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abdicatedarchive · 4 years

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Cherish’s House Party || Chase and Savvy

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: cherish’s house party // 15th of january.

𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: chase x savvy ( @savvy-cassidy ).

𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒: underage drinking.

𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐒: two cheerleaders playing ping pong and having a good time gossiping

Chase had come over to find beer pong in the kitchen and no one to play with until he saw Savvy. "Savvy, I challenge you to a game of pong" he said as he pulled her over to the table lightly. "That is if you can take the heat" Chase teased as he racked up the cups. Gabrielle was off doing something, and he always enjoyed talking to Savannah. Maybe he would even hear some good gossip out of it.

Savvy was, as usual, sipping on her drink and mingling around the party. That is, until she was ushered over to the beer pong table. "when have i ever not been able to take the heat?" she scoffed and finished off the drink in her head. "good thing i get better at this game the more i drink," the brunette was already a bit tipsy.

"I mean that's just the science behind it" said Chase laughing a little, "once you have double vision then you get two cups at once" he joked. Once the cups were racked he grabbed two balls and washed them off in the sink. "Ladies first" he said as he handed her the ping pong balls and went to his side of the table. "So tell me, have you seen anything interesting at the party so far?" Chase asked.

"i think i just try harder when my vision is blurry so i really work twice as hard on trying to have good aim," she commented with a laugh. "how polite of you. not too many of the males around here have manners," she joked. taking the ball she took her shot, seeing it bounce off of one of the rims. "off to a great start. hm. ive been in two bedrooms and neither were occupied at the time i stumbled upon them, i thought that was pretty interesting because that never happens. also, staci poured a full beer down sara's shirt when she told her to be careful not to spill it."

"Well, I was in the cheer chat during the men suck discussion, so I'm on my best behavior" he said sarcastically, he didn't mind. Especially when it came to all the girl's boyfriends being kind of shit. There had been a lot of newly single moments recently on the team in general. He was happy with his girlfriend so hating on men was definitely an option, it kept him in line with his own relationship. Chase caught the ball when it bounced off the rim and held it while he waited for her to throw again. "Well Sara had it coming with that comment, and you never tell someone with a full cup to do anything" he joked, "Staci's got low impulse control that's for sure". "to be fair, i think we all have our moments of sucking so dont worry it isn't just men," although they did seem to have far more moments, but that was beside the point and she didn't feel the need to bring it up. on her next attempt, she sank the ball, "yesss hopefully now im getting somewhere. and you're right on both of those counts. what about you what interesting things have you seen thus far?" Chase took the ball out of the cup and chugged the whole thing. "Well" he said catching his breath, "I saw one guy constantly changing rooms, so I investigated a little" he said throwing his first ball and it sinking into the cup. "And it turns out he is talking to two girls at this party, and I am 30% sure they are texting each other about this cute mystery guy that they're talking to" Chase said as he tried the other ball and missed. "So I cannot wait to see how that turns out" Savvy lifted her brows as he took a breath, knowing that whatever he was about to say was probably quite the story. Lifting up the cup, she took out the ball and chugged the liquid, something a good friend of hers had taught her to do well over the years. "dont they know that the circles around here are small? its like we've all slept with each other by association."

