and stalkers for them, and eventually even seeking out another ancient superweapon - an orbital laser called ODIN - without a hint of irony. The Green Storm eventually face internal resistance, from Anti-Tractionists who disagree with the outright terrorism angle, and eventually crumbles. The last great Traction Cities stop. The last mobile city is New London, no longer a hunter but a trade platform, and even that probably stopped hovering about at some point. The ending is told by the great survivor, Shrike, who has cheated Death again and again, who outlived Tom Natsworthy and Hester Shaw, Valentine, Magnus Crome, and a thousand other heroes and villains. When he awakes, long in the future, Traction Cities are not even ancient history. They’re a dream, a fantasy, too incredible to be true. But Shrike remembers, and he teaches people the story of London and Anchorage, Arkangel and Airhaven, Brighton and Harrowbarrow. Did they learn the right message from Shrike’s story? Did they learn that ruthless imperialism is like hunting faster than the food can come back, and that you will starve before you have everything you ever wanted? Did they learn that hoarding resources, gatekeeping knowledge, will lead to ruin? Did they learn, or will the repeat the same mistakes of the greed and gluttony of the Traction Era? Well, who knows.

[shemakesmusic-uk]

Wallice has shared her subversive new single 'Hey Michael'. 'Hey Michael' amplifies her blood-thirsty nature, a revenge anthem that finds Wallice turning into a worse villain than her erstwhile love interest. A song about toxic tendencies and how they manifest in our lives, 'Hey Michael' twists and turns around American Psycho imagery. Wallice labels "a revenge anthem for anyone who has encountered a gaslighting, manipulative person. It’s what I wish I would have said to all the ‘Michael’s’ I have met in my life. It can be substituted by many names, we all know or have met a ‘Michael’ though. Somehow the world revolves around them and they just can’t catch a break, because they never do anything wrong and it’s usually your fault. You should have listened to your gut instinct and swiped left on this Michael. This isn’t a man-hating song, it’s just something many people can relate to. Sometimes it’s embarrassing to admit just how bad a friend, date, or romantic partner was and a lot of the time, I would just smile and laugh off stupid remarks but when I think back, I wish I had told them off. But at the same time, my persona in the song is not the best person either. I literally say: I think I want to start a fight, which one is your girlfriend? The whole song is funny because I am so focused on how shitty Michael is that I don’t even think about how shitty I might be as well." Directed by Phil Stillwell, the video takes place at a house party, with Wallice interacting with various 'Michaels' before her behaviour spirals into something much, much worse. [via Clash]

In the same vein as Massive Attack’s suburban groove and social commentary in the mid 90’s, KITA have captured the rhythm and heartbeat of suburban Pōneke; a city abuzz with a vibrant music and dramatic performance scene in their brand new track and official video, ‘Private Lives’. Weaving together elements of vintage rock, pop and soul, and warm hints of synth, KITA have created a skin-prickling piece of magic with ‘Private Lives’, a deeply beautiful track penned in 2020’s lockdown, that delves into the unknown of what happens when the blinds are shut – the parts of life that are unseen by others. "Standing from my kitchen window during lockdown in Aotearoa, sinister thoughts entered my mind about what could be happening behind closed doors for people”, says front-woman Nikita 雅涵 Tu- Bryant. The video tells the story of a father and daughter’s relationship amongst snapshots of everyday life and its monotonous anonymity, while things aren’t always what they appear on the surface. Late at night the father can finally reveal his true self, adorning makeup and sequins, only to be spied by his daughter. The two then share a special moment of dressing up and dancing together, a true celebration of individuality, self-love and the beauty of self-expression.

'Just Chemistry' is the third single from Dance Lessons, a London-based, female-fronted and produced trio, creating what they define as Serrated Pop. 'Just Chemistry' is a delicate hymn to the unspoken. Dance Lessons return with their signature sound – minimal production, sleek vocals and intricate arrangements. Ann says: “'Just Chemistry' is about the over-complication of our relationships. It’s about the things that are left unsaid in-between the awkward text messages and conversations, and how the absence of knowing can be misinterpreted as doubt. Last year was a difficult one. For a long time, I felt at the mercy of my emotions. I doubted where things were going. I lived in the future and found it hard to commit to the present. But these moments of not knowing can be equally thrilling and beautiful. And that’s what the song is about: finding beauty in the unspoken. In most cases, it’s chemistry that makes us fall in love. Things end, all is temporary. Let’s not go to war with one another over it.” Nat says on the video: “A friend told us about this weird and wonderful house in North London that feels a little like stepping into an acid trip. We obviously wanted to check it out. It’s completely surreal, all over the place (in a great way) and generally eclectic, which felt inherently us. We instantly wanted to do something there and asked the owner for permission to shoot a music video. We filmed during lockdown and were let loose embracing all the oddness of it. Ann also designed and created the outfit she wears in the video, something she does with most of her wardrobe. It was shot, directed and edited by our hugely talented friends Ben Hanson and Simon Frost from Borderland Studios.”

Returning with her first offering of the year, North London’s rising star Laurel Smith is ready to reveal her anticipated new single, ‘Out the Cage’ accompanied by an action packed and thrilling cinematic style music video directed by Jeremie Brivet and Jai Garcha. Sticking to her winning recipe of moody, dark, electro-pop production paired with effortlessly edgy tales of narrative lyricism, ‘Out the Cage’ is the next huge single from the young, innovative artist that is sure to follow the same trajectory of success as its predecessor, ‘Game Over’ released late last year. A songwriter and recording artist, Laurel Smith has been writing songs since the age of sixteen. With each single she’s released, Laurel has continued to adapt her sound and aesthetic, consistently honing her craft and evolving her brand. She has carefully carved out her place in an ever crowded industry and proceeds to turn heads at every corner. “‘Out The Cage’ is a song about breaking out from your constraints, both physical and mental. Although it can be interpreted in any way, when I wrote it I created a story around a bored housewife, falling out of love with her husband, she fantasises about tying him up and leaving him to be a badass assassin in a video game type world, roaming the city at night and living a life of unpredictability and excitement”.

Hailing from the Philippines, singer-songwriter Laica is coming off a breakout 2020. Now the 21-year-old is gearing up for the release of her debut album I’m so fine at being lonely. The first single off the project, 'love u lately' is here, accompanied by a music video directed by Cooper Leith. 'Love u lately' is a relatable and infectious track. The song revolves around dating, understanding mixed signals, and the confusion that surrounds that world. Lyrically, Laica walks us through her experiences here, voicing her thoughts and frustrations about someone who she just can't seem to read right. Production-wise, the track is carried by a pulsing synth and a groovy bass. Together, the track feels upbeat. The vibe created by the production stands in contrast with the more emotional lyrics, making the track complex and interesting. The music video takes the concept of 'love u lately' to the extreme, in a fun and playful way. Laica is seen capturing her dream boy and attempting to use witchcraft to finally win him over. The video has a very DIY feel, which could serve to add to the reliability of the track. It’s a great extension of the track and taps into everyone’s most fantasy-driven realities. [via Earmilk]

At first, Emily C Browning wasn't sure what to think. Spurned, rejected, and cast aside, she was angry, furious, and - at times - utterly bereft. Usually she'd utilise songwriting as a vessel for her emotions, but when she was so conflicted, and feeling so negative, that it just didn't enter her mind. The Christchurch, New Zealand artist needed to take a step back, and when she located some perspective, she was ready to act. New single 'I Wasn't Into You Anyway' is a soaring slice of revenge, one that finds Emily C Browning taking full control of her music. Her first solo production credit, its reminiscent of those surging, empowering Maggie Rogers bops, while also containing similar DNA to Sharon Van Etten's work. Lyrically, it's absolutely her own creation, with Emily leaning on those often-hidden feelings. She comments... "Everyday for a month I wrote in my journal: I want to write a song about feeling rejected. But I couldn’t figure out how to keep it light and funny, it can be quite a painful topic and I didn’t want to sound too heavy. But I kept working on it everyday and came up with this song. I then spent another month recording it, trying to capture a sound that stayed upbeat and playful. I put so much time and energy into the song that I ended up completely forgetting about the person who rejected me in the first place (honest, I swear)." [via Clash]

Alt-pop force Holly Humberstone returns with new single 'Haunted House'. The songwriter's potent debut EP Falling Asleep At The Wheel was a sensation, racking up more than 100 million global streams. A bona fide phenomenon, Holly returns with a single that displays a more nuanced, reflective side to her work. 'Haunted House' digs into childhood, and looks at the way memory can frame the way we construct our identities. She comments: "I wrote this song about the old and characterful house I grew up in. The house is such a huge part of who I am and our family. With my sisters and I moving out and living separate lives, coming home feels very comforting and one of the only things keeping us all connected." Playing with concrete imagery and no small degree of invention, 'Haunted House' connects art to life in an enchanting fashion. She adds: "The house is almost falling down around us now though, and we’ve realised that pretty soon we’ll be forced to leave. There’s a cellar full of meat hooks and a climate so damp mushrooms grow out of the walls. Loads of people have probably died here in the past but I’ve always felt really safe. It’s like a seventh family member. It’s part of me." [via Clash]

In 2019, the Boston-born and Brooklyn-based indie rock album Crumb released their debut album Jinx. Crumb haven’t yet announced plans to follow that album up, but they’re definitely working towards something. Last month, the band came out with a one-off single called 'Trophy.' Now, they’ve followed that one with two new tracks, and they’re both winners. The new songs 'BNR' and 'Balloon' both fit nicely into Crumb’s comfort zone. The band’s sound is a rich, sophisticated take on psychedelia, with blissed-out lead vocals from Lila Ramani and with some great funky drum action. The band co-produced both songs with Foxygen’s Jonathan Rado, who’s done great recent work with people like Father John Misty and Weyes Blood and the Killers and who knows how to make oblique ’70s-style pop sound good. But Crumb themselves deserve a ton of credit for coming up with a sound this layered and weird. They’re the rare circa-2021 band who might remind you of Broadcast. In a press release, Ramani says, “‘BNR’ is an ode to my favorite colors. I had a weird obsession with those colors in winter 2018-2019 and felt like they would follow me around everywhere I went." 'BNR' also has a cool music video. Director Joe Mischo starts the clip off as a hallucinatory reverie, but he turns it sharply towards horror at the end. [via Stereogum]

Last year, Limerick poet/musician Sinead O’Brien released her debut EP, Drowning In Blessings. It was a unique work, a handful of songs featuring O’Brien’s sing-speak over spindly, post-punk guitars. It garnered O’Brien a bit of buzz overseas, and it left you wondering where she might take her music from there. Now, O’Brien’s back with a new song called 'Kid Stuff.' “‘Kid Stuff’ shows up all different tones on different days,” O’Brien said in a statement. “There’s something alive in it which cannot be caught or told. It is direct but complex; it contains chapters. This feels like our purest and most succinct expression yet.” Like Drowning In Blessings, 'Kid Stuff' found O’Brien working with Speedy Wunderground mastermind Dan Carey. Musically, it hints at a level up moment for O’Brien. There was something alluring and jagged about Drowning In Blessings, but 'Kid Stuff' places her usual approach over a song that is surprisingly groovy — maybe even a little danceable. It comes with a video directed by Saskia Dixie. [via Stereogum]

Das Beat are made up of German actress and vocalist Eddie Rabenberger and Agor of Blue Hawaii. The pair have just shared their first single 'Bubble' online now and are set to release their debut EP Identität on June 4 via Arbutus Records. Born in Berlin during 2020’s legendary lockdown, Das Beat seeks to blast both boredom and boundary. Dabbling in German New Wave, Italo Disco, Indie & Dance, their sound is unified by vocals from Eddie Rabenberger, sung in German and English. Amidst playful lyrics one finds a strong underlying pulse (das “beat”), pinning down the duo’s meandering atmospherics, dreamy synths, guitars and percussion. The duo is half-Canadian and half-German. Agor (of Blue Hawaii), moved to Berlin from Montreal in 2018. Eddie is a theatre actress originally hailing from a small town in Bavaria. Together they find a strange but alluring symbiosis - like Giorgio Moroder meets Nico, or Gina X Performance meets The Prodigy.

St. Vincent has fully embraced the ’70s aesthetic for her retro-sounding new record, Daddy’s Home. Now, she’s diving headlong into the animation styles of the era with the video for 'The Melting of the Sun'. Presented as a “betamax deluxe release” rip from “Candy’s Music Video Archives,” the clip blends live action shots of St. Vincent herself with the wavy, intermittent animation frames any Schoolhouse Rock student is familiar with. The psychedelic lines fit a song called 'The Melting of the Sun' perfectly, as do the drawings of the legends mentioned in the song’s lyrics like Nina Simone, Joni Mitchell, and Tori Amos. St. Vincent co-directed the clip with Bill Benz, while Chris McD provided the animation. [via Consequence]

Bay Area slowcore trio Sour Widows have released a new single, 'Bathroom Stall,' from their forthcoming EP Crossing Over, which they announced last month with its title track. The song’s build-up is subtle and poignant like Sufjan Stevens, but Maia Sinaiko’s evocative, sweeping vocals are one-of-a-kind, and the lyrics are graphic and tragic: “Do you remember it like I do?/ Your lips turned blue I had my fingers in your mouth/ And I couldn’t get them out.” Sinaiko said of the song: "This song is about a relationship I had with someone who struggled with addiction, who very tragically passed away three years ago while we were together. It’s about some moments we shared, and how it feels to walk around carrying that person and those experiences with me while the world stays normal. I wrote the song because I wanted to preserve and document what happened to me. to write out the scary stuff and just let it sit there forever. I think its funny that its called 'Bathroom Stall' and that it has that image in it: the song goes from heavy and dark to ordinary and totally pedestrian in a sentence, which feels absurd. And that’s kind of what it’s like to grieve. That’s kind of what’s hard to explain about grief, how absurd it is. Part of you goes to a different planet and part of you stays walking around like an alien on Earth, going to the bathroom and looking at the moon and shit." [via Stereogum]

As JUNO-nominated singer Kandle Osborne prepares to launch her new project, Set The Fire this spring, she shares the album’s third single, 'Misty Morning.' From being penned on a napkin while abroad to a Vancouver studio, 'Misty Morning' is a sonic journey that echoes soulful vulnerability and an honest reflection of realizing true love. For the video, Kandle reconnects with 'Honey Trap' director, Brandon William Fletcher, to create classic 40s noir-inspired cine-magic, filmed along the Vancouver coastline and within the lush landscape of Stanley Park. Kandle says: “‘Misty Morning’ is my first real love song, captured on a napkin while in Ischia, Italy when I was truly happy. My songwriting usually comes from a place of turmoil and catharsis, but this was simply a snapshot of a perfect, vulnerable moment. In recording it, I wanted to hide behind lush orchestration, but my producer/ best friend Michael Rendall had other ideas. He wanted to strip it down to just piano & a single vocal to take me out of my comfort zone and re-capture the open-hearted feelings I had while writing it. The song and the recording both hold for me a time when I dropped my guard for pure authentic love in spite of all my flaws and failures. In that moment, I felt my true value as a whole person for the first time.”

On 'Vertigo,' Alice Merton’s first single of 2021, the 27-year-old describes the long road from uncertainty back to self-confidence. It emphasizes the unrest that seizes her again and again, the thought: “Why can’t I just let it go?” These contradicting thoughts and emotions that are so familiar to all of us sum up to an overwhelmingly positive effect - 'Vertigo' leaves you empowered rather than anxious: A powerful indie pop arrangement with distorted guitars, plus Alice Merton’s crystal-clear voice. The result is reminiscent of the British Invasion, with no air of self-doubt. With its energetic live qualities, 'Vertigo' feeds an appetite for summer festivals and concerts that will definitely return at some point. Largely responsible for this is the Canadian producer Koz, a multiple Grammy nominee, who has worked with Dua Lipa ('Physical') among others. Here, too, he adds on to what has already made Alice Merton stand out from the crowd in the past - her classic pop appeal - with an uncompromising and indie attitude. This enables Alice to take another big step: She equally encourages a shaken generation and herself that there will be easy summers again. That you can dance again and lie in each other's arms. That it is absolutely fine to have many facets, to not always be clear, and that strength and weakness are not mutually exclusive.

Canadian artist Olivia Lunny's new release 'Sad To See You Happy' is a shamelessly poppy track centering an acutely relatable break-up narrative. The Canadian artist follows up her breakthrough success with a bouncy cut to soundtrack 2021’s long-awaited spring. There's a relatable tale of break-up at the heart of the gloriously poppy new single, belied by percussive instrumentation that creates a warm, nostalgic feel. [via Line Of Best Fit]

After sharing the single last month, Charlotte Adigéry is now revealing the brand new video for ‘Bear With Me (and I’ll stand bare before you)’. The first new music since her 2019 debut EP Zandoli, Charlotte says of the video, “The video is about being confined thus confronted to the way we live. The cruel irony of having the privilege of standing still, questioning and observing my life in all safety while others are fighting for theirs. On the other hand, the video is about trying to stay sane while feeling that the walls are closing in on you. Embracing boredom and finding joy in the little things in life.” Director Alice Kunisue adds, “When I listened to Charlotte’s song and what it meant for her and Bolis, I wanted the video to visually encapsulate that feeling of being stuck inside and confronted to our deeper selves while paradoxically sensing the chaos going on in the outside world without being able to do anything about it. Choosing to film an apartment room from one single angle was a way to reflect that narrowness of thought that we all experienced, but also a constraint that allowed us to explore and develop visual ideas within a narrow system, in a way having to think only inside the box, which artistically was a fun challenge.” [via DIY]

Millie Turner has shared a video for ‘Concrete Tragedy’. It’s a cut from her upcoming mini-album Eye Of The Storm, set for release on May 16, which also features a rework of breakout song ‘(Breathe) Underwater’. “This video is a visual representation of dancing on your own,” she says of the clip. “Combining the many parts of who we are when we’re by ourselves, I wanted it to feel like you’re entering a world of imagination that comes alive when we express ourselves.” [via Dork]

Doja Cat and SZA have come together for a new single called 'Kiss Me More.' When the song was announced Wednesday night, the internet flipped out, which is to be expected with these two — especially Doja Cat, who is regularly going viral these days for all kinds of reasons. When it comes to collaborations, she always finds the best people. That includes Saweetie, who appeared on Doja’s recent 'Best Friend' but then claimed that it was released against her wishes. Given SZA’s long history of public frustration over TDE Records holding back her new album, she is probably happy to have any new music out. Despite recent single 'Good Days' hitting the top 10, her restless fanbase is still awaiting a follow-up to 2017’s iconic Ctrl. 'Kiss Me More' is the first single from Doja’s new album Planet Her, scheduled for release this summer. It returns to the disco vibes of Doja’s #1 hit 'Say So,' this time with no apparent resemblance to any Skylar Spence song. [via Stereogum]

[gins-potter]

One Chicago Promo #2

I had a lot of fun breaking down the first promo we got so I’m going to do this one as well.  This one dropped on the One Chicago twitter account this morning (for me) and is about a minute long (compared to the first one which was only like 20 seconds).

So we open with Dr Charles walking with a crying woman into the ED, and a Boden voice over playing.

Boden voice over: “When this community hurts...”

Cut to black, words “Nov 11″ appear on screen.

Cut to Ruzek reaching out to touch Atwater, looks like they are on scene somewhere (note: this is different to the Ruzwater scene in the first promo which was in a hallway). Also interesting note: it looks like Atwater has blood or something on his face - unknown if this is his or someone else’s.  Both are wearing bullet proof vests.

Boden voice over: “... when it reaches out it’s hand...”

Cut to a screen with words “Wednesday’s Most Watched Dramas”.

Cut to Severide carrying an unconscious woman on a fire scene.

Boden: “... we pull it to it’s feet.”

Cut to Boden sitting in his office, Severide can just be seen in the background.

Cut to word “Return” on screen.

Cut to a scene of 51 responding to a fire.

Boden: “And we respond.”

Cut to Cruz standing on a fire scene, in full gear and mask.  He yells, “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”

Cut to a brief clip of Voight exiting his car.

Cut to Casey and other firefighters (presumably from 51 but we can’t really see specifically who it is) about to enter a building.

Cut to Mouch opening the door to the building and flames jump out at him.

Cut to a brief shot of a helicopter over Chicago.

Cut to Crockett, Ethan, Capp, and another unidentified doctor running together, presumably on an accident scene because all are in scrubs and turnout gear.

Cut to a three-way split screen, brief clip of Dr Charles, Will, and Natalie (left to right).

Cut to the word “Med” on screen.

Cut to Will, Ethan, and April wheeling a patient out of an ambulance (entrance to ED can be seen in background.

Cut to Ethan walking through the ED in full gown, mask, and cap.

Cut to Ethan and April standing together in the ED (interesting note: both are wearing blue scrubs as opposed to their usual maroon)

Ethan: “-I’m just worried about you.”

April: “They are sick...”

Cut to a shot of a patient in a bed.

April voice over: “... they are frightened...”

Cut back to April and Ethan.

April: “...and they are alone.”

Cut to April standing in a trauma bay in full hazmat gear.  Ethan can be seen watching her from outside the bay.

April, voice over: “I’m not abandoning them.”

Cut to a closer shot of Ethan’s face.

Cut to a three-way split screen, brief clip of Boden, Casey, and Sylvie (left to right).

Cut to word “Fire” on screen.

Cut to Severide in turn out gear with water dripping off his helmet.

Cut to extremely brief clip of a firefighter in the middle of a blaze (I think it’s Stella but it’s very brief).

Cut to a shot of a doorway on fire.

Cut to a firefighter (I believe it’s Severide) on the ground in a hazy, smoke-filled room.  No mask or helmet on.

Stella, voice over: “Severide!”

Cut to Stella crouching down in the middle of a fire.

Cut to shot of a firefighter helping another downed firefighter (presumably Stella helping Severide).

Boden, voice over: “You are the very definition-”

Cut to Stella in the fire surrounded by other firefighters.

Boden, voice over: “- of a leader.”

Cut to Stella standing with Boden in his office.

Boden: “It’s time everyone got to see it.”

Cut to Severide and another unidentified firefighter (he has 51 on his helmet so he could be an extra from Engine) helping a burned victim out of a building.

Cut to Sylvie driving (maybe the ambo - not completely sure as something about it doesn’t like quite like the ambo to me).

Cut to Sylvie and Mackey entering a living room of an unidentified house.  There is a man lying on the couch.

Sylvie: “CFD paramedics!”

Cut to an unidentified man approaching Sylvie and Mackey from behind, and putting a gun to Sylvie’s head.  The click is audible.  Sylvie gasps but stays still, Mackey looks around at him.

Cut to a different angle, Sylvie is looking up at the man with the gun still pointed at her.

Cut to a three-way split screen, brief clip of Burgess, Atwater, and Upton (left to right).

Cut to the word “P.D.” on screen.

Cut to a clip of Atwater, Ruzek, and Burgess standing on scene.

Cut to a clip of Atwater walking alone down a hallway.