"Everybody is sleeping with everybody" said Chase letting a small laugh fall from his lips as he waited for her to throw again. "Speaking of, who is your newest conquest? I have to live vicariously through others now that I'm back with Gabrielle" he said, intrigued to know what the girl was up to. She was one of the most beautiful girls in school, it only made sense that she had guys at her beck and call. "That is putting it lightly," she chuckled, setting down the now empty cup and setting up her next shot. it circled the rim of the cup a couple of times before finally sinking inside. "conquest? you mean like, have i hooked up with anyone tonight? chase. im a lady. you think i do that kind of thing at a party where there are loads of people who could walk in at any moment?" the girl was rambling playfully before eventually answering, "jet." mostly because everyone likely already knew anyway, it happened at most parties. it was like knowing that someone was going to end up throwing up in the bushes, jet and savvy were going to hook up. "how is that going?" "A lady never tells" said Chase, knowing full well that there was always Jet. He was hoping there was maybe some variety in there, but Jet was ... well he was kinda it. He was that guy in town for sure. "Oh that's still going?" he said with a smile, "He is super hot, and I heard he's very good in bed. Good for you" Chase replied. Chase chugged the cup and put it to the side before continuing. "It's going great, it's a race right now to see who is the drunker one and who is in charge of getting us home. I'm hoping she's the responsible one tonight, but who is to say at this rate. She could be off taking shots with Juliette right now, and they're both so tiny they'll be on the floor in minutes" the boy said with a laugh. "We have a nice arrangement. It's very convenient. Plus, I wont have to worry I won't get off, which is definitely a big plus. Like an old, yet reliable habit." Savvy had to laugh at her own description, the alcohol definitely making her sound a little ridiculous. "Maybe someone else will get a turn, i just dont really want it to be when i have beer goggles, because ew." Crinkling her nose at the thought she shook her head. "so who do you think is winning? how drunk are you?" "I get that, what you know is better than something new. And if it works for you, then why bother with anything else" said Chase, completely understanding. That was something about being with Gabrielle that he loved, it was always good because they had been at it for so long. "She only drinks liquor so probably her, but it has been me before and I am working my hardest at it" said Chase laughing a little, he didn't mind taking care of her at the end of the night. It was fun when she took care of him though. "Knowing her, it's who she is with. She can either drink a lot because she's having a really good time or a really bad time. But if it's in between she won't be drunk at all ... just a little buzzed" “Something new can be exciting, if it’s the right something new,” Sav pointed out with a shrug. “It is always nice to have a safe option though too.” Because who didn’t like options. “Yikes she could be going pretty hard right now. So that will not be a fun morning for her. “ "It can be, but I am a sucker for the classics. Only one girl out there for me" said Chase with a small smile. He was soft for Gabrielle like that, sure he would be having a great deal more fun as a single guy at this school, but there was nothing that beat to comfort of being loved. "She'll be fine. No matter what I'll make her breakfast, even if I'm about to yak" said the boy.

“Oh isn’t that just adorable,” to be fair, there was a time when Savvy may have thought the same thing, when she was dating someone she liked to think it would be for the long haul but that was rarely the case. “Breakfast too? Damn you really are one of the good ones.” "Yeah the perks of her family taking me in, we get to spend every morning together no matter what rooms we sleep in" said Chase with a proud smile. He also treated her very well, just going above and beyond whenever he could. It made him feel like he was repaying a debt to her family. "What do your mornings with Jet look like? Or is it purely a party affair?" he asked, curious to know more. “That is a pretty unique situation so I guess you should enjoy it as long as possible because you lucked out there. Do they let you stay in the same room though?” Sav was glad that her friend was happy though it seemed to be going well and that’s what was most important. Her brows raised at his question “we usually have each other for breakfast,” she answered as if it was nonchalant. “And then go out for pancakes because were fucking starving.” "Yeah, I am milking it as much as physically possible" said Chase in all earnesty. He was certain they would not separate for college, but if they didn't get into the right schools then they would be screwed. Having a child together, even though it was a secret bonded them past the usual high school relationship, but it was hard to explain that to anyone because he couldn't. "That's a hearty breakfast, lots of vitamin d in that one" Chase joked, proud of himself for that one. "Pancakes is always a good dessert after a hearty breakfast" “I can’t say that I blame you, I think most people would do the same thing. But hey im glad that it works out for you and you’re both happy with it, that’s honestly all that matters,” the girl nodded with a shrug. She couldn’t help but chuckle, “vitamin d, good joke. Best of the night so far. But agreed pancakes are the best. A nice way to refuel.” "You can tell who at this school has a major vitamin d deficiency" said Chase with a small chuckle as well. There were a lot of people who just needed some kind of release, any kind. Whether it was a boxing class or getting laid, people needed to do something.