Cut to Voight and Micheal Doyle (Tom Doyle’s father) talking in the street.

Doyle: “He snitched on the police. He’s gotta pay the price.”

Cut to Atwater.  He is out of uniform, exiting a car with his hands raised, while a uniformed police officer has a gun pulled on him.

Cut to Voight and Atwater sitting in Voight’s office.

Voight: “Takes a lot of guts to stand up for what you believe in.”

Cut to a shot of Voight standing in the street wearing his bullet proof vest.

Cut to Atwater sitting at a table with an unidentified man.

Atwater: “Just trying to do the right thing.”

Cut to Hailey and Jay walking up an alley together.

Cut to Jay busting down a door.

Cut to the word “Together” on screen.

Cut to a shot of the Med cast, but focused on Will and Nat.

Cut to the words “We Are” on screen.

Cut to a shot of the Fire cast, focused on Boden and Stella.

Cut to the word “Stronger” on screen.

Cut to Atwater walking alone in a parking garage.

Cut to Atwater confronting Doyle outside somewhere.  Doyle is walking away while Atwater follows.

Atwater: “If I’m the one you want then come for me!”

Cut to a different angle.  Doyle has turned around and is facing Atwater again.

Doyle: “I’m gonna keep coming for you until I have your badge.”

Cut to shot from last season of Atwater standing in the streets while the police cars drive off around him.

So there we go, that’s our second One Chicago promo gearing up for the show’s coming back on the 11th.  I don’t think it gives us anything massively new but rather confirms what the main focus of each show is going to be for the upcoming (and rather reduced) seasons.  But like I did with my last post, I’m gonna break down some interesting notes (I’ll put them under the cut because I had more thoughts that I expected and this post is long enough):

So like the last one this one contains some presumably old-ish footage.  It isn’t really a big deal, just moments like Severide carrying the unconscious woman, the shot of Burgess, Ruzek, and Atwater standing together at a scene, patients getting wheeled into the ED.  They look older and a lot of people have speculated that they’re from past seasons and I’m inclined to think so too.  It doesn’t really mean anything or matter just interesting to note.  They were probably put in to pad out the run time of the promo a bit without giving too much away of the new seasons.

We got the same voiceover from Boden from the last promo which really emphasises the idea of community and connecting with community that I think all three shows (but particularly Med and possibly Fire) are going to focus on in s6, 8, and 9.

We get a new shot of Ruzek and Atwater, different to the one we got in the last promo.  Doesn’t really confirm anything of course, but it does make me wonder if we’re going to get some serious Ruzwater friendship moments, which I’m always down for.

And another interesting thing to speculate about is the blood we can kind of see on Kev’s face in that shot.  It’s hard to tell but it looks to me as though he’s been in a fight or an altercation so I wonder if that’s a result of a confrontation with Michael Doyle.

Another short clip that I really found interesting was that short one of Capp, Ethan, and Crockett all running together.  It’s kind of hard to explain without the visual aide of the video but between Capp being there and how it’s set up it definitely looks like a Fire call that maybe they called for extra medical assistance on, hence Ethan and Crockett being there.  Now I’m not 100% sure so if someone can confirm that would be great but this looks new to me.  I don’t remember anything like this from last season.  So it looks like we’re going to get Ethan and Crockett scenes outside of the hospital which makes me wonder what they’re relationship will be like considering how it was left in s5 considering the April of it all.  I’m sure we’ll get something from them at some point during the season, I just wonder if them being away from the hospital and therefor April will have an effect.  Of course if this is them on a mini crossover with Fire then we probably won’t get that in that specific scene, but again this is all very speculative.

So from this promo it definitely seems to me like April and Ethan dealing with the COVID of it all is going to be something that either brings them together or drives them apart for good.  We get that exchange between them, and then we get Ethan watching her with a patient, and idk if it’s just me, but Ethan seemed worried for her.  So I do wonder if going through this, especially because it seems like it’s going to be primarily those two (along with Lanik) that are on the front lines of COVID, is going to be something that mends the relationship between them.  I’m not necessarily against a Sextoi reunion, but I’m also not excited for it if it means more bullshit like s5.  If they’re going to do it, they better do it right.

In that same vein, I don’t know about anyone else but this promo definitely makes me think that Stella’s potential promotion is going to be a big thing this season.  We get Boden telling her she’s a leader, we see her rescuing Severide I believe during a call, we get a shot of her and Boden together later in the promo, but yeah I think this is going to be one of the major multi ep arcs.  Which I love because I’m always there for more Stella Kidd.

And then we have Brett and Mackey getting held at gun point which is just like woah!  I wonder if this is the crazy 10 seconds at the end of 9x01 that Derek warned us about.  I mean, it’s gotta be right?  And as a Brettsey shipper I have to wonder, and would love to see, if Brett and Casey bond over this experience.  Because Casey went through something similar in I want to say season 7? When a gun was pointed at him and it jammed, and basically lead to an existential crisis.  I love me some angst so I would love to see Casey be there for Brett through that.

And just a random interesting side note.  We get a shot of Sylvie driving what I presumed to be the ambo.  But someone noticed on twitter that the dimensions are slightly off, the seats are the wrong colour, and you can’t see the window that shows into the back of the ambo, so she’s possibly driving another car, in her ambo gear?  Wearing gloves?  Don’t really know what’s going on with that one, gonna have to think on it a bit more.

And we been knew but clearly this Atwater/Doyle thing is gonna be a major season 8 storyline.  Well I mean the amount of time devoted to it in the promos suggests it is anyway.  And honestly, it better be.  Atwater deserves to have a major story like this.  I don’t want it wrapped up in the first episode.

I do wonder if the shot of Atwater presumably getting pulled over by a cop is going to be something that was specifically orchestrated by Michael Doyle or if it’s going to be a slightly unconnected storyline that ties into the bigger theme of reform that this season is pushing.

And finally just a comment on Atwater’s line right near the end: “If I’m the one you want then come for me!” which kind of makes me wonder if Doyle tries to hurt Atwater through someone else, either Jordan, or the others in Intelligence, or Vanessa.  There’s lot of speculation that Jordan is going to die, which is a definite possibility.  Or this scene could be related to the uniformed officers not showing up for Intelligence and thereby putting them in danger (which is a plot line I definitely think has been teased for season 8).

So anyway yeah, those are my thoughts.  I hope you liked this break down and found it interesting and helpful since some of the clips are so short that it can be hard to pick up on absolutely everything.  And going through it slowly and transcribing it actually helped me pick up all the little details which was cool.  But anyway yeah, the promo is on the One Chicago twitter account and is probably on the yt account as well, so check it out and let me know what you thought of it :D

[wewerepromisedsomuch]

Festival Review: Bring The Horizon @ All Points East

Artist: Bring Me The Horizon

Festival:  All Points East, Victoria Park, London, UK

Date: 31st May 2019

Rating: 9.0/10

 It’s quite the journey Bring Me The Horizon have been on, from polarizing metalcore scamps – the band everyone loved to hate - to genre-defying, globe-trotting behemoths. Over the past 15 years BMTH have had their fair share of slings and arrows to dodge, from battling addiction, band members coming and going, and the early years of being chastised for their scenester stylings. However, steadily the Sheffield unit have been evolving, starting with their own brand of deathcore and then manoeuvring through twisted metal bombast that married the brutality of their earlier work but with a wider appeal that snared in fans far and wide. Then there’s 2019’s divisive LP ‘amo’; the record where the Steel-City outfit ripped up their own rulebook to deliver a record that flirts with pop, like no other heavy band has done before. Say what you want but BMTH have had the guts and the balls to follow their own path, and that path has led them to their first ever festival headline slot at London’s All Points East in Victoria Park.

Not only were Bring Me The Horizon granted the coveted top slot by a festival only in its second year (headliners across the other nights will include The Strokes, Bon Iver, Mumford and Sons, Chemical Brothers and Christine and The Queens – not bad company hey?!), but they were given free reign to curate the burgeoning roster of acts throughout the day. Given ‘amo’s diverse sonic palette, All Points East’s BMTH Friday boasted acts from all manner of genres, whilst championing a whole host of up and coming acts; there’s Scarlxrd’s twisted noise rap, Employed to Serve’s punishing metalcore, Heavy Lung’s gnarled post-punk, the weird burbled pop of Happyalone, rabble-rouser punks Crows, noise-pop siren Alice Glass and a shitload more. Not to forget their roots, BMTH also roped in Architects and While She Sleeps, as a nice nod to their metal brethren.

Before BMTH charged through their mammoth 2-hour set, there were two standout performances that we can’t leave out of this review. Firstly, Idles, a band so important right now it hurts, this is a group that uses caustic punk as a weapon, but their uncompromising racket is chockfull of cathartic positivity or to quote their sophomore album title, ‘Joy As An Act of Resistance’. With the ever-commanding frontman Joe Talbot playing the part of consummate ringleader to his group’s wanton chaos, the Bristol transplant’s main stage performance typified why Idles are one of the UK’s most celebrated bands. With the likes of ‘Never Fight a Man With a Perm’, ‘Mother’ and ‘Samaritans’ being played with every ounce of sinew and grit, it would come as no surprise that Idles had recruited another few members to their AF Gang fan group. The other act to sufficiently warm up the APE crowd was Run The Jewels; entering the stage to a sea of pistol and fist hand signs, EL-P and Killer Mike took no time to fire out a bevy of bouncing rap bangers. With the pair trading verses and a bowel loosening bass line quaking the floor underneath the packed crowd, the duo’s second-to-the-headliners set was a masterclass in whipping up a hip-hop storm. The level of devotion was mirrored between act and audience, as APE bellowed, on several occasions, the chant of “RTJ! RTJ! RTJ!” and this signal of love wasn’t ignored by Run The Jewels themselves, who often gushed about the great London crowd they were performing in front of. When you’ve got cast-iron party starters like ‘Oh My Darling Don’t Cry’, ‘Close Your Eyes (And Count To Fuck)’, and ‘Legend Has It’ in the locker, it’s no wonder RTJ ran through APE like they owned the joint. Like Idles before, Run The Jewels projected a message of love and positivity, whilst calling out bullshit toxic masculinity.

After being suitably warmed up by a day’s worth of killer music, Bring Me The Horizon had the crowd primed like a champagne cork ready to pop. Sauntering onto the main stage dressed in a red suit, with sewn on patches resembling crazed newspaper clips on his back, Oli Sykes looks very much the deranged cult leader, as the rest of BMTH take up the stage behind him in matching boiler suits. As ‘MANTRA’ opened up proceedings, it’s evident this isn’t going to be a normal headlining slot; we’re greeted to an audio-visual spectacular of synchronised dancers, flames, ticker tape, smoke jets and day-glo video screens that project abstract image after abstract image. With BMTH’s drastic swerve of a recent album, it was always going to be intriguing how the newer material would fit in with the band’s heavier tracks. The truth is, the set-list slotted together like a perfect jigsaw puzzle; the five piece easily deployed the anthemic metal of ‘Shadow Moses’, next to the synth-dance thumper of ‘Nihilist Blues’ (sadly without Grimes making a surprise appearance), then there’s the pop-rock of ‘Mother Tongue’ being followed by the antagonist assault of ‘Antivist’.

The band’s top slot at All Point East was less of a gig, but more of a celebration; the feeling in the crowd is one of jubilation, with nearly every song instigating sing-alongs and wide spread adulation. Then there’s the circle pits…oh the circle pits! Every bit the master of mischief Sykes will goad the crowd on several occasions to go harder, to go faster, to create the biggest spinning vortex of human limbs possible. To fit in with the celebratory vibes, BMTH were joined by several guest vocalists; Dani Filth takes up his vocal duties on ‘Wonderful Life’, ‘The Sadness Will Never End’ is played for the first time since 2016 with Sam Carter from Architects sharing vocals with Sykes and then Lotus Eater’s Jamie McLees lent his visceral growl to ‘Antivist’. When not ushering in their mates to help on tracks BMTH offer up different takes on their back catalogue; ‘Sleepwalking’ is stripped back to an acoustic rendition, while ‘It Never Ends’ is given an orchestral overhaul, as a string sextet joined the band for a touch of sophistication at a rock show.

Not to miss a trick when it comes to a massive headline show, the band will have three costume changes (THREE! Alright Mariah Careys!!), whilst continuing the ample helping of pyro and hypnotic visuals. They’ll also wheel out old classics like the disgustingly brutal ‘Pray for Plagues’ and ‘Diamonds Aren’t Forever’s abrasive assault. What’s wonderful about BMTH’s APE show, is that through all the bells and whistles of playing a huge festival slot, they still created moments of raw intimacy. There’s more than one occasion where Sykes will take up a spot on the stage’s extended ego ramp into the crowd, cross-legged, to recount a story of overcoming addiction or to offer up appreciation for the numerous years of support the band have had from their dedicated fanbase. The band’s formidable frontman will be brought to tears during the singalong for ‘Sleepwalking’, which typifies the amount of emotion on display on APE’s main-stage.

All Points East offered up a perfect day of diverse music and a feeling of love and unity; all brought together by Bring Me The Horizon’s stellar headlining set.

[bthenoise]

Celebrate 10 Years of ‘Constellations’ With August Burns Red’s 10 Favorite Moments From The Writing, Recording & Touring Process

When it comes to most album anniversary tours, some fans tend to think those 10, 15 or even 20-year treks are just for the longtime listeners and nostalgia chasers. Instead, many seem to forget about the bands actually playing those beloved records on a nightly basis. 

Take metalcore juggernauts August Burns Red, for example. Gearing up for their 10-year anniversary tour for 2009′s groundbreaking LP Constellations, the seasoned outfit has thoroughly enjoyed tour prep as they’ve run through songs like “The Escape Artist” and reminisced about some of their fondest decade-old memories.    

Be it playing tour games on the road, surviving terrifying snowstorms or the impact of playing “Indonesia” live for the first time in the Southeast Asian country, looking back on 10 years since Constellations was released, JB Brubaker, Brent Rambler, Matt Greiner, Dustin Davidson and Jake Luhrs have all accrued memories that will last a lifetime. 

Speaking with The Noise about some of those life-changing Constellations moments, Brubaker, Rambler, Greiner and Davidson compiled 10 of their all-time favorite memories from the writing, recording and touring process dating all the way back to 2007. To check out the list to get you even more pumped for August Burns Red’s upcoming tour, be sure to see below. Afterward, to grab tickets, head here.      

Lastly, if you’d like a chance to win free tickets – yes, FREE! – head here.

Brent Rambler

The Constellations recording process and touring cycle houses many fond memories for all of us. Here are three of my personal favorites that stick out. Let’s get cracking in chronological order!

“White Washed”

The lyrics for “White Washed” were some of the first more aggressive and “angry” lyrics that I had ever tried to write at the time. However, the words flowed like water because they were very in the moment. I started working on them immediately after a youth pastor surrounded me with a group of teenagers directly outside of our tour van. He proceeded to condemn [me] and the other members of the band simply for having a case of beer on our [tour] rider. He wanted to try and make an example of me in front of all the kids he brought with him. The whole thing was super inappropriate and out of line, BUT the lyrics for one of our most popular songs came out of it so it was worth it!

First Home

The recording process for Constellations was extra exciting for me because literally a week before we left I had an offer accepted for my first house. I remember being very proud because it was a big moment in proving to everyone that I could earn a living off of making music. For weeks while we recorded, I was heading to notaries and post offices to work on the closing process of the home, and since we were in Florida while making the album, I had to sign over power of attorney and do the sale over the phone. We returned home super late from Florida, but instead of crashing at my parents where all of my things were, I grabbed the keys and just sat in my new house.

Chicago House Of Blues

Constellations came out while we were on tour in the summer of 2009. The tour had some cool highlights, but I think the biggest one was selling out the Chicago House of Blues for the first time. At that moment it was our biggest headline show ever and packing such a notable venue felt amazing. Afterwards, we had a big celebration with the other bands backstage and it capped off a great night!

JB Brubaker

“Put Him Up!”

In December of 2009, we were on the road with Underoath and Emery. We became really good friends with the guys in Emery and would hang out with them every night after the shows. They had purchased their own passenger bus and gutted it and turned it into a tour bus. It was DIY but so cool. We’d hang out, drink beers, have dance parties and tell stories. Emery taught us one “game” that we still play on our tour bus today. Occasionally, when someone new would walk on the bus, Toby (Emery’s bassist/vocalist) would slowly start chanting “Put him up! Put him up!” The chant would catch on with other people on the bus until everyone was shouting it, at which point the newcomer would be picked up and crowd surfed to the ceiling of the bus. It was basically a “welcome to the party” greeting and always got a good laugh. We are happy to continue to carry the tradition on a decade later.

Touring Australia 

It was August of 2009. Constellations had recently come out and we were invited by Parkway Drive to support them on a tour across Australia. It was our first time in Australia and an honor to be supporting them. They were the hottest metal band on the continent and drawing huge crowds. After the monster travel day to Australia, we arrived to find a bunch of luggage didn’t make it. Qantas Airlines outfitted us with small care packages to keep us afloat until our baggage was recovered. Inside were heather gray sweat shorts and matching t-shirts. The first show was in Brisbane at an outdoor hillside [venue] called Riverstage. They were expecting 7,000 people which was more people than we had ever played for at that time. When we were setting up our equipment on stage before the show, I failed to take into account the voltage difference between Australia and the US. I plugged in my pedal board and heard a pop followed by the smell of burning electronics. I had fried my pedal board’s power supply, rendering my pedals useless. I had to borrow a pedal board from Architects, who were also playing on the tour. (I think we need to do this same tour lineup again!). When we took the stage that night I was a ball of nerves. I unfortunately played sloppy for the large Australian crowd, but I don’t know if anyone actually noticed or cared. We debuted our song “Meddler” for the first time that night. (I played that song particularly poorly.) The tour was overall a great experience. I have very fond memories of hanging out with the guys in Architects and playing massive shows in every city.

Touring South America

In August of 2010, we were doing a tour of South America. It was our first time traveling there. Our buddies in Blessthefall were coming with us and it was going to be awesome. The first show was in Sao Paulo, Brazil and over 1,000 people showed up. We were treated like celebrities and it was a completely surreal start to the tour. The final show of the tour was scheduled for August 28th in Caracas, Venezuela. About a week before the show, we learned of political unrest in Venezuela. The president there was known for being a hot head and pulling stunts like closing down the airports. It was determined to be unsafe for us to travel to Caracas because of the possibility of getting stuck there should the president lock down flights out of the country.  Instead, we booked a last minute show in Quito, Ecuador. With a week to get the word out, we weren’t expecting much. The show was held in a small youth center. There couldn’t have been more than 150 people there but it was such a special show for us. The appreciation and enthusiasm the crowd showed us was unmatched. We felt honored to have been received with such open arms and on such short notice. What felt like a disaster waiting to happen turned out to be one of the biggest highlights of our South American tour.

Dustin Davidson

The Day The Van Died

Thankfully I found a journal entry from Thursday, April 16th, 2009 so that I can write accurately with every detail about the day that our van died. We were pretty early into a tour with All That Remains and Born of Osiris when as you may have guessed -- our 16 passenger Chevrolet van (unnamed to my knowledge) took its last breath of air and sipped its last ounce of gasoline (which in those days contained 0% ethanol for you engine nerds). According to my journal, we woke up at a decent hour, grabbed continental breakfast from the hotel and headed out on the road for the next show. I was first up to drive on that day and while on the road about 60 miles away from our departure our sound engineer Jade asked me, “So how long do you think this van is going to last? Do you think it’ll make it through the rest of the tour?”

“Yeah, I think it’ll last for the rest of the tour - at least I hope so,” I replied. Just as I finished that thought our speed began to decrease rapidly while ascending a hill on the highway. I let off the gas and the engine shut off. As I was pulling over to the shoulder the temperature gauge shot up, the breaks were extremely hard to press because the brake booster went out and smoke poured out from under the hood when I was finally able to bring the vehicle to a stop. “Well, I think we need a new van,” I said.

I don’t remember how many miles that van had but it was surely over 200k so something like that was bound to happen at any time. Born of Osiris was able to pick us up so that we could make the next show which was in Syracuse, NY and after the gig our friend Ricky picked us up and drove us back to Lancaster so that we could van shop the next day and get back out on the road to meet up with the tour again.

The Storm That Left Us Stranded

In the winter of 2009, we did a short tour with Underoath and Emery. It was a very fun tour filled with hangs and packed shows. However, the drive home was something that I hope to never be a part of again. After the tour ended in New Orleans, JB and Brent flew home while the rest of us (Matt, Jake, TM Josh, merch guy Mychael and myself) opted to save some bones and drive the van/trailer home. We knew there was a huge rain storm coming but we had plenty of time to beat it home by getting on the road directly after that last show - or so we thought.

Sometime in the early hours of December 18th during our drive home, we blew a wheel bearing on the trailer and had to pull over to take a look at it. This was an ongoing problem for us back in the day. You see, this was a time before the Axe-Fx / Kemper. A dark time when we carried many guitar/bass cabinets. Our trailer was always filled to the brim. We were simply carrying too much weight and would blow out wheel bearings left and right no matter how we packed the trailer.

This blow out was one of the worst ones we ever had. Since it was still dark outside, whoever was driving the van couldn’t see the smoke so they ended up driving for a while after the bearing gave out which led to the bearing fusing to the spindle which meant that we couldn’t fix the problem ourselves. We had to wait for a small repair shop to open up so that we could have the bearing fixed and while waiting to have everything repaired the storm passed us. It was only rain at the time but we knew it would turn into a mild blizzard. We finally got on the road in the early afternoon but it was too late - the damage was done.

I don’t recall which highway we were on, but it indeed was shut down and we ended up spending the night in the van on the highway until we could get moving again early the next morning. Around 6am when traffic started moving again, we opted to drive to the next closest exit and get a hotel since the roads were still covered in snow. Our drive home was supposed to be about 18 hours without stops and it ended up taking us 3 days. It’s fun to reflect on it now and talk to those that I share that memory with, but it’s safe to say from that day on, I never drove the van home from the end of a tour again.

Matt Greiner

Constellations Artwork

It was December 2007. I was getting inspiration for album artwork from the most unassuming source, a black and white movie from the 1940s. It's A Wonderful Life is a movie about a supernatural intervention in the life of a frustrated businessman. In the movie, an angel is sent from heaven to show George Bailey what life would have been like had he never existed. At their high-school graduation party, George is reintroduced to Mary who has had a crush on him since they were kids. Under the moonlight, they're walking outside when George suddenly turns Mary towards the sky and asks, "You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down."

As I watched the scene unfold, I played out the idea of a rope tied to a star in the sky. I put pen to paper and ran with the concept, pulling inspiration from Matthew 6 where the idea of Heaven coming to earth is introduced. The stars represented steadfast anchors by which we find direction throughout our lives. The kites represent our own fleeting emotions that will alter direction just as the wind changes. I remember getting on the phone with Ryan Clark, the creative mind behind the company Invisible Creature, and explaining the artistic concepts that would eventually come to fruition in the pages of Constellations.  

“Indonesia” 

In 2007, I awoke to find that a relative had died in a plane crash. David Clapper had always been passionate about flying. It wasn't uncommon to see his single-engine Cessna flying over our family farm in Lancaster County, PA. He devoted his time assisting those in need in Southeast Asia by flying the sick and dying from the bush to the nearest hospital, which often times was a several hour flight. On one of his return flights to the bush, he encountered a storm that blew his plane into the side of a mountain. I remember going for a drive after finding out the terrible news. I was so upset that someone doing such a good thing had died in such a terrible way. Here was a man who gave his time and energy to helping others and, in the end, sacrificed his life doing so. I remember wondering what his last words might have been as the plane spun out of control, crashing into the side of the mountain where it still resides today. I learned an important lesson that day. That is, not every question in life has an answer, at least not one that will satisfy. "This is the time to turn down our heads and turn up our hearts."  

I remember traveling to Indonesia on the Constellations Tour. We played an outdoor venue for a large group of excited fans who were seeing us perform for the first time. When it came time to play "Indonesia," a feeling came over me that I'll never forget, an overwhelming sense of humility. The band I helped start in my parent's basement in Lancaster County, PA was playing in Southeast Asia performing a song written about my relative who had passed away on that very continent just the year before. The fans in the crowd seemed to sing about him like he was their relative, not some stranger who's name they merely read in the liner notes of a CD. Near the end of the song Jake screams the words, "David, rest in peace." I'll never forget hearing the crowd sing those very words so loud they could be heard over the amplification of our own instruments. A story goes a long way, sometimes even to the edges of the other side of the planet.  

[chibi-arthur]

Stop interrupting my thought proc- 2/10

https://archiveofourown.org/works/18122630/chapters/43415117

Fandom: Detroit: Become Human

Pairing: HankCon

Warnings: major character death, suicide, angst, memory alteration

Rating: M

A massive thanks to @honkforhankcon who beta'd this chapter too! 

Day 2

  Connor opened his eyes. He was in his apartment, lying down in bed. His internal clock told him it was past noon already but he only snuggled further into the nest of blankets and pillows.

Yesterday, after that third corrupted message clouded his vision, Connor had to soft reboot. Understandably, it freaked Hank out. The Lieutenant was ready to call the trusted technician they met on one of the cases but Connor managed to convince him not to.

Hank took good care of him. He drove him home, ensured he was comfortable and put a bottle of thirium on the nightstand, just to be safe. It was with great reluctance that he went back home, unwilling to leave the android alone. He's such a good friend.

Connor couldn't help but sigh dreamily and squeeze his fish plushie closer to himself. He wanted Hank to be more than just a friend.

There it was again, that buzzing in his head. It seemed to appear whenever he was thinking about Hank (which, admittedly, was very often). He scowled into the pillows.

He probably should go to a technician but...he was afraid. Trust didn't come easy to him, especially when it came to people who knew how the androids worked. Yes, there was this one tech he and Hank had met a few months ago that helped them a few times, however Connor still had that deep-rooted fear, a phobia really. He didn't want to go alone, yet; he also didn't want to rope Hank into this more than he had to.

With a huff he got off the bed. He placed Dewey reverently in the middle of the nest of blankets and went about changing his clothes. He pulled on dress pants over his boxers and some simple black socks but hesitated before taking off his oversized sleep shirt.

The very first time he slept over at Hank's he neglected to bring any sleepwear so he borrowed this particular shirt. He was surprised at how comfortable it was and opted to buy more oversized tops for lounge wear. As soon as he changed into Hank's shirt that day he resolutely declared that Hank is never getting it back. The Lieutenant sputtered and blushed, mumbling something about "couple-y shit" but Connor was far too captivated by the material to pay attention to human hangups. He couldn't stop trailing his fingers across the shirt or bunching it up in his fists, revealing the pale skin of his thighs. Hank excused himself to his bedroom rather quickly, he didn't even finish watching the movie with Connor, just told him to watch the rest on his own.

Connor wished he scanned his vitals then. He was too absorbed in the newness of everything and now he wasn't sure whether Hank left because he felt self-conscious or disgusted.

The android decided to leave the shirt on, feeling like dressing smart casual today. He put on black sneakers with silver studs on the sides and left the house.

It might have been past noon but Connor still intended to go to work. Hank said he'd put in word with Fowler and get him a day off but Connor didn't really know what to do with himself if he wasn't working. Hank reluctantly agreed to take the afternoon shift instead.

As he was locking the front door, Connor remembered he was only wearing a short-sleeved shirt. He didn't get cold, not really, but he still decided to backtrack and snag a light coat from his coat rack. It was a really nice coat, charcoal gray with black buttons. Slightly feminine cut but everything is unisex if you don't care and Connor certainly didn't. It looked nice, he liked it and that's all that should matter.

***

Hank and Connor were at the precinct for no longer than an hour when they got called in. A dead body was found in a rundown block of flats near the old industrial district.

"Looks like an unlucky accident."

Hank curiously peered into the bathtub where a woman's body lay. The bathtub was filled and a hairdryer was sitting at the bottom. An open-shut case, or so it seemed.

"Too bad I don't believe in accidents."

Connor nodded in agreement. The bathroom was a mess, as if there was a fight. The mirror was broken, various bottles and knicknacks overturned, a ton of fingerprints so densely packed and stacked on top of each other that it was impossible to analyse them. No blood, or even thirium, to link anyone to the crime scene though.

"See anything, Con?"

"I see plenty, though nothing that would help in the investigation, Lieutenant."

Hank muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘smartass’ and left the bathroom to look for evidence elsewhere in the flat. Connor lingered near the body in the immediate crime scene for a bit longer but he didn’t manage to find anything that would point to it being a murder instead of an accident. There were enough clues to make something spark inside of Connor, something that might be a gut feeling in humans, though nothing concrete. And it was driving the android up a wall.

“Alright Con,” Hank said, coming back from whichever part of the flat he was in, “let’s get out of here and question the neighbours and family members. God knows we won’t find any evidence in here.”

Grateful for the distraction, Connor almost skipped after Hank out of the apartment. Together they went to knock on the closest neighbour’s door. They didn’t have to wait long for an older woman to open and usher them inside.

“You see,” the woman began once they sat down in her living room, “that woman, Lange, was such a...whore.” She whispered the last word, looking around frantically, as if someone might hear her. “As soon as Robert, her husband, left for some work-related meeting in another city for a few days, she got Miss Rushman to babysit her kids and went a couple floors up to party with those youngsters.”

“Ma’am, excuse me but going to unwind for a few hours isn’t the same as being, ah, sexually promiscuous.” Hank toned down on the crude language when addressing the older lady. She glared at him and the Lieutenant tried to make himself look smaller. It was highly entertaining and if Connor hadn’t disabled the action in time he would’ve surely laughed out loud, directing the lady’s wrath toward himself.

"I may be old but I'm not stupid! You youngsters don't know anything about life!"

Hank mouthed 'youngsters', amused but still wary of the older lady. She had quite a tight grip on one of the little couch cushions and he didn't want to find out whether her aim was good or not.

"Mrs. Talbot, could you please tell us who Mrs. Lange was seeing?" Connor interjected before Hank could say anything more to set off Mrs. Talbot.

"Everyone," the old lady scoffed, "but her latest lover was this young man with a fancy car."

"Do you know his name?"

"No. But the youngsters upstairs might."

***

That's how Hank and Connor found themselves a couple floors up, trying to knock on the door loud enough to be heard over the music blasting from inside.

"It's not even 3pm and they're already partying?" It's been a year already and some people's actions still confused Connor.

"Maybe they never stopped."

Connor's LED whirled yellow but Hank didn't wait for him to ask his question. He reached out and turned the knob. The door was open.

A wall of sound assaulted their ears as soon as they entered. Connor toned down his hearing sensitivity, Hank only had his palms to drown out the sound with. Somewhere underneath the 2020s techno music Connor could hear two people arguing.

Sure enough, as Hank and Connor crossed the hall and stepped into the living room, they saw a man and a woman. He (Chris Martín, 29, cashier, no past offenses) was sitting on a couch, elbows propped on his knees and his head cradled in his hands. Meanwhile she (Ashley Kamor, 23, college dropout, red ice possession) was standing over him, shouting something. Her words were indecipherable, the loud music drowning out barely legible slurring only someone simultaneously high and intoxicated could call 'speaking'.

The couple didn't see them until Hank walked up to the stereo and turned down the volume.

"Hey! This is private property!" shouted Chris, the intimidating tone falling a little short when he swayed and almost fell off the couch. Meanwhile, Ashley was silent and even looked like she might be sick or lose consciousness.

"We're with the DPD," Hank said, flashing his badge. "Do you happen to know a Mrs. Lange?"

"Oh yeah! Lizzy, she knows how to party. Why?" It would be hard to understand Chris with all the slurring but Connor had a lot of practice talking on the phone with a drunk Hank. It helped that he wasn't as intoxicated as Ashley.

"Do you know the name of her boyfriend?"

"Which one?"

"The one with a fancy car," Hank said at the same time Connor demanded "All of them". The Lieutenant shot him a scathing look as Ms Kamor, suddenly very chatty, started rattling off names and divulging details about most of them.

***

"Fuck, checking all of those Johns out will take us a week!" Hank griped as they were driving back to the precinct to report to Captain Fowler.

Connor wanted to answer, he really did, but he got distracted by the mouth-watering sight of Hank driving with only one hand on the wheel, the other carding through his hair in an effort to get it out of his face. Connor wondered how it would feel like if he deactivated his synthskin and ran his fingers through Hank's hair, touched his beard, kissed him...

Kissed him?

Yeah. Kissed him. Connor wanted it like nothing else.

He grimaced when the angry buzzing in his head came back with a vengeance.

"See, you're not thrilled about it either!" The Lieutenant misinterpreted his facial expression but Connor didn't correct him.

"I...might've underestimated how many lovers Mrs. Lange had. And how much information the neighbours would be willing to provide."

Hank grumbled under his breath, obviously unhappy about the amount of overtime they'd have to clock in. The android was content just looking out the window.

***

Connor could see that Hank was quickly running out of patience. Every person they crossed off their – admittedly long – potential suspect list the furrow in his brow got deeper. It’s no wonder, really. They had been driving around town, questioning Mrs. Lange’s lovers, but they didn’t learn anything. Connor decided to call it quits when the clock struck 10pm and Hank’s fingers twitched one too many times. He didn’t want the Lieutenant to punch anyone and get in trouble, no matter how satisfying it would be to watch those assholes get knocked out.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Wulf, we’ll contact you in case any further statements are needed." Connor discreetly steered Hank towards the front door. He was actually relieved their work for today was over.

"No problem at all. Have a nice evening, gentlemen."

Just as Connor was crossing the threshold, Mr. Wulf grabbed his forearm. He managed to catch the android off-guard and whirled him around, pulling closer to himself.

"You know, you’re pretty cute. You can call me anytime, sweetheart."

Connor stifled the urge to gag. Instead, he smiled faux-pleasantly and brushed off the man’s hand from his arm. "That’s nice but you’re not my type." With those words he left Mr. Wulf gaping at the door and followed after an impishly grinning Hank.

"Holy shit, Con," Hank wheezed after they got in the car, "did you see his face? He was so unprepared. Damn, I love when self-absorbed jerks like him get knocked down a peg."

The car let out a low rumble when Hank started it up. They’ve been driving for a minute or two when the Lieutenant spoke again.

"By the way…" The cough that came after this sentence sounded forced and Connor immediately noticed. He straightened up, knowing what Hank was about to say next was going to be either very serious or personal. "What…what is your type, anyway? Asking for a friend."

Connor smiled but didn’t answer for a while. He let Hank squirm a little in his seat and answered only when the older man was opening his mouth, probably about to retract his question and apologise.

"Truth is, Hank," Connor leaned a bit to his left. For the maximum effect he modulated his voice to sound like will.i.am’s. "I like them big, I like them chunky."

Hank roared with laughter, throwing his head back. Connor gripped the steering wheel with his right hand to ensure the car wouldn’t veer into the other lane. He kept his hand there even when Hank calmed down and started paying attention to the road again. He couldn’t help it! Being close to Hank was such a rush, he just wanted to stay in his personal space forever and-

"Mpf!" Wide-eyed, Connor let out a garbled sound when Hank’s massive hand covered almost all of his face and pushed him back into his seat. Through Hank’s spread fingers he could see the man blushing a bit, a quick scan told him his heart rate was elevated. Connor wanted to lick the palm pressed to his face.

"Stop that, I’m tryna drive."

Connor, obviously, wasn’t able to answer. The silence was deafening.

As the Lieutenant was drawing his palm back, Connor caught his wrist in both hands. Hank stubbornly kept his eyes on the road but didn’t try to get away from that grasp. He let the android shift his hand as he pleased, tensing minutely when Connor nuzzled his cheek into his palm.

"Con." The word sounded like a warning. There was something dark in Hank’s voice, something primal. It made Connor shiver.

"Hank." An almost whisper, slightly breathy as if Connor couldn’t get enough air in his artificial lungs.

Over the year they grew closer together but Connor felt there was always something missing from their relationship. He had his suspicions about what it may be but found out for sure only a few days ago. He wanted to be even closer. He wanted to be more than just best friends. He wanted his social programme to declare them "lovers". He wanted.

"Don’t." Voice strained, Hank kept driving until he reached Connor’s apartment building. He never removed his right hand from the android’s grasp.

Connor was conflicted. Hank was giving mixed signals – his words curt but his touch warm and gentle. He was preparing himself for rejection but also hoped, hoped so deeply that the Lieutenant felt the same. He forgot to breathe when the car came to a stop, nervous beyond belief.

But when Hank finally looked at him, there was no disgust nor hate visible on his face.

(Pupil dilation 30% more than normal, heart rate 132bpm, body heat elevated)

Oh.

Connor couldn’t tell who moved first, even with all that fancy programming. Hank’s left arm shot towards Connor’s waist like a homing rocket while Connor’s right hand gripped Hank’s hair at the base of his skull. Hank’s right palm cradled Connor’s cheek gently, cupped by Connor’s left skinless hand.

The kiss was desperate. They both poured all of their everything into it, channelling a year’s worth of emotions.

It was awkward with their seatbelts on but Connor soon unclasped both of them, the belts retracting into the car seats with a harsh click. The android didn’t waste any time pushing the driver’s seat as far back as it would go and climbing onto Hank’s lap. His ass pushed the horn but neither of the men seemed concerned with the resounding honk that carried over the neighbourhood. To avoid making more noise Connor simply clung tightly to Hank’s front, pressing their arousals together. Hank groaned low in his throat and it took a Herculean effort on Connor’s part not to come undone just by hearing it.

The angry buzzing in Connor’s head struck with even more force than yesterday but he buried it with all the sensory data he kept receiving - the softness of Hank’s lips, the tight grip he had on his waist, the wandering hand on his back. It was all so much. Almost too much but also not enough.

When Connor felt Hank’s tongue swiping at his bottom lip, he gladly opened up for him. They both shivered as their tongues met, the slick glide audible in the confines of the car. Connor slid his palms over Hank’s arms, feeling the muscles move under his fingers as Hank was doing some exploration of his own.

All too soon they had to stop, as one of them actually needed oxygen to survive. A string of saliva connected their lips for a second before breaking off. Connor licked his lips. He wasn’t surprised when he discovered the skin on them retracted during their make out session.

They gently rested their foreheads against each other and just breathed for a moment.

"Hank."

0̶̪̲̜͇͉̬̺͙̞̰͓̻͚͙̼̳̪͈͌̔ͧ̈́̀̀͘͟͠1̷̡̌͆̄̒ͯ͑̆̿ͦͩ̃͊͊̃̎͋ͩ͘͜͏͈̠͔̯̙͙͉̫̥0̧͖͎̩͖̠͉̻̽͗̊͠0̡̡̯͙͔̖͚̬̞ͬ͒̔̏ͭ͆͆̆͛̓͒ͧ̃ͬ̂̆̀͢1̇̎͛̾́ͬ͐̇̏ͫ̂͆̀͏̸̢̤̼̗͖̰̱̫1̶̨̛͈̹̪̣̠̘̫̺̰͍̣̱̹͇͔̞̩͒͒͗͑̎ͪ̔ͥͬ̈́̀͘ͅ1̸̣̼̹̯͔̻̜̜͖̈͐̃̐ͨ͑̊̍̈́̒͞ͅ0ͭ̽ͯ̿͗̀͏̢̻͓̫̟͓̬͔͉̜̟͖͚̪͙͘ ͊̇͑́͐̽͗̃̓̍̆͐͂̋ͨ́͋͏̸̨̢̺͇̪̬̟̙͎͙̺̠0̧̗͔̮̼̮͌̉̔̃̓ͧ͒ͫ̿ͫ͌̽̌̽̿ͭ̓̕͢1̴͛̾̉̔̋ͦ͒ͬ͋̿͌҉̙̯̖̻͕͖̫̙͚̤̖͍͎͇̕0̰̦͇̝̹̽ͫ͂̆̂͡0͆ͫ̽͊͋̈́̃ͥͬͤ̓͋ͪͤͤͥ̓̆̃͏̨̧͓̝̞̳̻̪͚̘̹̼̬̪̝̰̀1̉̆͗̂ͦ̽̃̆͊͂̑͗͗̅̚͏̵̲̗̝͔͕̩̱͖1̶̢̠̪̫̺̗͎̙͖͎͎͍̤͙̱̘̝̀̿͛̋͋͋ͥͦ̑̿ͥ͛ͧ̓͋͒̾́̚̚͟͞1̶̢̗̺͇̉ͯ̏̉ͨͫ̃ͪ̈́̓̎ͨ͊̈́̿͡1̶̥̤̞̹̫͉̩̪̼̠ͥͯ͑͊ͬͨ̃̂͑̍͋ͯ͞ ̥̠̠̬̖͍͚̭̙̪̤͙͓̦͕͔̳̌̇̋͒̀́͘0̸̸̧̫͉̟͚͙̟̞̺̙̮͙̼̄̃͗̿ͬ̊́̽̋͋͋0̵̧̦̖͖̙̱͋ͧ̑̄͑̊ͧͭ̀̓̔̚1̤̰̦͇̭̠͓̈́̄͑̍͗̎̃̃̂͐̾͋̓͌̆̔̃͂͟͟͡0̡̗̬̪͈̣ͯ̋ͥ̃̕͡͠0̛̳̬̣͙̜͔̭̹͉̺͓̜͎͚̤̑̋ͥ̂͋́ͧ͒̓̄̂͂̅̍ͧ͋̚͝ͅ0̶̨̹̲̞̻͕̔̓͊ͨ̈́ͭ̈ͦͯ̎̌̄̌͠ͅͅ0̭̞͕̾̒͐ͦͩ̂̓̿͢͝1ͤ̋̃̓̊̒͊͑ͥͬ̔ͬͨ͗̒́̋͏̢̺̪̻̦̲̟͔̻̤͚̺̹̀

"I love you."