Savvy couldn’t help but chuckle and nod in agreement, “you are correct about that, I wish them all the best, honestly. Might help some of their piss poor attitudes.” "I think that might be our big ticket to victory this cheer season" said Chase feeling the alcohol start to hit him. He hated to admit it, but a lot like his girlfriend he was a light weight.

"everyone getting laid? you might be on to something with that," she chuckled and nodded in agreement, "you down for the count on this game, or what? i can already see your eyes getting glassy, you're sucha lightweight," she teased him. "I did some shots earlier, but I think it's all kicking in now" said Chase, the room was a little spinny. "All I am is bone and muscle, there's nothing to absorb the alcohol" he said to defend himself, but it was the honest reason he couldn't handle too much to drink.

#chasexsavvy #threads || savvy and chase #savvy and chase || 001

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haldenlith · 3 years

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Spinfoil rambling

Not really spoilers, but I do talk about trailer stuff so... eh?

After the most recent trailer, and looking at all of the hints (in my opinion), I feel like there is a strong case to be made that the "old friend" she's speaking to, the one she's "chased for so long" is definitely The Traveler. They keep pushing the tagline "Take Back the Light," but I feel like it's a giant red herring in a way.

I think Savathun manages to chit-chat with The Traveler and convince it to give her The Light. I don't think she stole it at all. It'd fit perfectly with the narrative Bungie's going with of "The Light isn't always Good, The Darkness isn't always Evil -- it's all shades of gray." It'd also fit in with beginning to pivot to Lightfall (granted, we aren't going to know anything about that for at least another year). Lightfall makes it sound like something terrible is going to happen with The Light, and wouldn't it be perfect if the "terrible" is that The Traveler starts looking at other avenues in order to "win" versus The Darkness? Like giving The Light to other people, including our enemies?

It'd also be a nice parallel to a conversation that Ikora and Zavala had while playing a game of Go (it's in the little book that comes with the CE of Witch Queen). Zavala says the point is to play to win. Ikora says the point is to play to learn and explore your options. That would mean being okay with occasionally losing while you figure out different ways you can play the game, different strategies, different options, different exploits.

Who's to say The Traveler isn't going to start doing that, too? It's abandoned multiple civilizations in its wake of "losing" games while exploring the game. It's tried one different approach now (The Guardians) and found some modicum of progress and success, so why not start trying other things?

Also, I suspect whatever the new raid is inside The Pyramid, will possibly also start that thread that ultimately leads to Lightfall, because it's become increasingly obvious the raid doesn't end with Savathun. I honestly don't think we're even going to kill ol' Savvie. I get the feeling there's going to be complications, be it her bamboozling and escaping us (again), or something arising that keeps us from killing her.

Anyway, last thought, which is just a random thought on Lightfall: I think The Traveler is going to abandon us, but not in the "peace, I'm leaving the system" way. I think it's going to abandon us in the "you guys have been great, but these guys over here are better" sense.

Wouldn't it be a real kicker if we have to leave Savathun alive, for some reason or another, and The Traveler abandons us for her?

Let's be real: we don't have a lot of evidence The Traveler actually cares about us and isn't just acting out of its own self-interest. We could just be "The Experimental Flavor of the Month" to the damn thing. It does seem to like to pop up, experiment with and terraform places, and mess with civilizations, only to peace out when it gets too spicy, clearly deeming the experiment a "failure." It could very well be the only reason it didn't leave us was that it was "injured" during The Collapse, and made a good pass at "playing dead" so The Darkness would leave.

Just saying: The Traveler might not be as benevolent as we think it is. Rather, it may just be passive and not as antagonistic as The Darkness.