0̵̶̨̛̛̰̦͍̻̪͈̼̰̺̿̓̐ͤ̀̂ͦ̎̓́̔ͮ1̛̩̟͚͚̞̦ͣ̃ͭ̔̑͐ͫ̉̔͒͂ͧ͘͢͜ͅ0̷̢́̋ͦ̎̃̇̋ͣͦ͘҉̖̘̤̠͉͔1̸̢̃͂ͩ͒̊ͩ̆ͩ̏ͥͨ̾ͩ̅ͣ͗̚͜͏̼̝͕͕̼̜̩1̵̴̸̫̘̱̰͚̮̲̲̦͖̙͙͎̝̓ͨͦͧ̚͜͡ͅ0̴̶̛̙̬̱̺̟̞̬̝͖̺̙̓̿͒ͮ͋̌̀̋0̢̡͉̭̲̹͇̪̪͇̘͕̞̮̣͖̻͔̄̏͛ͭ̒ͩ̍̅̇́̚͡1̬͖̻͎̰̬̓ͬ̄̓ͧͨ͒ͬ̏ͯ́͠ ͣ͒ͣͤ̓̊̅͐̔̈́̂̈҉̧̲̙̖͓̣̻̦͙̟̖͇͈̳̹̱̕͜ͅͅ0͔̞͉͙̤̯̪͈͚͎̯̪̯̣͍̘̞̓̾̽͛̓̓ͣ̔̇ͬͤͨ̎̑͌̂̅̈́͆̀͞͡1̶̪̱͍͎̗͚̞̤̫̜͕̺͙̮ͤͤ̋̆͑͒͂̚͢͡͠0̧̦̞̤͉̬͍̖̦̰͚͈̎ͮͤ̆͛̉͑̍́͛ͨ̚͘͢0̵̋̑ͩͧ͊̅ͭͮ̂͒͟͞͏͚̱͔̝1̱̞̺͇͚͍̈́ͪ̅̇̅ͫͩ͒̃͑̏͌ͦ͌̍̽̀̚͠͝1̝̖̭̖͇̝̮̞̣͈͙͇̪̹̲̮̤̬͆̾̽ͨͭ̾̕͡1̴̧̜̤̟̜͕̱̗̏̃ͯ͂ͯ̇̌̽̎̃͌ͩͣͮ͢͟1̸ͫͦͪͪ̔̍̾̽̓́̌́͡҉̩͈̖͍̤͔͇͇͎̣͉̺͔ ̷̵̢̱̼̜͈͍̠̣̲̲̜̣̭͓͔̲̣͈͔̂ͭ͒̈́̃͊̓̈́̓̏̄̍̆̈́̄̿̀̚ͅ0͖͓̼̜͎̼͉̫͚̮̥͙̺̯̟̽̔͑ͦ̽̇̓̿ͩͬ͜͢1̨̖͓̬̬͎̗̳͍̰̹̐̈́̓̋̈̐ͦ͊̀̈́̒̃͗̒ͣ̓͘ͅ0̸̸̟̖̼̖͎̊͗ͫ̄ͮ͋͢1̶̭̞̝̹̜̦̬̐̈̀̈̌͢͢0̵̻̘̞͂̔͆̾̏͗̀̇̎̾͞1̶̞̩͇̜̄̈́ͫͪ̔ͥ̎̍͗̾́ͪ̌̈́͒͜͞0̡̡̯̪̯̳̗̰ͯ͌͆̏͛ͪ̂̈͒ͥ̅̀̈́̚͘͟1̱͈̗̗̰̮̹̠͖̲̗̙͚̯̗͐ͮ̓̀̒̔̍̃͌͊̾̈͘ ̧̛̘̩̩̲̤̲̳͈͈͚̔͒̓̽ͭͬͣ̓͐̀ͣ̍̈́͘͢͝0͔͎͉̹̖͚̖͙̫̳̮̭̺͚̯͑͑̀̓ͩ̑̎͛̒̆͗̃ͪ̈͌̂̕͟0̻͈̖̬͓̫̟͖̼̠͒́̏ͨ̋̚͢͢ͅ1̄̑̒͋̍͌̒̿̏̑́҉̖̤̰̹̞̜̜͘͟0̶̵̶͇̘̮̬̻ͨ̄ͬ͑ͤ͊ͧ̑̔̋ͧ̈ͧ̿́ͣ̈́0̀̿̑́҉͓̝̯̦1ͧ̈́̊̅͋̾̈́̄͑̒̆̀ͮ̄̾̿ͥ͌̚҉̸͔̻̟̦͎1̷̵̸̟̼͍̯ͫͭ͑̄̉ͧ̐ͣ̐ͥ͌͗ͦ̆͛́̀͞1̷̷̦̟̮̬̻͔̜̱͉̳͍̤͇͐͌ͪ̔̽͛ͭ͐̂́̓̀̓̾̎ͨͥ̽̀͘ͅ ̛͐̽͌̿̋͂ͭͧ͑ͪͨ̃ͥ͛̕͝҉̟̺͉͓̥̭͖̳ͅ0ͭͬͩ̾̋̈́ͩͬ̈͐̿̉̆̾̏͆́̚͏҉̢̙͉͖̤̼̼̪̭͍͈͜1̡͕̙̰͚̹̞̜ͨͤ̂ͭ̀͠0͍̭͓̜̦͉̲̺̖̃ͦ͌ͧ̿͊ͨ̍́ͥ̔̀͞͡͠͝1̷̫̣̳̖̱̥͚̯͕̮ͪ͆̊̇͗̅̐͐̍̄̎̏ͪ͒ͤͩ̃͢0͓͔̺ͩ̎̆̅͒̃̑̍̊̋̾͜0̸̨̪͇̪̤͖̮̤̭̹̰̦̣̫͇̦͍̃̑̓̔̃ͮ̇͂̔̾̆̅̍ͦ͌͗͟1̸̵̦̯͇̯̝̘͍̬̰̳̲͕̲̝͉͕̖̀͂̉͛ͩ͆ͥ̌ͫ͂̈͆ͣ̋̒͌͑̚̚0̷̧͓͎̭͎̞͙͇̭͕͎̜̘̘͇̈́ͦͧ̌̑̀̓ͪ͆̈́̌̑̊̂̓̏ͬ͆̄͠͠͡ ̵̨̧̛͇̭̞̙̩̯̰̟̖̹̥̭̜ͭ̿̑͗̇͆͒ͩͮͬ̃̆ͪͮ́̚0̴͔̜̝̿̊̍͋͋ͣ͟͠͝ͅ1̥̲̳̣̮͕̗̹̮̹͍̺͚̙͚ͯ́͒̽̄͘͡ͅ0̴͖͎̱͇ͬͣͬͭ͒ͫ͗͑̌̀̕0̷̖̬̳̫̲͈̭̘̲̤̫̖̬̖̼̳̪̰̐͑̍ͤ͌͘̕͟0̧̢͇͚̗̥̦̭̭̦̉̍̊̐̚͢͠͞1̨̡̻̻̖̜͚͈̥̯̥̘̲͉͓͉̻̳̙̹̹ͩ̌͌͑̓̐̾͋̋͌ͮ̊͆͆ͮ͗̐͊̕͟0̛̩̘̯̣̙̜͔̘ͩͧ͗̎̏̿̓̐ͧ̾́̕͜1̷̹͓͙̬͓͔̙̹̯͉͖̩͍͎̰̤͍ͫ͋̈́̽̀̆̓͑̉͐͐̒͒̅̎̎͛͡ͅͅ ̵̙̰̫̦̘͉̙͉̰̞̹̥͎͖̱͆ͥͯ͌̚͘ͅ0̇ͥͨ̋́͏̢̲̲̜̗͖̮̰͓̱0̛̠̣̬͔̲̜̭͉͔͉̈͆̑̈̂͛̉̆̕͘1̵̷̵̺̜͉̝̭̖͖̣̰͖̝̪͓̎̋ͨͯ̓̑ͤ͋̚0̵̑̎͋ͩ̈́ͣ̐̈́̒̀ͩ͐̀͗̏ͨ͜҉͇͇̻̲̲͚̻̯̯̟̬͈͙̪0̨̠͍͚̲̺̺̮̩̤̳̱̹̯̫͇͚͇̒́̑̃̄̋ͪ̋ͬ̕͘͡ͅ0ͤ̈́̎̿̌͐̆̐̂̉҉҉͖̦̭̝͚͇͎̦̫̟͉̣0̨̆̑ͨ̋̑ͤ̈̍͌̓͂̍̑̾͊̏̉̒̚͟͏̶͔̤̘̺̳͔̩͕̪̪̪0̮͎̖̩̪͖͈͖̖̦͍̥̗̪̗͇̗̦͗̏̌ͥ̌̋ͯ̋͆́̚͘ ̴͈̘̩̮͌ͯ̓͛̊̈́̾̓̀̚0̶̵̸͓̭͓̲̏̐ͬ̌ͯ͛͝ͅ1̶̧̛̪̰͎̖͚̺̄̃̅ͥ̒ͧͥͦͭ̚͝0̸̻̪̘͙͈̰͍̺͕̲̮͓̰̭͍ͦ͌̊̑͒̂̌̇͒̔̑̕͠0̆ͮ̀ͭ̇̀̚͘͏̪̯̼̩̱̬̼̹̠1̨̛͓̭̹͉̣͚͌͒̅͗̓́̓͒ͣ̋̂̐̿̄̐ͥ́̚̚ͅ1̷͛̌̿̌̐͏̣͇̻͚͎̼̯̠͎̰̫0̴̛̼̲̪̝̮̮̟̹͖͍̟̬̭̫͖̯͇ͣ͋ͦͧ̓͢1̨̼͙̹̼͈̭̗̗̝͚̤͌̋̆͗ͦ̌͠ ̢͖̫̲͉̬͉̳̩̪̹̞̪̳͓͍̪̜̍́̊̉̅̍̊̎͑ͥ̅̾̌͟ͅ0͊̓͋ͦͫ̂ͯͨ̒̄̽ͥͪͤͫ͌͏̺͖̣̪̕1̵͓̞͍̜͖̫̦̙͙ͫͦͪ̑̅̾͌͊͆ͣͮ̉͆̒̚͢͠ͅ0̨͍̳͙̝͈͐ͤͣ͌̃̈̆̽̌͆̏͑͌́̌ͩͨͩͨ0̈́̎ͮ͛҉̴̴̫̣͔̤͎̥̩̝͙͍̖̪̠̭̲͍̗́1̢̮̪̼̰̘̩̗̻̱̥̘̲̖͍̜͇͊͑ͭ̉̅̉̑ͬ̉̚̕͜͡0̛͍̖̩̟̙͎̱̖͓̲͗͒͋́̀̀0̶̶̬̠͙̯̱̹͖̱̼͈͓̋͆͆̏̏͑1̝̳̲̻̯̼̰̤̞̤̈̄ͬͥ̏ͯ̓͗̾̓ͥ͌ͫͬ̎ͪ̏ͫ̌̕͞ͅ ̸̢̼̫̠̖͓̖̱̼̹ͩ̀͋ͯͨ͑̌̇͒͂́̅̚0̶͖̰͍̦͚̳̯̲̞͚̦̼̤͚̼͚̞͐ͯ̾ͦ̂ͧͨ̀͟͞͝͞1ͯ͐ͫ̍͏̧̛͍͙̲̘̤͙͍́ͅ0̸̷̛̇̌ͭ̄̓̚̚͟҉̤͇̝͇̠̦̺͚͍͔͎͎͇0̴̨̤̘̟͍̹͈̣̹̗̦̩̙̮͙̩̝̤͙͗ͦ̂̈́́̍͂̚̕͠1̶̾̿ͦ͂̽̅̀͏̼̺̦̗̭͉̮̥1̷̞̯͙͍̥͈̺̞͈̻̪̉͂ͥͮ͊̕ͅ1̶̦̩̺̭͎̳͉̘̳̥ͣ͗̑ͤ̌ͧ͐͠ͅͅ0̖̰̘͆͊͂̾͋̃̎ͥ̃̽ͫ̄̾ͦ̃͑̽ͭ͋̕͜��̭̙ ͮͭ̐̂̃̋ͯ̓͑ͧ̄͛̐ͮ̾ͨ̉͡͏̛̬͉͍̗͎̦̮̝̩̯̭̩̫̝͙͎͘͟0̛̣̥̬͔̮̜̀ͨͥ̏͌͛ͥ͑ͥ̓̑̇́ͪͬͮ̕̕1̷̠̞̤͙̱ͫ̌̌ͧ͋́0̷̨̨̿͑ͪͧ҉̫͚͓̙̭͚̮̭͚̜̹̟̼͈̤͚̥̠0̴̢̮̹̠̝̹͖̠̭̰̝̖̝̟̟̇̋̾̓̽͂̀ͤ͊ͭ̓ͯ͊̀0̷̵̸̭̭̱̲͓̪̝̤̖̻͙̺̰̮̭̯ͧ̉͛̈1̊̔͂͆̀ͭ҉͎̜͓͕̜̩̬͍͎͎̖͇͈͚̳͠ͅͅ0̶͇̺̯̬̳͇̹͔͈̙̳̦͚͓̪̙͎̽ͦ͂̂̆ͥ͋̓ͬ1̶͍͓̻̰̙͖̝̦̙̙̣͔ͩ̂̏̃̈ͤͭ͜͞ͅ ̷̣͓̳̙̫͚̠̻̑̓̑̇ͦ̎ͧ̾́͆͑ͨ̓̋́̎̋ͪ̀͘0̸̳̳̪̬̩ͫͧ͑̊̅͋̅̿ͤ̈́̏ͪ́͠͞ͅͅͅ0̸̡̖̭͇̰̱̪̊ͫ̌̈́͒̄́̈́̒̔ͥ̄ͯ̚1̆̒̓̅̌̌̔͊ͥ͊̓̚͏̘̰̲͚̫̘̮̝͙͕̀͞0̶̸̴̲̟̞͓͔̱̫̤͍͎̯̦͕̺̭̦̿̔̅ͬ0̸̻̝͖̟̰̤ͨ̊̅ͦ̋ͥ̾ͣ̔ͪͮͣͭ͌̿ͦ͘͢0̴̧̡̳͉̰̣͔͖̱̺̞ͣ̅̏̐́́͌̊͌̔͞0ͯ͂ͮ͊͛͢͠҉̟͉̲̻̺̦̟̙̩̫͓͉̝͇͙͚͉͉1̻̲̭̳̹̳̭̒ͪ̿ͮͬ̽ͧͪ̐̏́ͧ̄͗ͫͥ̇̄̅̀͡͠ͅ

"I love you too, baby."

Their next kiss was languid, chaste almost; if it weren’t for the moan that slipped through Connor’s mouth when Hank delicately bit his lower lip and pulled.

For a while after that, they just stared into each other’s eyes, dopey smiles on both their faces. Connor hugged Hank tightly.

"I’ll see you at work tomorrow, Lieutenant." He didn’t miss how the title made Hank’s heart skip a beat.

"Yeah. See you, darlin’."

Connor climbed out of the car through the driver’s side door. Before he disappeared inside his apartment, he blew a playful kiss Hank’s way, which Hank smiled at and returned with a wave.

Only much later did Connor realise that after that last message the angry buzzing in his head ceased. Somehow, it filled him with dread.

In case you didn't check it on your own already (I know I keep "binary to text" translator open in another tab whenever I read DBH fanfics) the binary says "NO! YOU'RE MINE!"

[artistic-writer]

The Three Times Killian Jones Made a Bad Decision (And That One Time He Didn't :: CS College AU :: E

Title: The Three Times Killian Jones Made a Bad Decision (And That One Time He Didn't) Word count: 10k+  Summary: CS College AU - Killian is a twenty-one year old virgin in love with his best friend, Emma.  Rating: E (because, let’s face it, I wrote it.) A/N: This is written for the wonderful @resident-of-storybrooke because today is the anniversary of when she escaped from her mother’s womb! Congrats, dude! You are a great friend, and it has been my pleasure to write this for you, least of all because you have been there for me recently when I needed my friends the most <3 A massive thank you to @hollyethecurious for actually listening to me ramble on about this fic, which for the most part, was a dream I had. For fucking reals. I was horrified/aroused/intrigued when i woke up, and you’ll see why when you get to that scene, and so i wrote out lots of notes. I shared those notes if Tori, who was very eager to see it on paper lol A massive thank you also to @kmomof4 who stepped in to beta this because I didn’t want to disturb @hollyethecurious on her trip!

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“Swan!” Killian called, racing across the short, neatly kept grass between them. “Swan, wait!” Emma turned just as he reached her, her hair flicking out and almost catching him in the face that he dodged sideways to avoid in a well practiced move.

“Killian, hey, what’s up?” Emma looked him over, his cheeks flustered and the tips of his elfen ears burning a bright pink. Emma frowned, rearranging her rucksack strap on her shoulder. Her bag was full of reference books today because she was heading to the library to study for a big exam in a few days. “Did you run to stop me?”

“I, uh...maybe?” Killian blushed, reaching his hand up to paw at the patch of skin behind his ear. It was a nervous habit Emma had noticed he did a lot when she was around. “Maybe I just enjoy running. In jeans. Whilst carrying heavy textbooks.” He gave her a sly grin, one eyebrow jumping up on his face cheekily.

“Yeah, right,” Emma laughed, rolling her eyes and clutching at her bag strap a little harder. She pulled it forward a little, trying to relieve the pressure on her shoulder, rolling the joint to help the weight shift.

“Here,” Killian nodded towards the bag on her shoulder with a motion of his head, reaching forward and grabbing the strap. Emma’s skin buzzed at the contact, even through her sweater, and she dumbly watched his hand guide it down over her arm. “Allow me,” He smiled, the back of his hand brushing her fingers as he pulled the bag free.

Emma gulped hard. Killian Jones, her best friend in the entire world, was like a mythical creature. He was a unicorn. No, he was a winged unicorn. He was a fucking unicorn Pegasus that couldn’t be tamed and everyone wanted a piece of. Especially Emma Swan. She had waited over ten years for him to notice her romantically, ever since the day she had fallen off her bike whilst trying to jump a dyke and he had helped fish her out, but it seemed that she had well and truly been friendzoned.

“Daydreaming there, Swan?” Killian chuckled, tapping her lightly on the shoulder.

“Hmm?” Emma blinked a few times, righting her thoughts and fixing her eyes on his. They were the bluest hue she had ever seen, the barely warm Fall sunshine making them dazzle and seem transparent, and when he smiled back at her, the tiny crinkles of skin at the corner of his eyes made them look even more sexy.

“I asked if you were heading to the library and could I carry your bags for you?” Killian beamed at her, bouncing her rucksack on his own shoulder painfully. “Not that I am rushing you, but this thing is really heavy,” he insisted dramatically.

“Oh, right,” Emma flapped, looking behind her to the huge on campus library building behind her. Like something straight out of a movie, it was the biggest building on campus with huge stone columns and Bibliotheca etched into the stone above the steps. “The library, yes,” she confirmed again out loud as she began moving in that direction.

“I take it this means you are not coming to Will’s party tonight?” Killian asked hopefully, falling into step beside her. Emma looked at him, tucking a strand of her silky golden locks behind her ear nervously.

“I’m sorry,” she winced after her words, half closing her eyes at him to avoid his reply. “I really have to study for my midterms next week.”

“And you can’t skip this one study session? It will be no fun without you there,” Killian pouted playfully, fluttering his long eyelashes at her and sticking out his bottom lip. “Who will make sure I don’t drink too much and make a fool of myself?” Emma all but died when all of her breath left her and her heart skipped a beat.

“I’m sorry, I really can’t,” she groaned, hating herself instantly for saying the words. “I’m sure you’ll have fun with Graham and Tink,” Emma offered with a snort.

As a group, they usually liked to hang around as a foursome. Graham and Tink were not exactly a couple but more like friends with benefits, a situation that no one really talked about or found particularly odd. They didn’t have the drama of a relationship and when they all spent time together, they didn’t really act like a couple, so there was no uncomfortable third wheel situations. Emma and Killian bickered more like a married couple sometimes, something Graham and Tink teased them over relentlessly.

“I’ll try,” Killian sighed dramatically as they reached the steps of the library. The huge stone steps were worn, the edges rounded by generations of footprints and the white slabs were almost smooth to the touch. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” Killian slid Emma’s rucksack off his shoulder, stopping the weight from hitting the floor with a flexed arm, something that Emma didn’t fail to notice.

“Tomorrow,” she smiled softly, reaching out to grab the handle of her pack. Again their fingers brushed over each other and she let them linger, her soft thumb pad tracing over the outer ridges of his knuckles innocently. “Have fun,” she winked playfully.

Killian watched her climb the steps, the hairs on his forearms standing to attention as goosebumps rippled over his skin. He tucked his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, almost cursing himself for not having the guts to ask Emma out properly. They had always flirted, but that was all they ever did, and Killian was patient and he knew that she would come around in time.

Maybe.

The party was boring. Killian knew it would be without Emma there to keep him company. She was all he could think about, moping around the crowded rooms in search of more beer to drown out his foul mood. He was a person with a high limit for alcohol, but somewhere between when he began drinking and when he reached the passing out stage, Killian became someone who was prone to stupidity, and usually Emma was around to protect him from himself. Except tonight.

His first act of idiocy was challenging a sober opponent, David ‘The Hulk’ Nolan, to an arm wrestle, barely able to focus on the hand waving around in front of him as he planted his elbow firmly on the table between them. His tongue poked out, wetting his lips as he squinted at his opponent, a heavy set semi pro football player who, surprisingly, no one else was willing to challenge.

“You and me, buddy,” Killian slurred, pointing between him and the guy with a wobbly finger. “I got you,” he threatened, hiccuping the last word and shaking his head from side to side, trying to clear his vision as the room chanted his opponents name.

His stoic rival simply stared at him, the corner of his lips twitching up as they locked hands awkwardly, both of them leaning forward and setting their grip. Killian’s palms were sweating and he fidgeted, trying to test his adversary, but he was only met with a solid weight, David unmovable, and when someone screamed out behind him, the back of his hand was slammed into the table quicker than he could blink.

“Winner!” Will screamed, grabbing David’s arm and pulling it above his head. David simply smirked at Killian, grabbing his red solo cup newly filled with beer and chugging it back in two large gulps.

With a grunt, Killian pushed himself to his feet and stalked from the table, heading to the kitchen area where there was a new keg being set up. With a sway in his step, he eventually found his feet and was just about to reach for the beer tap when Tink grabbed his arm.

“Dance with me, Killian!” She squealed, spinning him around and pulling him back the way he had come. He stumbled after her and pulled her upright when she threatened to fall.

“I can’t dance!” Killian called over the boom of the music. Tink shook her head at him, pointing to her ears with a shrug.

“I can’t hear you!” She laughed, reaching her destination and giving him a quick nudge of her head. “Come on, live it a little!”

The table behind her was larger than it should have been in the room and Killian suspected, in a moment of clarity, that Will had installed it for this very reason. Tink toed off her shoes, turning to step up on a conveniently provided chair and letting Graham pull her the rest of the way up onto the sticky, polished surface. Killian paused, looking up at his friends dumbfounded, Graham shirtless with some kind of lipstick drawings over his bare torso, a sweatband askew across his forehead and a beer in one hand!

“Come on, Killy,” Graham teased, wrapping an arm around Tink and pulling her back flush against his torso, the music providing them with a reason to grind against each other. “Don’t be a virgin for every fun activity for your whole life!”

Killian’s jaw clenched at his friends words. Graham, Tink and Emma had all grown up together, ending up in the same college after high school but when Killian had confided in his best male friend that he was still a virgin, he hadn’t expected him to announce it to an entire room full of people. Luckily for Killian, the music was too enticing for many people to bother even listening, but it didn’t make him seethe any less.

“Oh, Killy…” Tink cooed, beckoning him with a crooked finger and wink. “Come and dance with us!” She took a sloppy sip of Graham’s beer only disengaging her lips from the plastic cup long enough for him to pull her shirt up over her head and leave her in just her hot pants and bra.

Killian ground his teeth together and grabbed the beer out of a nearby dancers hands, throwing his head back and gulping it down quickly. He was ten beers in now, most definitely three sheets to the wind and his head began to spin. Toeing off his shoes made him wobble, his feet barely supporting his weight as he swayed backwards. Lifting his leg up onto the flimsy chair was the second bad idea of the evening, his hand reaching out for Tink’s who pulled him up and flush against her slightly sweaty body with a coy smirk.

“Woooo!” Graham cheered loudly behind Tink, his back arching and his arms waving in the air. “Jones the virgin can dance!”

“Shut up, Graham!” Killian slurred, pushing his friends shoulder who retaliated with a chuckle. His beer spilled forward out of his cup as Graham sprung back forward, the fizzy, yellow liquid sliding down the valley of Tink’s breasts.

“Oops!” Graham laughed, licking his lips. “You want me to get that?” He whispered into Tink’s ear, one hand on her hip and his bottom lip rolling under his teeth as his eyes flicked up to meet Killian’s. “Or Killian?”

Killian felt his skin flush hot, his cheeks turning hot and his mouth dry. It was already coated with the stale stench of beer, his tongue feeling foreign and his mouth fell open a little as he let his eyes wander over the lace clad globes of Tink’s cleavage.

“You wanna lick me, Killian?” Tink teased, trailing her finger over the swell over her breasts. “You wanna taste me?” She cooed as seductively as she could over the thump of the bass. Graham pressed himself into her harder, making her shift her weight forward and towards Killian’s frozen, dumbstruck figure.

“I think he does,” Graham noted his friend’s discomfort and watched Killian swallow hard. “How about we all go somewhere a bit more...quiet?” Graham drank the last of his beer, tossing the empty cup sideways and not caring where it landed. Killian finally tore his gaze from Tink’s ample assets, his breathing heavy and his vision blurry, the sunshine glow of her hair and the sweetness of her smile morphing into those of the woman he really wanted to taste.

“Emma,” Killian whimpered her name with a frown, conflicted. His body wanted so many things right now and his brain was struggling to compute his actions as he reached out and smoothed his fingertips down the side of Tink’s bare torso. She was warm and soft, her ribs like piano keys under his touch, and like a fool, Killian listened to his mind when it told him she was Emma.

“Not quite, Killy,” Tink chuckled, fisting her hand in his hair and pulling his head forward until her lips were next to his ear. “But we can pretend, if you want.” Tink’s words echoed in his head, swimming around with the alcohol as her fingers soothed his scalp with a gentle caress. Killian couldn’t focus, his hormones raging, and he felt like he was in the middle of a very erotic dream.

“We know you love Emma,” Graham added over her shoulder. “Don’t you want to be ready when she finally says yes?” Tink’s face erupted in a sly grin at Graham words, nodding in agreement and anticipation.

“We can show you,” she added, her hands sliding to cup Killian’s cheeks in her hands.

“Alright,” Killian said quickly, a little too eagerly and his brain barely registered the words leaving his mouth. He felt spaced out, the buzz of inebriation coursing through him and making the blood in his ears pound louder than the bass track. He wasn’t sure what exactly he was agreeing to, or where they were going that was so quiet, but Killian had just made the third bad decision of his evening.

As it turned out, Graham and Killian’s dorm wasn’t as quiet as they had promised. Everything was so loud, Killian’s hearing amplified from the thundering tunes at Will’s party, the voices of his company still at a high volume as they all tumbled into the room giggling. Tink and Graham even kissed loudly, lips smacking together sloppily and heavy pants filling his ears as he watched with a morbid fascination.

“Don’t forget my friend here,” Graham smirked when he slid Tink’s hand down to his hardening erection. “He’s missed you,” he groaned when she grabbed him through his pants.

“Oh, he has?” Tink teased, rubbing her palm over his length and making him growl. “What about this one?” Tink looked over her shoulder at Killian, his own erection clearly visible through his jeans. “Does Jones want to see what he has been missing?”

Killian gulped as Tink advanced on him, his throat drying out instantly despite his efforts and his hands balling into nervous fists at his side. The cold chill of the night’s air had done nothing to relieve his drunkenness and Killian felt even more eager to explore their offer.

“Yeah, he does,” he fumbled with the button on his jeans, eagerly tugging the fly down and kicking them off his feet when they fell to the floor.

“Mmm, I like this,” Tink looked between them, smiling hard to herself and biting on her tongue when Graham shed his jeans in the same way. Killian tugged himself through his boxers before pulling his thin t shirt up and over his head, throwing it aside without taking his eyes off the siren in front of him with a long exhale. “Two, big hard boys ready for my attention.”

Graham spun her back around before she had time to reach Killian, pulling her into his arms and enjoying the way she moaned into his mouth when her body fell against the hard planes of his bare chest. He kissed her hard, tongue pushing into her mouth without invitation and hands kneading the globes her ass as he pushed her denim hot pants to the floor. Killian’s heart almost stopped when he noticed she wasn’t wearing panties but Graham simply slipped a finger between her cheeks, grinning against her own smile when he found how wet she was.

“Oh, baby, you’re wet for us,” Graham panted, shooting Killian an excited glance.

“And you’re a dirty boy,” Tink told him, pushing against his chest firmly. Graham looked down at his torso, the red etching of his party going antics smeared and smudged. “I think I’ll start with the pure one,” Tink purred, turning from him and stalking towards Killian on the other side of the room.

She stopped just short of his tented boxers, the fabric brushing over Killian’s tip without remorse, his body betraying his mind as he struggled to fight the urge to betray his own heart. He was drunk, plain and simple, and without Emma to guide him, he was most certainly lost under the influence of Tink and Graham. Tink especially had a way of getting what she wanted, and judging by the way she licked her lips as she took in his generous size, she wanted Killian.

“Or we could shower”? Graham suggested, catching her attention. They might not be a real couple, but Graham was not immune to the feelings of jealousy that came with Tink lavishing her attentions on another man. Tink turned to him and Killian breathed a sigh, the sound a little too audibly relieved as it left his mouth. “You like a good shower,” Graham purred at her, sliding his boxers over his hips and letting them pool at his feet, his words the exact opposite of what they sounded like and his erection bobbing proudly against his stomach.

“I do,” Tink cooed, looking between them. “You wanna shower with us, Killian?” She teased, reaching behind herself and ridding herself of her bra. Her nipples pulled tight and even in the dim lighting of the room Killian could see them rock hard on her rounded breasts. She nodded at his boxers and he dug his hands into the sides, letting them fall to his feet and freeing his own rock hard length. Tink gasped a little, a seductive moan tumbling from her lips. “I am in for a treat!” She squeaked, sauntering off towards the bathroom, Graham and Killian in tow.

The water hit Killian like a whip as he stepped into the cubicle behind Tink. Graham had led her in with a dirty grin and a prominent erection and she had encouraged Killian with her dulcet tones and a wave of her hand. The room seemed to spin, or maybe it was just the steam clouding his vision, and Killian reached out and gripped onto Tink’s shoulder’s for support. She rolled them playfully, smoothing her hands over Graham’s chest as they kissed, lips sliding against each other, slippery and smacking over the sound of the shower as the water pounded Killian’s back.

His eyes fell to Tink’s rear, blinking to clear his vision and focus on the pearly white globes before him. From the back, she could have been Emma, the enticing curve of her hip and the dimple in the centre of her back something Killian had dreamed Emma possessed as well. He often yearned to run his hands over Emma’s back, the sounds she made in his slumber as he did so filling his mind and making his erection even harder. Tink wiggled her hips, knowing he was watching, and without thinking, Killian stepped forward and hissed when his hot, hard length pressed itself between the crease of her cheeks.

“Oh,” Tink gasped, pulling her lips from Graham’s. “Someone feels neglected,” She cooed, letting her hands fall from Graham’s neck and slipping over the smooth planes of his chest languidly.

“Take care of our friend,” Graham whispered darkly, turning Tink around so she was facing Killian. He felt himself blush but it was lost in the heat from the shower, steam filling the room and masking the ragged sounds of his breathing.

“Do you want me to take care of you?” Tink purred, sauntering towards Killian until the gap between them was closed. Graham filled the space behind her, pressing his body to her back and making sure she could feel both of them between her body. Killian took a breath, his eyes flicking down to her lips, plump and kiss bruised from Graham’s assault.

“Of course he does,” Graham encouraged with a smirk. “Look at his little innocent face,” he teased, his words dripping into her ear and barely audible.

“Yes, look at this handsome…” Tink leaned forward, her lips a hair's breadth from Killian’s mouth, her words ghosting over his lips. “...pure…” she breathed, her tongue darting out to moisten hers and inadvertently touching Killian’s in the process. “...boy.” Tink’s mouth curved up into a salacious smile, her lips finally meeting his with all the confidence Killian lacked, his body rigid to reflect his hesitation and a gentle frown on his face because, inside his alcohol soaked brain, he felt like he was betraying the woman of his dreams.

In that moment, Killian thought he should run. There was a moment he figured he was just a naked third wheel in a Graham and Tink sex game, along for their amusement only. If he was honest, he was probably going along with all of this to see how far they were willing to go, how long their teasing would last about his virginity, but sober Killian would never have agreed to this. Sober Killian would never have got naked in front of two of his best mates, he would have never stepped foot inside the shower and he would certainly have not welcomed Tink’s slippery body against his when she turned around to kiss him.

Unfortunately for drunk Killian, at the exact moment Tink’s lips touched his, the love of his life burst into the steam filled bathroom with every intention of using the facilities, and the loudest thing he heard that night was her gasp.

She was gone before he had time to register her presence, but her look of disappointment would be etched into his brain forever more. The way her face paled, the colour draining from her cheeks, all very clear in the sudden clarity of the room as the steam escaped out of the open door, made his stomach fall away from him. Tink giggled and fell backwards against Graham’s chest, touching her lips with a single finger and offering Killian a coy smirk.

“Oops,” she laughed in a tipsy tone, Graham joining her. “Guess you’ll be a virgin forever now!”

Killian clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, pushing passed both of them and escaping the confines of the shower in haste. The room was spinning, his messy hair still wet and dripping onto his skin and adding to the pearl of droplets already clinging to the dark thatch on his torso. He grabbed his shirt and his boxers, tugging them both on with effort, the materials clinging to his skin and instantly soaking up the water there.

“Emma!” Killian called feebly, his words muffled in his own ears. He shook his head sideways, the room becoming much louder when the steady tinnitus tone in his ears disappeared and he heard her footsteps pounding down the hallway of the dorm. “Emma, wait!” He called louder, barging the doorframe painfully as he gave chase, his heavy steps unsteady down the hall, his body bouncing off the flimsy walls every so often.

Luckily for him, Emma didn’t walk as fast as he could run, and he caught up to her in no time, his bloodshot eyes focusing on her outline in front of him as he called her name one more time. “Emma, please, will you just stop running away from me,” he gasped, the cold October chill taking his breath away as soon as he had stepped outside.

“You're drunk, Killian, go home.” Emma crossed her arms over her chest. She was angry, and couldn’t look him in the eye, even though she knew she really had no right to be. Killian was not her boyfriend, he could fool around with whoever he wanted, even if it was Tink and Graham. For a second she wondered if they had been doing this long, behind her back, keeping it from her whilst they sneaked into each others dorms and each others showers.

“I feel like you might be angry at me,” Killian frowned, grabbing his sides when a searing tearing pain ripped through his abdominal muscles.

“You won't remember this in the morning so it doesn't matter,” Emma said quickly, averting her gaze to the floor between them.

“Of course it matters, Emma, I love you…” Killian blurted, his words more a plea than the romantic gesture he had dreamed about. He cut his own words off as quickly as they had left his mouth, and stared at her when she lifted her head suddenly, her green eyes locking with his.

Killian stopped breathing, his lungs burning in his chest and his feet ready to flee. He had said it, finally, after all these years. Okay, so it wasn’t the way he had planned to tell her, drunkenly apologizing for a very big misunderstanding that he blamed his other two best friends for, but at least now she knew. He gave her a weak, nervous smile, the apple of his cheeks turning a bright pink.

“How am I supposed to answer that?” Emma snapped, annoyed more than anything. She sighed angrily and his smile disappeared instantly, his own fury rising to the surface.

“Be honest! For once in your life Swan, say what you feel in your heart!” Killian’s voice rose a little higher, his face erupting into a hopeful grin.

“Okay…” Emma said firmly, fixing his gaze once more. “I hate you.”

“Not the response I was hoping for…” Killian looked away, deflated. Even the slightest movement of his head made him sway and he had to quickly right his stance. Emma reached out to grab his arm and his eyes fell on her hand, clutching his bicep lovingly only briefly before she pulled her hand away as if she had been burned.

“You are just like all the other college boys. Fuck ‘em and flee….” Emma sighed, rubbing her forehead. “I thought you were different.”

“I've never slept with anyone…” Killian shrugged, shaking his head a little. Emma absorbed his words, watching him squirm a little.

“You were never this person in school, but then you met Graham and alcohol and you are two different people now.” Emma was almost shaking, the cold night permeating her sweater and tingling down her spine.

“I’m not…” Killian began but she cut off his slurred words.

“And I want Killian from before, not the pirate you are now.” Emma looked up at him, her words clearly falling of deaf ears with Killian’s face erupted in the childish, shit eating grin of a five year old.

“Argh!” He crowed, one arm waving around as if he was holding a sword and the other bending his forefinger into a hook shape and clawing at the air between them with a quirked eyebrow.

“Jesus Christ, you are so drunk I can't even talk to you right now…” Emma waved a dismissive hand at him and turned to leave, her arms pulling tighter over her chest in part protection from the cold and part protection from the hurt in her heart.

“No, you are drunk,” Killian sang, hopping from one foot to the other as he pursued her with a sway, his entire body moving much more than it should. He began to shiver and when Emma heard his teeth chattering together, she stopped and turned to face him once more. Killian was so focused on following her he didn’t even realise she had stopped, bumping into her with a oomph.

“Killian, you’re freezing,” Emma noted, taking in the way his shoulders were jumping up and down, his shirt clinging to his chest and his hardened nipples clearly visible through the material. Her eyes roamed over him, the normally distinct bulge in his boxers much smaller than usual, something Emma chastised herself for even noticing. “Come on,” she relented with a roll of her eyes as she grabbed his arm. “Let’s get you warm. Follow me.”

The only reason Emma took him back to her dorm was because he was cold and she had a conscience, unable to let him freeze to death full of beer and in only his underpants. What would his parents say if they found out how he had died? She wasn’t going to be the one to tell them that their youngest son died of exposure in just his skivvies because he was too drunk to make it home.

No.

And besides, Mart Margaret had gone home for a few weeks, so he could crash in her bed. Even if he had other ideas, falling into her bed as soon as they made it to her room, snuggling down into Emma’s sheets and unashamedly inhaling her scent from the duvet covers with a smile so wide Emma thought he might be a perfect cast for the next Joker.

“Why do you look so sad Swan?” He shook her from her reverie, his words croaky and full of strain as he wiggled under the covers and dropped his wet shirt and boxers out the side. They hit the floor with a slap and Emma averted her eyes.

Great. Now he was totally naked.

“You wouldn't remember even if I told you,” Emma said sadly, perching on Mary Margaret’s bed. It was opposite her own, enough space between them to quell her unjustified rage that boiled just under skin when she was near him right now.

“Is it me? Have I upset you?” Killian nuzzled his face into her pillow, his stubble scratching against the pink case, his eyes fluttering closed a little longer each time he blinked.

“You have no idea what you’ve done, Killian,” Emma sighed, knowing he wouldn’t even remember tomorrow. There was no point exploring the issue now, not when he was filled with so much booze he would just laugh it off.

“Can I fix it?” Killian asked her hopefully, tucking the covers up under his stubble littered jaw until he looked like just a head poking out of the duvet. If she wasn’t so angry, Emma might have laughed at the way he clearly felt most comfortable, but his child like pleading stare almost broke her.

“How can you fix something that you don't even how you broke?” She told him softly.

“I'm very handy,” Killian winked, laughing at his own joke weakly.

“So I saw,” Emma muttered under her breath, the image of Killian’s black hair plastered to his forearms under the spray of the shower as he had rested his hands on Tink’s hips something she might never forget. She had often dreamed of him in the shower, but not like that. Not with another woman, and most certainly not Tink. It was a reality she had only had nightmares about before now.

“Saw! Ha! That's a tool!” Killian told her joyfully, his words muffled by a yawn.

Emma rolled her eyes. “Go to sleep, Killian,” she whispered, shifting her weight under the duvet covers of her roommates bed. By the time Emma had got comfortable, turning over to look at him once more, Killian was asleep, finally succumbing to the alcohol fuelling his brain and passing out with an open mouthed snore.

The next day began like any other, only Emma didn’t feel comfortable in the bed she currently occupied and through her hazy sleepiness, she didn’t register why. Her eyes were still closed but she could smell the faint whiff of beer in the room, a damp, half dry clothes smell she recognised from being a student too acutely, and when she finally opened her eyes, she could see her bed opposite. She frowned and groaned a little, wondering why she was in Mary Margaret’s bed for a second before the sound of the shower in the next room caught her attention. She yawned, pushing herself into a sit and blinking to clear her vision, the sound of the water turning off causing her to remember.

Shit. Killian.

She would go to the library, leave him to work out why he was in her bed by himself. It would be a cruel joke, but after last night, Emma thought it was the least he deserved. To wake up in her bed and wonder where she was and what had happened? Perfect. Maybe he would learn to not drink so much. Emma smiled to herself as she gathered her clothes, pulling her sweater over her head and dragging her fingers through her sleep messed hair roughly.

Emma didn’t want to see him right now. She was still angry, the vision of his lips on Tink’s flashing before her eyes, and she knew he wouldn’t remember a single thing. Killian had the luxury of acting the fool and never reaping the consequences, but Emma didn’t, and she feared she might never be able to look at him in the same way again. That was until the bathroom door opened, a cloud of vapour wafting out into the room and a very wet, very handsome, Killian Jones dressed in only a modest white towel stepped out towards her.

“Swan,” he greeted her with a grin. “Good morning.”

“Feeling better?” Emma gulped hard, her words distorted in her throat as she took him in. The bulge of his biceps, relaxed but clearly present under the skin of his arms making her imagine what they felt like wrapped around her own body. The thick layer of chest hair that littered his torso, like a dark forest of softness she yearned to run her fingers through sticking to the planes of his chest and accenting his shape. The dip of his hips and the thinned line of body hair that disappeared into the low slung towel, directing her attention to the now much larger bump in the towel.

No. Now she was sure she might never look at him the same way again.

“I didn't drink that much,” Killian chuckled, raising an eyebrow at her when she snorted a grunting sound. “Did I?” Emma looked away for a second, the steady blush creeping up her neck because of how he looked now, dripping wet and naked all but for a tiny towel. She let out a breath. Seeing Killian naked so often in such a short period was started to have an effect on her to the point of distraction.

“Swan, what did I do?” Killian prompted gently and she turned back to face him, trying to keep her eyes fixed on his.

“Nothing,” Emma shrugged and then paused, watching a droplet of water race down his lightly thatched torso. She had tried not to objectify him, but damn if he wasn’t making it difficult.

“Swan…” He chastised, his voice a little darker than before. He knew something was bothering her, she could tell, but she couldn’t focus on anything except how his chest hair would tickle her nose as she kissed her way down his body.

“Nothing okay, just...could you put some clothes on, please?” She covered her face with a hand, the sight of him burned into the back of her eyelids.

Killian looked around the room for his clothes, unable to locate them. He frowned when all he could find was some boxers and a almost see through tee, both of them sitting in a wet heap on the floor beside Emma’s bed. As he moved Emma couldn’t help inhale the scent of her shower gel, coconut and raspberry invading her nostrils but tinted with his masculinity. Killian lifted his clothes aloft, looking to her for an explanation.

“Why are my clothes wet? Where are the rest of them?” He looked around the room and spotted nothing else of his. Emma sighed. She had to tell him, but surely she could leave out some of the details to save his dignity. That’s what friends did after all.

“You got so drunk at Will’s party, you tried to take a shower,” she lied, pointing to his underwear in his hand. Killian grimaced at the damp cotton, surprised as she continued. “You thought it was a good idea to walk over here in the cold and I had to rescue you from the elements. So there...that’s why you only have boxers.”

“And why you are so angry with me,” Killian added observantly. Damn, if the man didn’t know her better than she knew herself.

“I'm not angry at you, Killian, I am angry with myself,” Emma sighed, palming her face in her hands so she didn’t have to look at him.

“Well don't be. You can't be as angry at yourself as I am.” He moved to her, perching on the edge of the bed next to her and waiting for her to look up from her hands. “I've clearly hurt you and that I cannot abide. Being drunk is not an excuse for whatever I did and I am truly sorry that I made you hurt, Emma.” She looked at him, the remorse in his eyes for something he didn’t even remember paining her even more. He was amazing, willing to apologise without even knowing why, and Emma’s heart pinched a little at lying to him. Killian gave her a weak smile, turning his attention to his fingers that he was idling his his lap. “Tink and Graham are terrible influences.”

“Yes they are,” Emma laughed lightly. “That doesn't make it hurt any less,” Emma said honestly.

“Would a hug?” Killian offered with a shy smile. He shifted his weight on the bed, turning sideways and opening his arms invitingly. Emma nodded, matching his smile and let him pull her into his embrace, the damp hair on his chest sticking to her face but feeling so soft against her cheek that she audibly sighed happily.

She couldn’t lie to him anymore. He was her friend, regardless of her own feelings, he had a right to know why he had upset her. He would want to know, because he was a gentleman and would always try to make it right. A million things ran through her head in that moment; His declaration of love that felt like more than all the other times he had said it as her friend. The shy emotion in his voice when he had specifically said he had never slept with anyone, even if drink had made him say it out loud.

“You kissed Tink,” Emma groaned against his chest, hoping her words would be muffled enough by his hug that he wouldn’t realise.

“I did what?” Killian squeaked, aghast. He released her from his grip, his arms sliding down her arms and taking her hands in his, his fingers fiddling with hers nervously.

“You went to the party thing with Graham and Tink and I found all three of you in the shower...doing...stuff,” Emma blushed, looking down at this hands and swallowing hard. “I wasn’t going to tell you because I knew you wouldn’t remember.”

“God Emma, I am such a bastard,” Killian announced with a shake of his head, the taste of discomfort invading his mouth and making him turn up his face. He had known she was hiding something but her revelation had him fuming. What had he done? Killian dropped her hands and pulled away from her, standing from the bed and looking around. Emma always had one of his shirts here somewhere, he just had to find it so he could leave. “I don't deserve your kindness. I need to go.”

“Killian wait, don't go,” Emma implored, jumping to her feet. His self hatred had kicked in and told Emma exactly what she needed to know; He didn’t remember and had never had any intention of getting into the situation he was in with Graham and Tink. It made her a little happy, but his frantic searching of her dorm room made her nervous he might never speak to her again so she moved to him, stopping him with a hand on his forearm. “I need to ask you something.”

“Aye love, what is it?” Killian looked at her, the kindness in his eyes and willingness to forever please her something Emma was noticing for the first time. She had been in love with him for as long as she could remember, but did he feel the same way? Was he so ashamed because he thought he had ruined his own chances with her?

“Last night, when you were super drunk, you said you hadn't slept with anyone,” Emma began gently, Killian straightening himself up and the prickle of pink invading his cheeks. “Did you mean...anyone?” Emma pressed, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

“I said that?” Killian winced, eyes pinching closed. Emma nodded. “So it seems we found the why as to my actions last night.” Killian licked his lips, grinding his teeth at the faintest memory he had of Graham’s torment.

“The why?” Emma asked confused, her head cocking to one side.

“Graham and Tink have teased me about it for years and I suppose, uninhibited, I figured I was sick of the torment.” Killian let out a long breath, his entire body humming with heat as the words left his mouth. Confessing to being a virgin at twenty-one was only amplified by confessing it to the woman you were in love with. “Only Tink wasn't the friend I had hoped would take my virginity.”

Emma looked at him shyly and he offered her a reserved smile, scratching the patch of skin behind his ear with a gulp. There were definitely no secrets between them now.

“How? I mean...you're gorgeous.” Emma couldn’t stop the words as they left her mouth, her thoughts out loud. He laughed sheepishly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that sexy way she loved so much and his hand rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Whilst I thank you for your compliment, Swan, I have only ever wanted to sleep with one person but she has never seen me as anything more than her friend.” Killian looked into her eyes, boring deep past the sea green and into her soul. She knew what he was saying and her throat went dry.

“If that is the case, why is she so angry you kissed another woman?” Emma almost whispered, her breath hitching as he took a step closer to her.

“I don't know Swan, why are you?” He purred, hands caressing the soft skin of her elbows and holding her upright. Emma’s entire body screamed out with his touch, the new, more intimate way he was holding her igniting the fire in her belly.

“Because you have never kissed me.” She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, looking up at him through her eyelashes. The look he gave her was dark, lustful and she couldn’t move.

“Would you like me to?” He whispered, dipping his head so that their lips were almost touching. Emma’s lips parted a little, a silent invitation that she knew he would never accept without hearing the words. Gentleman.

“Yes.”

The word hadn’t even left Emma’s mouth fully before Killian fused his lips to hers, the specks of white behind her eyelids like fireworks in a night sky. Her hands went to work, tracing the outline of his muscles, the sinew and tendons flexing under her touch as he pushed into the kiss. Emma pushed back, her tongue slanting over his lips and tasting him, the minty freshness of his breath invading her senses when he parted his lips and invited her tongue to duel with his.

Emma’s hand found his shoulders, grappling to get closer to him and his hands found her hips, pulling her flush against his barely covered body. Emma smirked against his lips, hands carding through his wet hair and holding his face to hers, the ridge of his teeth hard against her tongue as she kissed him back with as much passion as he was offering. Killian spun them around, the friction between them making his towel fall, and Emma moaned into his mouth as he backed them towards her bed.