#haldie rambles #destiny 2 spoilers #destiny 2 #not sure if spoilers really #but tagging anyway #theorycraft

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handlewcaare · 4 years

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Art credit: @kajuhz

Since the time he crawled out of his grave at the laboratory, isolation was the best company he could make. Anyone who approached him with well-meaning intentions were shot down. Mistakes were bound to happen, but he would have been a fool to make the same one twice.

Once he returned to the little hole in the wall that was his agency, he ensured to keep a gun wherever was accessible for a friendly genetist. Was it paranoia? He didn’t know, but he thought he was desensitized to it all. What one man’s fatal wounds were his blisters and mild annoyances.

That had been the exact reason as to why the Association wanted him.

Several years after he retired from being a lab rat, his agency ran slow. People would hire him for small investigative work, nothing that he usually did in the golden days. It was honest work, he wouldn’t complain, finding a stalker within the bushes and seizing him got his mind off it. However, with the rapid development of caped crusaders typically found in comic books, what good was an old gumshoe?

It wasn’t until a monster had destroyed his agency that he comprehended why people regarded them as a persistent menace.

The fault was his own for leaving his agency unlocked, but after seeing years of evidence for cold cases left in ashes, his regrets immediately flourished to rage. Furor was not a typical characteristic of his, but after seeing his furniture destroyed, the maps and photographs partially charred or shredded, the malicious being only grinned at how he set down his groceries by his feet and locked the door.

The aroma of burning flesh against the lashing tongue of a conflagration never bothered him. How his muscles and ligaments were shredded under the velocity of the being’s claws never hindered his own onslaught. How he had to pry his own intenstines out from his peritoneal cavity to prevent him from tripping over it never evoked a sense of horror. He would give credit when it was due, the doctor certainly enhanced his healing factor.

As it turned out, a Griffin-like being with a flaming head was harder to swat than he anticipated. From a bucket of water, to using the fire extinguisher before bashing it’s skull with the end of the empty canister, he didn’t know how long the fight lasted until it was a new record.

Seven days. Four hours. Twenty minutes.

As someone once said, “time flies when you’re in an adrenaline rush.”

Not even after he hobbled out of the destroyed agency with the singeing aroma of salt, copper, gasoline and rotting flesh, was he greeted with the cries reserved for the victor. Gasping and cheering onlookers could only watch in wide-eyed wonder and admiration at how he stood in grotesque triumph. Being in the limelight never gave him comfort, in fact, he nearly shuffled to escape the crowd as soon as possible.

“We could use someone like you,” a man in a well-tailored suit said, “I’m part of this association and—”

“No,” a harsh refutation, he knows, but he knew better than to hand out his trust like brochures.

In spite of his protest, the intern attempted to chase after him, “but, sir! That monster was a threat level—!” Demon? Dragon? Dog? Who knew. It wasn’t until his arm, the one hanging by a thread of rotting muscle, fell off his shoulder that he was finally left be. The suppressed disgust did not go unnoticed.

“I don’t care.”

Not initially. Had it been his choice, he wouldn’t have even dreamed of being regarded as a poster boy. Since being confined in a pseudo-cage match with just about every abomination Genus could conjure, joining a group of Boy Scouts would have heightened his sensitivity to something he encountered often.

He could barely stomach analyzing a pallid, frigid reflection of himself projected onto a stranger. To envision that scarlet thread lay limp between their finger and his own—a relationship he could best describe as acquaintances—only served as an irritant he couldn’t scratch out. Though, that might have been amplified by the constant attempts to recruit him.

At this point of his life, the private investigator would resume his work. He always did, even after spending a quarter of his immortal days chained to a wall with nothing but his thoughts and his weapons to keep him company.

His last case was what prompted him to apply.

He didn’t know who hired him, but he did know that someone managed to figure out the address to his homely apartment. When asked whether he knew who the handwriting belonged to, none of them would have matched the description of the writer.

Lollipops?

The private investigator couldn’t help but be a bit dubious, but it was better than getting harassment calls and emails from interns. He read somewhere that people ate sweets to stimulate their thinking, but he just assumed it was a quick way to get a sweet tooth.