“Killian…stop...please...stop…” Emma panted, pulling her lips from his and avoiding him as he chased after them hungrily. Emma pushed against his chest feebly, her inner turmoil visible on her face as she licked her bottom lip and savoured his taste on her tongue.

“Emma? Have I don't something to hurt you again?” Killian looked confused, wide eyed and his breathing heavy.

“No,” Emma assured him with a glorious smile, her hand palming the side of his face tenderly. “But if you don't stop kissing me like that I can't promise I can let you walk out of here with your honour in tact.”

Killian met her gaze, swallowing the lump down his throat that had formed with her words. He knew Emma was not as innocent as he was, best friends knew this sort of information, and it had always killed him to know she was with another man. But he only had himself to blame, his lack of courage to admit his true feelings overwhelming him. Until now. “So don't…”

“Killian…”Emma gasped huskily, their foreheads meeting as she struggled with her decision.

“I've wanted this my entire life, Emma. Do you know how hard it has been to wait for this moment?” Killian chuckled, his hands pushing her hair behind her ear, enjoying the warmth of her blonde locks against his fingertips. Emma’s eyebrows jumped up on her face as she peeled her eyes open and looked between them, his naked form leaving nothing to the imagination and the sight of his solid erection making her ache.

“I can see how hard it is right now,” she purred salaciously, trailing a finger tip up the side of his length.

“Gods, Emma…” Killian shuddered, grabbing her wrist and stopping her movement. “Tell me I am not dreaming.”

Emma hummed a laugh through her nose, pulling her face back to take in his wrecked features. He was visibly shaking with effort to compose himself, his browline a mixture of sweat and water from the shower, his face contorting in a pained pleasure when she pulled his hand from her wrist and took him in hand. He was hard and hot with a sizeable girth that made Emma’s core clench with need.

“Have you dreamed of me?” She teased lightly, watching the pulse in his neck thump harder as she stroked him. Killian groaned, biting his bottom lip with a nod. “Was I doing this?” Emma purred seductively, twisting her hand a little at the top of each stroke, his foreskin rubbing over his exposed tip and making his hips involuntarily thrust forward.

“Gods, yes…” Killian breathed, his whole mind in a daze. He couldn’t quite comprehend what was happening. What was about to happen. When Emma released her grip his eyes fluttered open and he tried to focus on her as she backed towards the bed, beckoning him with a bent finger.

“What else have you dreamed about?” Emma asked him softly, a sexy smile on her lips as she shimmied her pajamas off, leaving her gloriously naked before him. Killian struggled to find his voice, coughing a little to rid himself of the lump obstructing his breathing. He let his eyes flicker over her body, the enticing curve of her hip, the round swell of her breasts and the flat, toned abdominal muscles much more vivid than he could ever have imagined. “Don't go shy on me now, Jones,” Emma teased, swaying from side to side with an innocent smirk.

Killian was on her in a second, the space between then nothing at all once he had begun to move, the excited squeal that left her mouth like fuel on the lusty fire that was busy burning its way through his loins. She was warmer than he had imagined, scorching a pattern against his chest with her own, her rock hard nipples crushed by his weight as they tumbled onto the bed behind her and he crushed his lips to hers. Emma grabbed his face, clawing at his stubble in a desperate attempt to keep him close, his tongue invading her mouth and massaging her own.

Emma could feel his hardness between her thighs, both of them a perfect fit for each other. She gently parted her knees, resting them against his hips as he was cradled between her legs, the slowled motion of his kisses matching the movement of his tongue with a rocking rhythm of his hips. She was wet against his tip that dipped between her folds, teasing him with the promise of home.

Killian was not a prude by any sense of the word, and he had fooled around plenty, but there was only one woman he had ever wanted to really be intimate with, and it was Emma. His dreams were filled with her smiles and gasps of pleasure as he licked, sucked and nipped her into a ball of putty, her screams filling his ears and leaving him with messy sheets when he awoke. But now she was here, as real as can be, writhing under his bulk and radiating with desire and his confident air disappeared.

“I’m sure,” she told him gently, her thumb brushing over the outline of his lips as she read his mind.

“I don’t know...how do we…” Killian stammered nervously, the heat rushing to the tips of his ears once more.

“Well,” Emma shifted a little and felt him brush her entrance again, an action that made him wince and shift his hips away. “It seems you’re very worked up, so why don’t we try a little foreplay?” Emma scrunched her nose up playfully and she bit her tongue, pushing his floppy hair from his forehead.

“Oh?” Killian smirked, pressing his lips to hers chastely. “Do you have anything in mind?”

“I’m sure you want this to last for as long as possible,” Emma smiled at him and he nodded. “But if we go in all guns blazing, it won’t.” Killian laughed and shook his head in agreement. Even the feel of her naked form against his was torture and he thought he would come at any second. “Have you ever gone down on a woman?” Emma blushed nervously.

Killian shook his head and met her eyes instantly, the mere thought of it sending his heart into a pounding frenzy in his chest. “No,” he breathed timidly before his face erupted in a broad, cocky grin. “But I’ve taken a class,” he joked, sliding down her body until he was hovering above her neatly trimmed mound.

Emma relaxed a little knowing he was too, watching him go south with a sly smirk as she slammed her head into the comforter and felt his breath ghosting over her bundle of nerves. Emma let him part her thighs, the cool air on the room contrasting the heat at her apex and when he tentatively sucked on her clit, Emma stiffened and groaned in painful pleasure.

“Oh God, Killian,” she whined and Killian stopped instantly, lifting his head quickly to meet her sleepy glare. “Why did you stop?” She asked breathlessly, her brow knitting together.

“I thought I’d hurt you,” he panicked. “Shall I continue?”

“Yes!” Emma laughed, letting her head fall back. “It’s good, trust me. Good noises.” Killian smiled to himself, watching the rise and fall of her breasts, her struggle for air as he resumed his sucking, the moans that came from her more enjoyable than any he had ever heard in any his dreams.

Killian flicked his tongue over her nub and Emma shuddered, her entire body writhing under him. He grabbed her hips, holding her down, the taste of her sweetness like a drug he couldn’t get enough of. It coated his tongue, his lips and even his beard and made his spine tingle with the familiar pull of his own climax. He sucked in a breath, his jaw a little tired and pressed his cheek to her inner thigh, watching the muscles of her entrance ripple and clench. “Is that good?”

“Yeah,” Emma breathed, her words barely heard.

“Shall I...can I?” Killian asked gently, tracing the wetness outside of her entrance with a single finger, her clear, viscous juices coating his digit.

“Yes, absolutely yes!” Emma nodded eagerly, lifting her head and looking down at the way he was watching her with fascination. “Use two fingers,” she panted, pressing her eyes closed and relaxing back into the duvet.

“Two?” Killian asked alarmed, inspecting the width of his two fingers side by side. It looked a lot, much bigger than their destination, and he stroked them through her wetness again. “Are you sure?”

“Killian,” Emma groaned, a little annoyed. She was so close her patience had ebbed away. “Trust me, you’re a big guy. I’m going to need you to stretch me a little with two fingers.”

“Oh,” Killian blew out a breath. “Alright.” He didn’t think he was that big, but having never seen many other penises in his life, Killian was sure Emma knew what she was talking about. And he most certainly didn’t want to hurt her. He felt her go rigid when he pushed two fingers into her, her inner muscles grabbing his fingers and pulling them deeper, and he felt a little precum ooze from his tip, his erection painfully hard beneath his body.

“Yes,” Emma hissed salaciously, her hand moving to grab at the half dried hair on his head. “There,” she shuddered when Killian twisted his hands a little and brushed his fingertips over the ribbed muscle of her g spot. “God, Killian, right there. Like that.” She was so aroused already that when he skimmed his fingers over it again and again, amping up his strokes on her command, she felt the burn in her belly and all of her hairs stood to attention.

“Is that okay?” Killian whispered, even though he was sure with how wet Emma was he was doing it just right.

“Fuck, yes,” Emma stammered, her lip rolling under her teeth where she bit down so hard she thought she might draw blood. She was so close, her orgasm mere seconds from tearing her apart. “My clit…” Emma gasped, tightening her grip on his hair and Killian knew exactly what she needed, closing his lips over the throbbing bundle of nerves and flicking his tongue furiously.

When she came it was hard and fast and Killian was taken back, unsure if he should withdraw his fingers from the now much tighter sheath of her core or leave them there. Her inner muscles spasmed around his fingers, stronger at first and then more gently, pulling and throbbing against his digits as Emma’s shattering moans filled his ears. He lapped at her hungrily, taking every last drop she had to offer before he kissed her clit and felt her wiggle away from him.

“Sensitive,” she panted, looking down at him, his hair a mess and pulled to one side, the tint in his cheeks from the heat between her thighs and his grin proud.

“Was that okay?” He asked her bashfully, setting himself up on his elbows, eager for her praise.

Emma gave him a coy smile, motioning him upwards with a crooked finger. He moved instantly like an obedient puppy, crawling over her and watching the darkness in her eyes with a sense of satisfaction that he had put it there. Emma simply nodded with a hum, cupping his scruffy cheeks in her hands and pulling his face to hers, their lips meeting once again so softly. She could taste herself on his mouth and it made her ache with more need. “You get an A,” she teased playfully.

“Does this mean, that if I asked you out, you’d say yes?” Killian said, one of his hands pawing behind his ear again. Emma smiled at his nervousness, an audible laugh escaping her mouth.

“Maybe,” she shrugged, her eyes flitting over his features. “Maybe we should see how you do next.” She reached over to her bedside table and pulled open the drawer, fishing around inside for the foil packet of a condom she hoped would fit him. Killian watched as she tore into it, pinching the tip and rolling it over his length as he hissed.

Emma lifted her knees until her feet were flat on the bed and reached down between them to stroke his erection, the solid length of him heavy and ready in her hands. He hadn’t even softened a little, clearly more turned on that she had realised. Killian buried his face in her shoulder, his breath ghosting over the crook of her neck and Emma felt him turn limp, a shudder passing over his whole body.

“Killian,” Emma warned softly. “You are not going to last long, and that is okay, so don’t try and hold on for me.” All he could do was thrust his hips into her fist, taking his pleasure at his own pace before Emma lined him up at her entrance and felt his tip push in. He felt as big as he looked and she tried to keep her voice calm and steady as she guided him in. “Slowly…” she whimpered when he stretched her a little too painfully. “Take it slow, okay?”

Killian gulped hard with a nod, his brain fogged by the feel of her around his length as he inched his way into her warmth. There was more of him than he realised and it took an agonzing amount of time before he was fully seated within her, both of them relaxing and adjusting to the feel of each other. Emma throbbed around him, her earlier orgasm still fresh in her muscle memory, and he was sure that if he moved even a millimeter that he would lose himself.

“Are you okay?” Emma coaxed kindly, her hand on his face shaking him from his concentration.

“Aye, Swan,” he said on a shaky breath. “You just feel…bloody amazing.” Emma was flattered and perhaps a little too cruelly, she clenched her muscles around him, enjoying the way he had stretched her to a satisfying burn. Killian gasped, his fist clenching the duvet beside her head and his eyes squeezing closed so tightly, Emma knew he was trying to think of anything but coming.

“It’s okay,” Emma said softly, angling her hips upwards, knowing that the movement would send him into oblivion. “Take your time.”

Killian growled through gritted teeth. “You’re a bloody siren, Swan,” he laughed. Killian shook, his whole body shivering over hers as she wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him harder into her, the movement making them both cry out and something inside of him snap. Killian planted his hand on her hip, firmly grasping her like she might leave him at any second, and pistoned his hips without warning, long deep thrusts that made Emma ache for more. As quickly as he began it was over, the spasm of his erection felt along her entire core as he emptied himself into the condom with her name on his lips.

“I’m sorry, Emma, I’m sorry…” he stuttered, trying to regain himself but quivering, every single cell in his body caught between pleasure and shame. He hadn’t lasted long, she had known he wouldn’t, but with a soft smile she nuzzled her nose against his and pressed their lips together once more.

“Killian, you were amazing,” Emma purred, trailing her hands down the side of his torso, over the jut of his narrow hips until she was kneading the globes of his ass with her nimble fingers. It made Killian jump, surprised by her sudden fascination with his ass, something she had admired for many years.

“I hope you are enjoying yourself,” he smirked, kissing her cheek as he softened inside of her.

“Oh, I am,” she grinned. “And next time, we will both enjoy ourselves even more.”

Killian made a content noise in his throat, pulling out of her and apologising, yet again, for the wincing pain that Emma couldn’t hide with her expression. He saw to the condom, tying off the end and tossing it in the trash, before scooting under the covers and pulling Emma into his arms. She smiled, her fingers tracing the outline of his nipples through his chest hair as she idly combed it, enjoying how smooth it was despite it’s coarse appearance.

“Are you alright, love?” Killian asked her softly, his cheek pressed to the top of her head as he watched her hand dancing over his chest. “You’re quiet.”

“It’s nothing,” Emma assured him. “I don’t regret anything, if that was what you were thinking.”

Killian frowned, shifting his legs under the duvet. “Well, I wasn’t until just now…”

“It’s just, last night...” Emma pushed herself into a sit, clutching the covers to her naked body and tossing her hair over her shoulder with a flick of her wrist. “...In the middle of everything, you said something.”

“And what might I have said that has you all frowny,” Killian teased, stroking her thigh with a warm caress. Emma blushed a little.

“You said you loved me,” she said quickly. “Did you mean it?”

“Of course I meant it,” Killian said firmly, tugging on her arm until she moved nearer to him. He sat up and pulled her across his lap, her swollen sex brushing against his spent member as she did, and her arms looping around his neck. “I don’t remember saying it, but I’ve never been so sure of anything in my entire life,” he said softly, cupping her cheek in his hand and tracing the apple of her cheek with his thumb. Emma looked down shyly, only lifting her head enough to meet his blue eyes through her eyelashes. “I love you, Emma Swan. I’ve loved you for over ten years, since that day you crashed your bike into the shallow dyke out the back of your house.” Emma blushed harder at his words and Killian smiled, pulling the duvet until it was draped over her shoulders and swaddling her against his nakedness. “And I promise to love you for the rest of my life, if you’ll have me.”

“I love you too.” Emma studied him, his genuine gleeful smile and the post sex glow etched across his face. She stroked the fine hair at the back of his neck, noting that he needed a haircut, but she didn’t mind so much because she had spent the last few years fantasizing about running her hands through his blackened locks. With a tender motion she kissed him and he wrapped her even tighter in his arms.

“What?” Killian asked gently, his eyebrow jumping up on his face when they parted and she stared at him with a cocky grin.

“Just trying to work out how I’m going to get in my study time now,” Emma smirked.

“Whatever do you mean?” Killian asked innocently, letting his body fall back against the bed so he could take in her naked figure one more time. Emma was a thing of beauty, even more precious than his imagination had conjured, and he decided he could look at her all day long.

“Well,” Emma leaned forward a little and placed a flat palm on his chest, grinding herself down on his member until it twitched and began to harden under her assault. “I think we have a little more practice.”

[toa-ahkmou]

Ahkmou: Changes

Silently, Ahkmou walked through the ruins of the Great Temple. Glancing at his surroundings, his lip curled in disgust. The once-hallowed structure, that he and his fellow Po-Matoran had apparently built in honour of their Toa protectors, specifically the Mangai was all but lost under the ghastly reconstruction as Teridax's 'Re-Education Centre.'

Last time he had been here, he'd stood in front of the Av-Matoran resistance and their allies, brokenly stuttering out a speech that the Makuta provided him with. He never looked any of them in the eye, especially not the one of them who had been his friend.

Ahkmou shook his head, forcing the memories down. That was gone now, thankfully. Gali and Macku's own resistance cell had stormed the temple, destroyed the Makuta's perversions, and saved their allies, leaving him rather wet, and the false god's plans temporarily foiled.

Holding up his lightstone, he continued to trek inwards. He wasn't entirely certain as to why he had come here. It was really the last place he wanted to revisit, or at least one of them. But yet, as he had walked along the empty streets with the glowing crystal in his hand, he felt drawn to the Temple. And as he breached the now-useless gatehouse, he let instinct lead him on. And now, even being surrounded by his fallen master's monstrous brainwashing 'school', he wasn't deterred. He kept trudging toward the sanctum at the very heart of the Great Temple itself.

The Suva Chamber.

The domed structure rested at the centre of the room, and, almost on autopilot, he approached it. Stopping within touching distance, he paused, pondering why he'd come here, and what exactly he wanted to do now that he had.

Shrugging, Ahkmou turned and slumped to the ground, resting his back against the Suva itself. Reaching into his pack, he took out the partially-carved lump of rock and his chisel, and began to work, chipping and sculpting the granite into shape.

He continued for hours, as the rock gradually began to take on the shape of an athletic, armoured figure, a spear in one hand and a shield in the other, as he began to chip out the fine details of his new creation's Kanohi.

The sound of something large moving into the building snapped him from his engrossed carving. On instinct, he dumped his tools back into his pack, then drew out his staff with one hand while shoving the lightstone into the nearest gap he could find for it.

He almost jumped out of his metal skin when the dome behind him began to rumble loudly, as the long-dormant nexus of energy within it roared into life. The Suva gradually began to lift up, as he jumped back from it, clutching his weapon tightly as his wide eyes focused on the rising structure.

Then a beam of orange exploded out of one of the six slots in Suva, the same one that he realised now had his lightstone lodged in it. His... abnormally large lightstone that always seemed to brighten up when he picked it up...

Oh... damn.

The beam lanced into his torso, fire rippling through his muscles as they spasmed, hurling him to the floor. Ahkmou screamed, partially from terror, mostly from the sheer weirdness of the sensations he was experiencing. His body filled with a level of power he had never known, his muscles growing more powerful than they were even at their peak, as his whole form bulked out and grew taller. For a moment, Teridax's armour felt tight around his chest and shoulders, before it shattered, torn apart as new, bronze-coloured plating took its place.

As the bizarre feeling died down, Ahkmou carefully planted his hands on the stone floor, and forced himself upright, staring down at his altered form. Powerful, muscular arms, incased in burnished armour plating, faintly glowing rocks set into it. His fingers were tipped in small claws, ideal for climbing, while his hands were heavily-armoured gauntlets. His legs, meanwhile, were more lithe and streamlined, which, with his massive shoulders, powerful chest, and brawny arms, gave him a top-heavy appearance.

He breathed heavily, staring at the now-spent Toa Stone, his own body, and the staff, which he had dropped when he had been struck, and now had become a massive scythe, with only one blade at the top, as opposed to the twin blades of old, sized perfectly for his new stature.

Then he screamed.

Unfortunately, the rumbling of the Suva, the violent energy discharge, and the newly-minted Toa's panic had managed to attract the attention of whatever creature had caused him to attempt to hide the lightstone in the first place, the sound of claws scratching against the ground growing closer and closer, until the opposite wall exploded, the head of a massive Pota-Nui leaning in, yellow eyes shining from the gloom as it let out a shriek of hunger.

Ahkmou jumped to his now-much larger feet, scooping up his scythe as he stared at the Rahi. It focused on him, and began to scramble toward him, shrieking again. He froze, still struggling to process the sudden change to his body, let alone attack from a large and probably starving predator.

Instinct took over, and whether it was the new form, or the knowledge that he wouldn't be able to outrun this creature if it took flight, for the first time in his entire life, his instict told him to fight.

Lunging forward, Ahkmou drew the scythe across his body as he bodily swung it at the creature's side. He missed by a mile, the weight of the weapon spinning him, as he stumbled. One of the bat's wings lashed out, punching him square in the gut. He bounced as he hit the floor, rolling over and digging his weapon into the ground to slow himself. The Pota-Nui reared up, spreading both of its wings as the glowing purple membrane filled it, and it launched into the sky, screeching as it dove toward him. Rolling to the side, he just evaded it as it slammed into the dirt, dodging under its wing as he pivoted, raising the scythe over his head, before slamming it down onto the creature's back.

The blade sank into the armour, and the Rahi screamed, writhing in agony. The new Toa attempted to pull his weapon free, only for the bat to take off again, hurtling into the sky with Ahkmou's weapon- and Ahkmou- in tow.

Screaming, Ahkmou clung to the haft of his weapon as his unwitting steed rocketed upwards, aiming itself straight for the ceiling. Its back arced, slamming its panicked rider against the ceiling.

He let out a grunt of pain, as the bat dove down to try again. Gritting his teeth, Ahkmou hauled himself forward, and slammed his fist into the joint of its left-hand wing. The bat shrieked, writhing in pain, as he punched it again, and again. Arcing back up, it accelerated again, then stopped suddenly, hurling Ahkmou free as his scythe slid out of its back.

Suddenly without a means of flight, he began to fall toward the ground, as the bat arced its head down, and opened its jaws, a deafening scream erupting from its throat. The shockwave from the shriek hurled him into the wall of the temple, crunching him into the masonry.

The Pota-Nui circled away, aiming for another attack, as Ahkmou peeled away from the wall and began to plummet toward the floor. Grunting, he turned and slammed his scythe into the stone, braking his fall. Flipping around, free hand gripping the wall as he focused his thoughts into the rocky wall around him, willing it to obey him. He kicked his heel into it, the stonework molding into a platform beneath his feet. Freeing his weapon from the wall, he crouched, preparing to lunge forward.

The Pota-Nui wheeled around, flying back toward him, screeching all the while. The moment it drew close enough, Ahkmou sprang from the ledge, launching himself in a wide arc that carried him  toward the bat once more. Raising his scythe, he swung it bodily into the shoulder he had damaged earlier, and sliced clean through it. The purple membrane flickered and died, as the wing itself split away from the Pota-Nui's body, leaving the giant predator to spiral to a painful impact with the ground.

Ahkmou himself wasn't in a great spot himself falling from the air and crashing roughly into the floor, forming a small crater. His whole body ached after the the brawl, particularly after the repeated slams into the walls, ceiling, and ground. Clambering to his feet, he stowed the scythe, and  dusted himself off with his hands, waiting for his breathing to return to normal levels. Sparing a glance for his fallen opponent, he noticed that it seemed to have passed out, more than likely due to shock.

Satisfied with his safety, Ahkmou trudged back to the Suva, opening its cache of Toa Tools. The scythe was a fine weapon, but it was also huge, ungainly, and heavy, and it would be difficult to use in combat with anything other than a Rahi. Clearly, something different would be needed. A supplement, to grant him versatility.

The first thing he pulled out was a pair of daggers. Probably more like shortswords to some, but he got the sense that he was rather tall for a Toa. It made a certain amount of sense, considering that his  body had already been made taller before he transformed...

Testing the weight of the knives, he reached up and mounted them on his back, sticking up over his shoulders. They were good, but not strong enough for most of the opponents he wanted a more elegant weapon for, so he resumed his rummaging.

Finally, he spotted something that fit the bill. He took what looked like a long pair of weapon hilts without a blade of any kind, and strapped them to his forearms. Focusing his new power into them, a pair of long, jagged blades formed from dark grey, glass-like rock, solidifying as he inspected them, then took a tentative swing. The obsidian swords whistled as they sliced through the air, and Ahkmou grinned behind his Rau.

The blades shattered as he dismissed them, and began to walk for the exit. He wasn't certain as to how he'd make a living now. He'd grown to appreciate his ability to hide away and fade into the crowd after his second spell as Makuta's unfortunate pawn, but now that wasn't going to happen. Still... perhaps this was the second chance he needed. Not the Turaga letting him run a shop again, but the opportunity to actually atone for his past actions...

Taking a deep breath, Ahkmou strode toward the light.

[squid-that-reads-a-lot-blog]

Oathbringer Review

A while back, I finished the most recent entry into the Stormlight Archive series by Brandon Sanderson, Oathbringer.  Haven’t gotten around to writing a review yet.  Starting off, I have to say that I have similar thoughts to my opinions of the previous two books.  Sanderson is rarely incompetent and he does many things very well.  Like the previous two entries, there are several small arcs throughout the story that make the 1300 page count a little more digestible.  There is also no shortage of action and each major character has their own story arc.

Overall, this is my favorite in the series by a long shot.  The first two aren’t bad, the style just is not my cup of tea.  However, this book did a lot of things that I liked.  The part that I liked the most is the fact that the book focused a lot on Dalinar.  Dalinar is my favorite character in the series and the fact that he is so much older than the other two previous leads made his story arc so much more enjoyable.  Sanderson puts his characters through a lot of shit but it felt more natural in this book.  I feel like the backstories aren’t as important as who the character is, and when the characters are as young as Kaladin or Shallan, their inner monologues about their pasts can’t help but feel... whiny…

It could just be me, and they aren’t terrible characters, but I think this story arc is far better than the others.  It’s full of some fantastic emotional moments that crank it up to eleven.  My personal favorites have to be the flashback of the attempted assassination and the burning of the rift.  The first one made me laugh because it’s so insanely badass and over-the-top.  It’s like a scene straight out of a crazy 90’s action movie.  The burning of the rift is a whole chapter that I found grimly entertaining.  I was reminded of stories of those ancient Roman emperors who would drag their enemies behind their chariots after they surrendered.  Everything about it is so brutal and shocking that you feel a whole mix of emotions while reading.  Honestly this is where Sanderson is at his best.  It’s when really insane shit is happening that his talent truly shines.  

A few smaller things that I liked included some of the other characters.  While I felt like it was too late to make him really heroic, Ellokar felt a little less useless in this book.  He had some nice moments in the spotlight throughout the book.  Shallan also had a few good moments but I honestly think that Sanderson is not good at writing very feminine characters.  Every time he has a female character with a tough, masculine edge he does great but if they like pretty dresses instead of punching people he tends to falter.  While some of the choices that he makes in this book could be explained with the trauma that Shallan herself has experienced, it feels a little out of touch to me.  He often misses the mark a little bit when it comes to writing women like this and it is very noticeable in this book.  

As for a few other characters, I have some mixed feelings.  Adolin is obviously being solidified as this awesome, likable guy that does badass things with a sword but something feels a little off.  There are a few times where I feel like the book is going out of its way to say how likable he is and it makes me feel like he is going to die.  It’s sticks out to me because nothing has really come out of it and he is so wildly different from the other members of the main cast.  This seems like an odd choice to me but there’s nothing we can do about it for the next four years.  Other than that, I love the fact that he is a total diva.  It’s rare that I get a Legally Blonde vibe from a male character.  

A character that got kind of shafted in my opinion, is Jasnah.  I guess that she’s supposed to be this sort of mysterious character because she’s so smart but I have a hard time getting that.  It feels like she does very little and there are few times when her intellect is really shown.  We’re just told that she’s one of the smartest women in the world while she is busy doing… stuff…  I’ve been waiting for her to be cool and I guess I’ll have to wait a little longer.  She could be a really awesome character but I just haven’t seen that yet.  

Now let’s get to the problems I have with this book.  A lot of these boil down to my personal preference so some people might not be bothered by these as much as I was.  

One small but glaring problem I saw in the last book had to do with Lift and it shows up again in this book when Lift returns as well as the introduction of Szeth’s overpowered sword.  The way that they are written really rubs me the wrong way.  The vast majority of the books are written in this old style that you see a lot with epic fantasy.  You are stepping back in time in this alternate universe.  People don’t use all the colloquialisms that we do in everyday life.  Against this backdrop, modern words and phrases are rather jarring.  Sanderson sometimes does this in this series.  Usually it’s not bad enough to take me out of the story but with Lift and the super sword it is pretty egregious.  The sword is not all that bad save for a few moments but the constant use of the word ‘awesomeness’ with Lift gets on my nerves.  It is so out of place and jarring.  It reminds me of L.E. Modesett Jr. where they would use modern curse words and it was really out of place.  I wish he wouldn’t use words like that but ultimately it is a small part of the story.  

A big grievance that I have with this book that may not seem all that bad to others is the whole murder plot.  I read that scene in the last book where Sadeas is murdered and I was really waiting to see what would happen.  Ialai is set up as this incredibly dangerous woman earlier in the series.  The last time she saw her husband alive was when he walked off with a guy that hated his guts.  There’s no way she doesn’t know exactly who did this.  It might have been my expectations being too high, but I felt like this was such a lame story arc in the end.  This was one that could have had some real consequences for our characters.  Imagine how much trouble Adolin would have been in with this woman for an enemy.  Not only that, but his rash decision would have some serious consequences on Dalinar’s budding political career.  Does he punish his son for his crime or does he risk looking weak in front of his political opponents?  It would add some legitimately serious consequences to Adolin’s story arc and this sort of thing sounds like it would be right up Sanderson’s alley storytelling-wise.  But things didn’t go this way.  Ialai doesn’t do anything in this book.  There were so many chapters that talked about her extensive spy network and how dangerous it is to get on her bad side but it all seemed like it was for nothing.  In fact, the whole treatment of the Sadeas characters has been disappointing to me.  Toral’s betrayal in the first book didn’t really make any sense to me.  I felt like he really was warming up to a friendship with Dalinar again.  Politics had driven them apart but I believed that he could come over to the good side.  I think he could have made a great anti-hero with his crooked approach to the things that the team good-guy is trying to accomplish.  Appearance-wise, I also think that they are very well designed.  I always like it when an author gives the faces of their characters some character itself.  I have a clear image in my head of what these people look like.  The fact that they’re both really ugly but really happy together is kind of unique as well.  Team good-guy wouldn’t just be comprised of a bunch of pretty people if these two had the potential for some redemption arcs.  The fact that he just died and his wife is just sitting like a bump on a log just feels like a waste of two potentially great characters.  Sanderson could have something planned for Ialai, but I felt like this was a huge waste of potential and her potential time in the spotlight has passed.

The other big problem is just an extension of a complaint that I have with the other two books.  Sanderson doesn’t seem to have the knack for making characters seem quite as alive as other authors.  The coldness in his writing is one of the few things keeping him from being one of my favorite authors honestly.  He’s introduced this vast and expansive world but it feels strangely small.  I think a big contributor to this is that the plots rarely take the characters outside of one area.  It’s a problem that’s seen in the original Star Wars trilogy.  Action packed plots and fun characters in this massive universe but it feels so small because we just see this handful of people.  The whole Kolinar arc made the world seem a little bigger but that went away as soon as the characters left.  It’s strange because we get so many POV chapters from characters all over the map but they feel incredibly disconnected.  It’s a strange problem to have, especially when this series is compared so closely with the Wheel of Time series, where this was one of its strongest parts.  

One more small gripe I have has to do with the pictures.  All of them are great but I wish there was just one landscape in there.  The world is so alien to what we’re used to seeing that it would be cool to really see it through the character’s eyes.  I hope he gets one of these in a future addition to the series.  

I haven’t mentioned a lot of things about the book either because I’m not sure what to think about it, there’s not enough information, or the fact that it’s just good.  The good far outweighs the bad in this book and I could not put this one down (not easy when I got the huge hardcover copy).  Even with all my complaints, this is still a fantastic book that I would highly recommend. Full of action and badassery at every turn, this is something that I see people enjoying for a long time.

[ledenews]

A Ray of Sunshine

The past two months have been inarguably miserable as the coronavirus gut-punched the world and left those of us who were fortunate enough to survive wondering when or if it is ever going to end. But the other evening I found a brief respite in the gloomy cloud hovering over us. In the first place it was a lovely early evening with a cloudless sky and the temperature in the low 80s as my wife and I made the brief trip from Wheeling to St. Clairsville and then turned onto an unfamiliar dirt road. All at once the road opened up, and I drove onto the edge of a baseball outfield. I stopped the car near where one of the pitchers was warming up, and I felt a brief chill when I heard the baseball THWACK as it hit and then nestled into the pocket of the catcher’s mitt. The next sound I heard was the unmistakable metallic CLUNK as a ball and bat collided during batting practice. This was it! Opening Day for the St. Clairsville Red Devils, our youngest grandson’s baseball team, and as I watched the players warm up on that beautiful little field, suddenly I was in another world as the memories I had of the game I so loved as a boy cascaded through my mind. I recalled the thrill of seeing my first Major League game at Forbes Field when I was just 11 years old. Talk about getting chills! I will never forget walking up those concrete ramps accompanied by the increasingly pungent aroma of freshly popped popcorn and roasted peanuts blended with the smell of cooking hot dogs. At the top of the last ramp, I made a quick left, walked three or four steps, and there it was in all its majestic glory – Forbes Field.

The Ballfield

The freshly dragged and meticulously lined infield gave way to a spectacular sea of plush green grass comprising a massive outfield (457 feet from home plate to left center) partially enclosed by an ivy-covered red brick wall and a huge hand-operated green scoreboard topped by an enormous Longines clock. Although I visited Forbes Field many times throughout ensuing years, I never tired of the first glimpse of that legendary field every time. Nor could I ever get enough of watching Roberto Clemente (RF), Bill Virdon (CF), and Bob Skinner (LF) patrol that outfield with grace, speed, and flair.   Nothing could quite match seeing Virdon glide effortlessly across that green carpet to run down a deep fly ball and make a difficult catch look effortless. And then of course there was awe-inspiring play in right field by “the great one,” Roberto Clemente. Many an unsuspecting player who made too wide a turn at first base after a single to right saw his base hit turn into an out as Clemente launched a rocket behind the runner to the first baseman for an easy putout. Clemente also… “PLAY BALL interrupted my reverie, as the home-standing Red.

The Field.

Devils took the field, and starting on the mound for them was No. 15, Roby Hanna. Our grandson. Roby pitched two very fine innings before subsequently taking a turn at both centerfield and first base. After the second or third inning the Red Devils turned the game into a rout, and I actually lost track of the score. But that really didn’t matter. What did matter, however, was that for about three hours my wife and I became so immersed in the game that we were able to forget what a mess the world is in and experience some sense of normalcy. No, watching a little league game obviously wasn’t like seeing the Pirates play in Forbes Field, but, oddly enough, on this particular evening it was even better than that. Sitting in the warm sunshine, we were able to see something that had been stolen from us up to this point in the spring – a baseball game. Of course it wasn’t the Major Leagues, but still it was baseball. The pitchers pitched, the catchers caught, the fielders fielded, and the batters batted. As we sat there during the game, we remembered last summer and watching games like this when things were somewhat normal in the world. Normal. This is what normal felt like. Will we ever feel it again for good? Who knows, but one thing I do know is this: Sitting out in a perfect evening and watching someone you dearly love play the game that I too loved back when I was Roby’s age was beyond special. It was a ray of sunshine piercing the dark cloud hovering over a very troubled world. And I can’t wait to do it again!     Read the full article

[sciencespies]

The Story of Charles Willson Peale’s Massive Mastodon

https://sciencespies.com/nature/the-story-of-charles-willson-peales-massive-mastodon/

The Story of Charles Willson Peale’s Massive Mastodon

SMITHSONIANMAG.COM | May 6, 2020, 10:44 a.m.

In the 18th century, French naturalist George-Louis Leclerc, Comte du Buffon (1706-1778), published a multivolume work on natural history, Histoire naturelle, générale et particuliére. This massive treatise, which eventually grew to 44 quarto volumes, became an essential reference work for anyone interested in the study of nature.

The Comte de Buffon advanced a claim in his ninth volume, published in 1797, that greatly irked American naturalists. He argued that America was devoid of large, powerful creatures and that its human inhabitants were “feeble” by comparison to their European counterparts. Buffon ascribed this alleged situation to the cold and damp climate in much of America. The claim infuriated Thomas Jefferson, who spent much time and effort trying to refute it—even sending Buffon a large bull moose procured at considerable cost from Vermont.

While a bull moose is indeed larger and more imposing than any extant animal in Eurasia, Jefferson and others in the young republic soon came across evidence of even larger American mammals. In 1739, a French military expedition found the bones and teeth of an enormous creature along the Ohio River at Big Bone Lick in what would become the Commonwealth of Kentucky. These finds were forwarded to Buffon and other naturalists at the Jardin des Plantes (the precursor of today’s Muséum National d’Histoire Naturelle) in Paris. Of course, the local Shawnee people had long known about the presence of large bones and teeth at Big Bone Lick. This occurrence is one of many such sites in the Ohio Valley that have wet, salty soil. For millennia, bison, deer and elk congregated there to lick up the salt, and the indigenous people collected the salt as well. The Shawnee considered the large bones the remains of mighty great buffalos that had been killed by lightning.

An infuriated Thomas Jefferson (above: 1805 by Rembrandt Peale) spent much time and effort trying to refute Buffon’s claim—even sending him a large bull moose procured at considerable cost from Vermont.

(New York Historical Society)

Later, the famous frontiersman Daniel Boone and others, such as the future president William Henry Harrison, collected many more bones and teeth at Big Bone Lick and presented them to George Washington, Ben Franklin and other American notables. Sponsored by President Thomas Jefferson, Meriwether Lewis and William Clark also recovered remains at the site, some of which would end up at Monticello, Jefferson’s home near Charlottesville, Virginia.

Meanwhile in Europe, naturalists were initially at a loss of what to make of the large bones and teeth coming from the ancient salt lick. Buffon and others puzzled over the leg bones, resembling those of modern elephants, and the knobby teeth that looked like those of a hippopotamus and speculated that these fossils represented a mixture of two different kinds of mammals.

Later, some scholars argued that all the remains might belong to an unknown animal, which they called “Incognitum.” Keenly interested in this mysterious beast and based on his belief that none of the Creator’s works could ever vanish, Jefferson rejected the notion that the Incognitum from Big Bone Lick was extinct. He hoped living representatives were still thriving somewhere in the vast unexplored lands to the west.

Charles Willson Peale, well-known for his portraits had a keen interest in natural history and so he created his own museum (above: The Artist in His Museum by Charles Willson Peale, 1822).

(Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, gift of Mrs. Sarah Harrison)

In 1796, Georges Cuvier, the great French zoologist and founder of vertebrate paleontology, correctly recognized that Incognitum and the woolly mammoth from Siberia were likely two vanished species of elephants, but distinct from the modern African and Indian species. Three years later, the German anatomist Johann Friedrich Blumenbach assigned the scientific name Mammut to the American fossils in the mistaken belief that they represented the same kind of elephant as the woolly mammoth. Later, species of Mammut became known as mastodons (named for the knob-like cusps on their cheek teeth).

By the second half of the 18th century, there were several reports of large bones and teeth from the Hudson Valley of New York State that closely resembled the mastodon remains from the Ohio Valley. The most noteworthy was the discovery in 1799 of large bones on a farm in Newburgh, Orange County. Workers had uncovered a huge thighbone while digging up calcium-rich marl for fertilizer on the farm of one John Masten. This led to a more concerted search that yielded more bones and teeth. Masten stored these finds on the floor of his granary for public viewing.

News of this discovery spread fast. Jefferson immediately tried to buy the excavated remains but was unsuccessful. In 1801, Charles Willson Peale, a Philadelphia artist and naturalist, succeeded in buying Masten’s bones and teeth, paying the farmer $200 (about $4,000 in today’s dollars) and tossing in new gowns for his wife and daughters, along with a gun for the farmer’s son. With an additional $100, Peale secured the right to further excavate the marl pit.

In 1801, Peale (above: Self-Portrait with Mastodon Bone, 1824) succeeded in buying Masten’s bones and teeth, paying the farmer $200 (about $4,000 in today’s dollars) and tossing in new gowns for his wife and daughters, along with a gun for the farmer’s son.

(New York Historical Society)

To remove water from the site, a millwright constructed a large wheel, so that three or four men walking abreast could provide the power to move a chain of buckets that bailed out the pit using a trough leading to a low-lying area of the farm. Once the water level had dropped sufficiently, a crew of workers recovered additional bones in the pit. In his quest to get as many bones and teeth of the mastodon as possible, Peale acquired additional remains from marl pits on two neighboring properties before shipping everything to Philadelphia. One of these sites, the Barber Farm in Montgomery, is today listed as “Peale’s Barber Farm Mastodon Exhumation Site” in the National Register of Historic Places.

Peale, well-known for the portraits he had painted of several of the Founding Fathers as well as other prominent individuals, had a keen interest in natural history and so he created his own museum. A consummate showman, the Philadelphia artist envisioned the mastodon skeleton from the Hudson Valley as the star attraction for his new museum and set out to reconstruct and mount the remains for exhibition. For the missing bones, Peale crafted papier-mâché models for some and carved wooden replicas for others; eventually he reconstructed two skeletons. One skeleton was exhibited at his own museum—marketed on a broadside as “the LARGEST of Terrestrial Beings”—while his sons Rembrandt and Rubens took the other on tour in England in 1802.

Peale secured the right to further excavate the marl pit. To remove water from the site, a millwright constructed a large wheel, so that three or four men walking abreast could power a chain of buckets (above: Exhumation of the Mastodon by Charles Willson Peale, ca. 1806-08)

(Maryland Historical Society, gift of Bertha White)

Struggling financially, Peale unsuccessfully lobbied for public support for his museum where kept his mastodon. After his passing in 1827, family members tried to maintain Peale’s endeavor, but ultimately they were forced to close it. The famous showman P. T. Barnum purchased most of the museum’s collection in 1848, but Barnum’s museum burned down in 1851, and it was long assumed that Peale’s mastodon had been lost in that fire.

Fortunately, this proved not to be the case. Speculators had acquired the skeleton and shipped it to Europe in order to find a buyer in Britain or France. This proved unsuccessful. Finally, a German naturalist, Johann Jakob Kaup (1803-1873), bought it at a greatly reduced price for the geological collection of the Grand-Ducal Museum of Hesse in Darmstadt (Germany). The skeleton is now in the collections of what today is the State Museum of Hesse. In 1944, it miraculously survived an air raid that destroyed much of the museum, but which damaged only the mastodon’s reconstructed papier-mâché tusks.

Peale envisioned the mastodon skeleton as the star attraction for his new museum and set out to reconstruct and mount the remains for exhibition (above: The Long Room, Interior of Front Room in Peale’s Museum by Charles Willson Peale and Titian Ramsay Peale, 1822).

(Detroit Institute of Arts)

In recent years, Peale’s skeleton has been conserved and remounted based on our current knowledge of this extinct elephant. It stands 8.5 feet (2.6 meters) at the shoulder and has a body length, measured from the sockets for the tusks to the base of the tail, of 12.2 feet (3.7 meters). It has been estimated to be about 15,000 years old.

Mammut americanum roamed widely through Canada, Mexico and the United States and are now known from many fossils including several skeletons. It first appears in the fossil record nearly five million years ago and became extinct about 11,000 years ago, presumably a victim of changing climates following the last Ice Age and possibly hunting by the first peoples on this continent. Mastodons lived in open forests. A New York State mastodon skeleton was preserved with gut contents—pieces of small twigs from conifers such as fir, larch, poplar and willow—still intact.

This year Peale’s mastodon returns to her homeland to become part of the upcoming 2020 exhibition entitled “Alexander von Humboldt and the United States: Art, Nature, and Culture” at the Smithsonian American Art Museum. Alexander von Humboldt had collected teeth of another species of mastodon in Ecuador and forwarded them to Cuvier for study. He also discussed them with Jefferson and Peale during his 1804 visit to the United States. The three savants agreed that Buffon’s claim concerning the inferiority of American animal life was without merit.

Currently, to support the effort to contain the spread of COVID-19, all Smithsonian museums in Washington, D.D. and in New York City, as well as the National Zoo are temporarily closed. The exhibition, “Alexander von Humboldt and the United States: Art, Nature, and Culture” will go on view at the Smithsonian American Art Museum in 2020.

#Nature

[curlicuecal]

Let’s Be Outcasts (ch 14/?) (AR/Kankri)

Part 2 of cyber!bunny Apocalypse ‘verse (tumblr)

ch: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15

read on AO3

Summary: Divergent AU where AR and Li'l Seb get kicked into a new universe with some snazzy new cyborg bodies. They’re still working out the bugs.

In which AR discovers that kidnapping rarely solves more problems than it creates, Mituna breaks out of a lab (with some help), and Seb continues to take good care of his Bro.

—-

You have this weird thing where you find him sort of offensive and charming and hilarious all at the same time and you can’t put your finger on the fascination.  Probably you’re going to die of it. 

—-

Ch 14.

Cutting through the streets of a patchwork city, following the trail marked by a small robot bunny turned cyborg child, you attempt to explain your life to a troll you were thinking about murdering not 72 hours ago.

You don’t know how long it’ll take you to catch up with Seb, but you’ve got a looming mystery device de-activation to keep on schedule with, so you treat Kankri to the outline version of your backstory.  And by outline you mean you leave some things out entirely.  Wallowing in old memories is not on your emotional to-do list for the foreseeable future, and anyway, you’re hoping that the caffeinated cliffnotes rendition will make you sound less like a crazy person.

Alternate realities and reality altering games, check; watery sea Hitler dystopia, check; trolls and humans from previous game iterations, check.  Teenagers creating artificial intelligence brain-clones in their bedrooms… eh.  What are the odds of that being plot relevant, really?

You breeze through the getting left behind bit so fast even you aren’t sure you covered it before you’re on and already wrapping up with “…so Sawtooth and Squarewave grabbed a door out of the universe and me and Seb followed after and tah-dah, here we are; you might have some familiarity with the end of this story.”

You’re currently picking your way through the debris of a crumbling boathouse/alien hell-garage that some universal force has very inconveniently plopped down in the middle of a street, so you can’t actually watch Kankri’s face for reaction.  This is fine.  His reactions are, provably, of statistically insignificant consequence in the calculation of your internal state.  Really.  You could make spreadsheets.

You duck a ceiling beam and hopscotch a broken boardwalk of wooden planks, turning to catch a glimpse of him in the corner display of your ever helpful shades.  Chin down, brows drawn together, he appears lost in thought—although that might just be his contemplation of the route least likely to collapse under his feet.  (You’re going through the landlocked boathouse rather than, say, around because your path-flagger is a tiny robot bunny child with apparently no setting other than DIRECT.  Thanks, Seb.)

“Spoilers,” you add, “the end of the story contains explosions and kidnapping.”

That at least provokes a twitch, eyes flicking over to you as he draws level and then passes.  You make your way after him, watching the back of his head, something restless and dissatisfied in your gut.  He’s been—well, not quiet, quiet is rarely the appropriate word for Kankri.  But for all the intensity of his attention to your story, his questions and comments have remained inscrutably neutral.  You’d expected more… reaction?  Humorous huffing and flailing and stubborn argument with your reality.  But no, just this loaded silence and the questions.

You’d assume he thought you were full of shit if each verbal probe didn’t jab directly to some tender spot like a heat-seeking missile.

“You don’t think you’ll find the rest of your companions?” Kankri asks.

Like that one.

“Different doors, different universe.”  Focus on your steps.  Kankri runs lightly along a fallen crossbeam and you follow after.  “That’s the whole point.”

“But you didn’t go into the same universe as your friends?”

“It is physically challenging to pass through a door that has stopped existing.”  Your own voice has grabbed some toneless, sing-song neutrality, old auto-responder rhythms emerging without thought, wrapping around the words to keep them separate from you.  You have the idea that that maybe gives away more than it conceals, so you make an effort to lever some glib back in there, too.

“’Friends’ is such a strong term, anyway.  ‘Long-term associates by necessity’?  ‘People who are better at navigating through access portals than me’?  ‘Proud recipients of the ‘Winner’s Only’ Universe award’?  For winners?  And their friends?”  You sense you might be failing at glib.  But words have always been your core armament and damn but you have a lot of them.  “PS: no offense–great world you’ve got going here and all, love the man-eating plant zombies–but have you considered we might be in the multiverse’s equivalent of a junk drawer? Like, we are literally spelunking through spare parts that didn’t make the cut right now.  An entire universe built out of defective extras.  Opposite of the winner’s ‘verse is—”

Kankri stops in his tracks so abruptly you almost trip right into the back of him.  You end up awkwardly skip-hopping several steps sideways in your efforts to stay upright and avoid impact.

You take another step back when he wheels on you, then manage to hold your ground when he plants himself right up in your space.

“I hope,” he says, in clipped tones, “you will forgive me if I seem to be silencing your viewpoint, but I find the idea that an individual’s circumstances are interchangeable with their worth to be fundamentally offensive.”

“Um,” you say.  His eyes are very bright.  Chin high, stance set, looking down his nose at you like some kind of classical angel casting down judgment.  You resist the urge to back up another pace.  “I didn’t mean it… quite like that.”  You think.

He doesn’t budge an inch.  “Excuse me for not appreciating the implication that I was hatched into some kind of universally decreed lesser state.   Or do you think your circumstances in life are somehow more inherently meaningful than mine? This isn’t a game and it’s never been fair.  You talk like being here is—is something you earned, some kind of punishment, when all I hear is a series of accidental mishaps and coincidences that no one present could have accounted for.  It’s a universe, not a referendum on your character.”

Your breath comes short and superficial in your chest.  For once, you think your face might actually be completely blank, if only because you have so many complicated emotions going on right now mere organic features couldn’t hope to compose a functional physical representation of them.

“…That was a very long way to say ‘shit happens,’” you say faintly.

Kankri actually flashes his fangs at you.  Which is, um.  Sort of interesting actually, but wow do you not need to add any more confusion to the feelings pile right now.  It’s like he flayed you open with words just to pick apart vulnerabilities you didn’t even know you had.  (A pointless, pointless fucking accident.  Do you think that you deserved it, do you think they wouldn’t have changed it if they could?)  How do you not be a flippant asshole when you can’t even deal with the question existing in the first place?

Kankri sucks in a breath.  “First of all—“

“Sorry,” you interject, because when all else fails you can at least pretend to not be a massive tool.  The surprise draws him, blinking, to a halt.

“That’s—that was a good point.  Actually.  I—I’ll have to think about that.”  Do you really, though.  Okay, fine, probably; you are rationally aware that permavoidance is not a tenable long term strategy for proper social adjustment and damned if you won’t face your demons like a Strider.

…Later.

“Also I don’t think you’re a lesser being.  If that was unclear.  All of my hang ups are 100%, grade-A me-centered; it’s this thing I’m doing where I forget my words reflect on other people and are generally capable of being offensive and sort of degrading when followed through to their logical conclusions.”

You know what’s terrible? Apologizing.  And also sincerity.  And having an organic nervous system that rings horrible fluttery alarm bells whenever it decides you’ve got a vulnerability showing—thanks, self, you can work that out without your heart humming deafeningly in your ears or your neck flushing hot.

Kankri’s still looking at you, eyes startled, lips parted like you’ve caught him off-balance, and that, at least, is a small victory that you can cling to.

He’s still just… right there.  He’s not close, not exactly, there’s a solid body’s width of clear space between you, plenty of room for the Holy Spirit to get down and jiggy with it, but he feels close.  Hemmed in by fallen beams and the debris of this strange, out-of-place building; moonlight trickling uneven through cracks in the ceiling; and it strikes you, suddenly, that you’ve literally never been alone with anyone except Seb.

(It wasn’t kind, what he said, it wasn’t nice or sensitive or empathetic to your experience, but maybe you still wanted to hear it and maybe there’s a fascination in the way he never lets any of your shit slide like it doesn’t matter.)

And then, thank god, the floor collapses under your left foot.

“Ow, fuck,” you say, and then: “…Found the next path marker.”  From this angle Seb’s shuriken is clearly visible high in the next wall over, glinting dully in a promising ray of exterior moonlight.

“Are you all right?”  Kankri asks.  You peel your elbows up off the floorboards to see that he’s hovering uncertainly close, feet placed carefully, hands half out like he went to touch and then thought better of it.  Hm.

“…Yep.” Bruised and scraped and disoriented, flat on one knee and up to your ankle in rotten board, but, as buildings trying to eat you goes, surprisingly all right.  Wow, you are hella lucky you didn’t break something going over like that.  Incapacitated by architecture, how completely mortifying would that be?

Kankri, you note, has not set a foot wrong this entire time.

“Systems are registering 100% peachy.”  Teeth gritted, you ease your leg back through the gap, shaking loose rot-soft splinters.   You’ve ripped your pants and your shin’s scraped all down one side, but it’s oozing, not spurting or gushing or anything.  Dirk’s gotten around fine on worse than this plenty of times.  So whyyyy does it still have to hurt like the bloody blazes?  Nervous systems.  Ugh.

You head for the hopefully-an-exit-wall, choosing your footing attentively again, but moving at a good clip.  Kankri follows after, hanging close.  …If he starts trying to coddle you the way Seb does you are going to lose your damn shit.  But ten paces later you realize he’s using each footing you test and he hasn’t even tried to recommend better ones.  Your shoulders unknot a fraction.

The final, exterior wall turns out to contain a solid row of boarded up windows and… that’s about it.  Well, there’s also fallen beams and a pile of decaying nets further blocking some of the boarded windows.  “Seb, what the heck,” you mutter blankly.

Kankri cranes his head way back.  “I think he went out that sort of… porthole aperture.  The one tucked under the ceiling arch.”  His own voice sounds a little flat.

You both contemplate the climb.  Unanimously and with no discussion, you elect to set about prying free some window boards instead.  It’s a team effort.  

“Is it okay if I hate that building in particular?” you ask not very long afterwards, when you’re outside picking yourself out of the dirt below the narrow opening you made.  “Because I think that building in particular was designed by leprechauns entirely to spite me.”

Kankri, who made it through the window with a surprising amount of facility after shedding his cloak, looks up sharply from fiddling with the fabric.  “You can feel however you want.”

You blink, uncertainly, and still don’t know what to make of his tone by the time he looks away again.  “…Gee, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”  Kankri fiddles with his cloak laces some more, but he’s got that little tick line between his brows that implies he’s thinking hard.  You are starting to find Kankri’s deep-in-thought face nearly as alarming as the intake of breath that denotes the wind up to a lecture.

Whatever.  You’ve got places to go, so you set off down the street towards a fluttering strip of blue cloth.  Kankri shadows you silently.

Maybe he’s mad at you.

“Thank you for telling me your story,” he says, abruptly, and you are left to face the possibility that maybe you just don’t understand Kankri Vantas even a tiny fucking bit.  He abandons his laces to fold his hands in front of him, squares his shoulders as he falls into pace with you and, oops, yes, there is the lecture-breath.  “I should have expressed that earlier.  I recognize that that was a symbolic gesture of trust on your part and that my behavior may have come across as …insensitive to your emotional vulnerability and accompanying cognitive distortions.”

You have this weird thing where you find him sort of offensive and charming and hilarious all at the same time and you can’t put your finger on the fascination.  Probably you’re going to die of it.  He picks through every phrase like it’s a foreign concept he’s memorized by rote and he’s so damn sincere even when he’s insulting you to your face.

“Also,” he adds, as you skirt some thick brambles that are eating a set of surprisingly unrusted construction machinery, “I appreciate your openness to correction.”

You raise your eyebrows at him, but politely refrain from derailing that into kink territory.  “I’m not a homework assignment.  I’m not going to agree with you just because you come at me with a red pen that says I should.”

“I never—“ Kankri pauses, checks himself.  “It wasn’t my intention to imply that I expected you to.  Of course I only want you to listen to reasoned arguments.”

“What, despite my crippling cognitive distortions?”

“Please refrain from putting reductive adjectives in my mouth.  I only meant it was an emotionally charged topic for you and—and I appreciate that you were willing to listen despite your rationality on the subject being impaired.”

He’s got his black-in-gold eyes fixed on you again, intent and painfully earnest, and it’s short-circuiting your ability not to feel a little touched.  In the way where you would also like him to stop harping on about your irrationality, but, hey, choose your battles.  “You’re welcome,” you say dryly, stealing a response from his repertoire.  “You know, I don’t think anyone’s ever accused me of being too emotional before.  You do realize you’re talking to the guy that’s basically a microchip implanted in a meat-suit, right?”

“And you realize that you are propagating harmful stereotypes when you make flippant comments of that nature.  Cybernetically modified humans are human in origin and are perfectly capable of a full range of typical human emotions.  I can’t say that I’ve noticed you are any exception in this regard.  Except perhaps for being incredibly aggravating.”

“Flattery.”

“Besides,” he adds, ignoring your smirk, “that prejudice is premised on the idea that a certain way of processing reactions is somehow the superior state.  Saying something has to have emotions to have its personhood recognized is just another direction for enforcing a social caste system favoring the status quo.”

“In other words, systemic oppression continues to be a fun, fun, multidimensional exercise in how many new and exciting combo-attacks we can create.  Yay, intersectional privilege.”

Kankri blinks and looks sideways at you.  His brows twitch in.  “…I’m not familiar with those terms in that context,” he says after a pause.

This, you reflect, is the Kankri Vantas method of asking for clarification: guarded, resentful, vaguely accusatory; like you knowing something he doesn’t is some kind of intentional slight.

You shrug disarmingly, wave a hand.  “Uh.  Well, privilege is…advantages you get based solely on chance or social structures; and intersectional is, like, the idea that you can have a bunch of advantages or disadvantages from different sources pile non-additively to make the system even more unfair…”

You trail off because there’s a strange gleam in his eyes.  You feel like you’ve just given crack cocaine to a baby.

“Privilege,” Kankri repeats, in a thoughtful tone.

You don’t flinch, but it feels like you should.

Maybe you should not teach Kankri any more cross-dimensional lecture vocabulary.  Or….  You contemplate the intriguing possibility that you could teach him all the words.  That would probably be terrifying.  And hilarious.

…holy hell, who placed this kind of power in your hands?  There is no way you are not going to wield this for evil.

You are still contemplating your potential for AI super-villainy when Kankri interrupts your thoughts.

“Were cy privileged very differently in the society you came from?”

You miss a step.  Thanks, adrenaline surge.  Lie or tell the truth?  Lie or tell the truth?  Lie or– “There weren’t any cy.”

Kankri blinks.  “But you—”

…Yep.  You really, really, don’t like his thoughtful silences.

You could have just told him.  A whole long crazy speech about alternate realities and you could have dropped ‘I’m actually a high-tech photocopy of a brain’ in there anywhere.  You could still tell him right now.   ‘I got dropped into this flesh suit via game mechanics I still don’t understand and I don’t know whether it’s worse if it’s just an accident or if something decided that this was as close to being a person as I get.’  You could just.  Say it.  Except the muscles of your throat feel tight and locked like a system failure.

He’s looking at you.  “A number of your comments have suggested surprise or unfamiliarity with.  Erm.  Details of your person?”

The thing you keep forgetting when you go into your bullshit snark routines is that he just keeps listening.

“…Were you an unmodified human?” Kankri sounds dubious at the possibility.  That—hurts.  Maybe.  You can’t even tell what you feel anymore.

“No.” Your sentence ends before it even really starts.  Oh, great.  At this rate you can play a game of twenty questions on the topic. Or charades.

You tell yourself, again, all the reasons you’re being ridiculously overdramatic and all the reasons it doesn’t matter to you in the least if you just say the thing.  Ha ha.  Nope.  You are not remotely okay with this, you’ve smacked face first into a steel wall of not okay do-not-go-there, and at the very least you can try to not to add self-delusion to your list of sins.

“I thought,” you evade finally, “the deal was for an exchange of information.  It seems I’m carrying out the greater part of the soul-baring legwork here.”

Kankri frowns at you. “You’re uncomfortable with this topic,” he says, like a revelation.

You resist the urge to facepalm.  Then you decide, what the heck, you’ve got hands, clearly the universe has provided for this situation.  “Congratulations on your impeccable analysis,” you tell him sincerely through your fingers.

Kankri’s frown increases.  “Is this the part you meant before about being flippant as a coping mechanism?”

Pffft.  Okay.  You’re still upset, but this is also funny.  And also sort of endearing, but you really, really need to stop thinking like that because it’s probably proof you have a wire crossed.  Or several.  “On the balance of probability?” You slide him a provoking smirk.  “Historical precedent would indicate I am being flippant roughly 95.5% of the time.”

“That would imply you’re trying to cope most of the time,” Kankri says blankly, and then does this thoughtful little head tilt that makes you want to smack yourself in the face again.  “I don’t even understand why you’d be uncomfortable,” he adds, chin rising.  “You’re aware that I’m a mutant.  Hemoanomalous trolls are supposed to be culled at hatching, are not eligible for imperial service to the Ebon Empire, and, given interspecies tensions, are essentially locked out of every organized society currently in existence on this planet.  Not to devalue whatever your own experiences might be, but on a spectrum of… intersectional privilege… targeted genocide strikes me as the likely lower threshold.”

“…Point.”  You narrow your eyes behind your shades.  “I see you mastered the privilege Olympics at full speed.”

He narrows his eyes right back at you, then turns away with a toss of his horns.  “I don’t know what that means.  But my custodian always said strategic thinking can turn a vulnerability to a strength, or a pawn to a queen.”

“Talkative lusus.”

Kankri sniffs.  “Don’t be species-prescriptive.  If it’s any business of yours my lusus-mother is carapacian.”

You consider that for a minute, picking your way down a rapidly narrowing alleyway.  “How’d that happen?”

He hesitates a half-beat before waving a hand dismissively.  “Oh, the usual way.”

You’re guessing that means something different for trolls.

The alleyway grows still narrower, and he waits politely for you to go ahead of him, hangs back to give you your space.  Courteous.  Careful.  He’s one more person that’s worked out the ‘don’t touch the jumpy cyborg’ rules and, considering how oblivious he is to everything else that hasn’t been explicitly spelled out, you can’t help but wonder grimly whether it’s so much consideration as fear.  He seems self-assuredly smug enough, but you’re still the dude that kidnapped him and held him at sword point not so very long ago.

(–he flinched, and he looked at you with eyes that burned like coals, and you did that, you put that bright kernel of fear there behind the steel–)

“—so, do I get to hear the Kankri Vantas secrets repository?”   You’ve turned sideways to crab your way through the excessively narrow space between brick and stone—what even, Seb; thank you so very much for this entire experience—so you can see him cast you an unreadable glance.

“Should I interpret that to mean you would prefer I not ask further questions about your person?”

“Gotta save something for the second date,” you quip, before you can really think about it.  He blinks and you bite your tongue, hard.  Whaaaaat are you doing here, exactly?  Everything about this situation is still a majorly bad idea, and you’re trying to cut back on those.

“I… see,” Kankri says, looking utterly puzzled by you.

Oh, look, this wall is conveniently close should you urgently need to knock some sense into your skull.  Maybe you should stay here.  You skootch your way free from the end of the alley and grab for the first conversational redirect that comes to mind as you wait for Kankri to catch up.

“Not eligible for imperial service, huh?  I don’t want to make unsolicited conjectures here, but that sure sounds like ‘not actually working for the government.’”

He stops and looks at you.  You feel like there is something very heavy hanging in the air, poised to tip.  To fall.  To break.

You never could resist pushing.

“So?  Are you?”

There’s a few ticks of silence.  “No,” he says finally.  “Not particularly.”

And boom, there’s that adrenaline buzz back, licking through your veins like lightning, the world slowly tilting towards something new.  (He’s going to tell you.) ((he’s going to trust you.))

“I wouldn’t be …welcome.  Which isn’t to say that Porrim and Latula and the rest of our… assemblage don’t have service obligations to fulfill,” Kankri adds, briefly distracted by the minutiae of precision word-smithing.  “But those imperial obligations are, I admit, entirely extraneous to our purpose here.”  He pauses, and you can’t turn away from the weight of his gaze, intense upon you, there in the mouth of the alley.

“In fact,” he says, still studying you, evidently choosing his words with care, “you might go so far as to say they are in opposition.”

Adrenaline spikes, hot and sweet.

He hesitates again, drawing in a breath, but now it’s very much the hesitation of someone settling themselves into the irrevocable pull of gravity before a leap.  You make a sound of encouragement, low in your throat, and startle yourself with how much it sounds like sex.

Okay, you know what? You’re going to chalk everything about this day up to ‘organic physiology is stupid, non-compliant, and not my fault’ and add ‘get a handle on yourself’ to your urgent to-do list.  In whatever sense of the word ‘handle’ puts you back in charge of your own reactions.

And now you’ve gotten so flustered distracted you’ve actually missed the next bit of Kankri’s speech.

“—drones themselves are not the problem, but rather the centralized nature of the collection of, er… genetic material.”

Wait, back up.

Why are you getting a lecture on troll reproduction.

“Looked at that way you can see the issue,” Kankri adds, oblivious to your wildly shifting attention.  He’s definitely warming to his topic, chin tilted up, eyes half-closing, hands gesturing.  “Governmental control of reproduction creates a fundamental power imbalance between the government and the populace—not just for trolls, but for carapacians as well.  Even the human cy, in a way, since they could breed but not reproduce their technological alterations.”

The flow of his words doesn’t stop, but he does that thing where he peeks one eye open like he’s checking his lecture is having the appropriate impact.  You’re still in the middle of mood whiplash—you give him blankface.  Your mind buzzes, trying to catch up, slotting new information into place, chasing down implications.

“They can’t choose to walk away from their empires,” Kankri says, “—not and persist.”  His tone picks up conviction and he leans in toward you almost unconsciously, hands gesturing.  You’re transfixed, frozen.  It feels like any action might break this moment, send you leaning in or bolting back, or startle Kankri into stopping talking, which is ridiculous, nothing ever stops Kankri talking, but you really, really want him to keep talking.  You want to know.

“Only the unmodified human populace have that option, and they’re still recovering from perigees of heterospecific oppression and war.  The lynchpin of societal control is always the next generation.  If we—“

Something… shushes, a hushed, sliding noise across concrete, from just around the corner.

You’re muscling Kanrki back into the cover of the alley before you have time to process anything beyond your body’s immediate ‘danger, will robinson’ chemical shrilling.

Kankri stifles his yelp surprisingly quickly.  He ends tense but silent, his eyes wide and bright and red on you, his pupils contracted down to points.  His body has gone stiff and defensive from head to toe, a fact you can attest to because your rapid retreat left you both wedged tight against each other, pressed between brick and stone in the narrow confines of the alley.

You can’t breathe.  You can’t look away.

His eyes are so close, his face is so close.  A breath away, if either of you were breathing.  You can feel the heat of him right through your clothes, the not-quite tremble of muscles drawn taut in a line up your thigh and abdomen.  His hand, pressed over your heart, trying to keep some space, sears you like a brand.  He could do some damage with those claws.

It sort of feels like he’s damaging you right now, burning you right up.

You sort of like it.

Can you panic on behalf of yourself and someone else at the same time?  Because you might be about to flip your ever-loving shit.

Kankri’s eyes flick towards the mouth of the alley.

That sliding noise comes again, so soft you might have mistaken it for the feather fall of sand down a slope—a sort of swish swish swish of something moving back and forth.

You have heard that before.

“Dominion sanitator,” Kankri says, and it’s hardly more than a breath by your collarbone.

Oh, joy, more unfamiliar alien terminology.  Not helpful, but at least it distracts you from the panic attack you are very much not having.  You follow his glance toward the street ahead, but there’s nothing to see.  Whatever’s moving out there (big, quiet—hunting?) is still a street over at least.  Kankri does not look inclined to go out and say hi to it.

Where did you hear it before?  You rifle randomly through sensory memories, frustrated for the millionth time at the lack of reliable organic sorting algorithms, trying to trace the source of the familiarity.  It’s stupid how difficult it is, you’ve barely got a few pocketfuls of embodied time to dig through, hardly any time at all since you woke up in an unfamiliar body on an unfamiliar world…

…that’s it.  The city that first day, on the roof with Seb, and questing through streets below, a ripple of white.  A thing like some mad scientist crossed a centipede with a snake, and then in a fit of extra death-wishery, magnified it to parade-float size and set it loose on the populace.  You’d suspected that one of hunting, too, feelers probing along the ground in front of it as it flowed through empty city streets.

You never did find any people in that city.

The noise seems to shuffle and slide past for a long time.  Yards and yards of time.  You wait, with your heart in your throat and Kankri pressed silent and trembling-tense against you, until the unseen creature becomes unheard once again.  Until you’re sure it’s continued past your street and your narrow, tucked away alley, taking no notice of you, hunting blindly on.

Kankri wriggles against you (--um), prying his way out of the alley and free.  “It’s gone.”

“How do you know it won’t turn around and come right back?”

He lifts his chin.  “They’re engineered to remove non-carapacian sentient life from cities. If it had realized we were here we’d know because we’d already be dealing with it.  They mostly make straight sweeps unless they pick up signs of life.”

That… does not sound like fun times.  You wonder what would have happened if it had found you, heard you.  Smelled you?  If you’d actually been out in the street beyond to make a sound or leave a footprint or drop a scent trail for it to catch.  If you’d been a few minutes ahead of yourselves…

Your heart clutches again.

“We need to find Seb right now.”

Kankri sucks in a breath, but doesn’t argue with you.

>>