What the hell, he needed to get some coffee anyway.

As instructed, he took the public transit to Y-City. Folks were more kinder, a bit pompous, but it could have been due to the fact that he was a walking carcass that made headlines already—save for the idol hero, Anal Mask or whatever the hell his name is—but college kids were quick to point out where Doctor Hajime’s lab was. “He teaches my robotics class,” was the usual answer.

By the time he encountered the front door, he counted how many seconds he would have to escape. Chances were there was gonna be a cyborg or a robot to try and pin him down, inject him with something to make him black out. He had his machetes tucked under the collar of his shirt, his dessert Eagles were holstered at his hips and he had a handsome fire axe within the bag of lollipops and candy apples. He had time to escape, he would ensure that he would, least he opt to shove himself into the nearby wood chipper to finally do himself in.

What he anticipated from the opening door was an older gentleman, someone with a bow tie and unruly and snowy hair. His countenance would have been cobwebbed with age, his shoulders hunched to pronounce a spinal compression. Yet, he would offer a smile as dulcet and as mannerly as any other kind old man.

Instead, the private investigator was greeted with a boy with vibrant tawny eyes and a little auburn curl at the top of his crown. He had to be no older than nine years old. He couldn’t have been any taller than the door knob.

In an instant, he snuffed out his cigarette against the masonry and knelt down to the kid’s height. An instinctual response from someone who was once an uncle—father?—in a family who had long forgotten about him. “Hey kiddo,” the investigator began, “you seen where your dad went off to?”

As incredulous as the kid was, the investigator nearly assumed he went to the wrong place. That was until the boy spoke, “Considering I haven’t seen my father in nearly four years, I’m afraid not,” he paused as he offered a small, wistful smile, “but trust me, you’re not the first person to ask me that.”

Safe to assume that the child genius was much more hospitable than the private investigator was accustomed to. Then again, as he presented a lollipop to the child, those tawny eyes flourished as he hastily accepted the treat from the detective’s grasp. “Thank you, sir!”

“Don’t mention it,” whether or not he was aware of it, there was a smile that aligned.

As the two of them enjoyed their sweets, Hajime elucidated further about the technological black market. What routes they typically took and how he managed to figure out their patterns. The kid truly did have a good head on his shoulders.

“I have a hypothesis that these robots that are being trafficked underneath City W, X, Y and Z aren’t really used for security.”

“And why do you think so?”

“Well, Z-City has a lot of manifestations of monsters. If basic security-Trons were sent off to handle the threats, it would be a waste of resources. I mean, it’s carbon and bismuth—it’s elementary stuff.”

The boy paused as he used his watch as a hologram to present the blueprint of one of the robots. The private eye wasn’t exactly ‘technologically savvy,’ but Hajime called it ‘basic’ so he would just have to take his word for it.

“But that’s not what caught my attention,” he elucidated, as the boy extended his fingertips, the robot’s physique separated by segments of its parts. When he pointed toward a certain adapter, the private investigator couldn’t help but furrow his brows a bit.

“That’s a cranial nerve implant.”

Hajime paused, as if he had fully prepared an exasperative and long-winded statement, “you’ve encountered them before?”

When implored, he suppressed the urge to visibly quake under the phantasmic impulses of electricity that had once trailed down the expense of his brain stem. It was a way to analyze how fast he developed increased intracranial pressure, he remembered Genus saying.

“Friend was a doc,” a decent lie that Hajime seemingly overlooked, though the private investigator felt an acrimonious taste in his mouth. “She said something about how it’d use electricity to wake up dead nerves.”

His russet glare narrowed as he brought a hand to caress his own chin, “thought they’d still be in development...”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking!” For a moment, the boy’s joviality made him appear exactly his age.

Ah- now it’s starting to make sense.

“From what I know, Z-City has monsters just about every corner,” the investigator began. His baritone suddenly lost it’s intrigue once he mentally assembled the puzzle pieces the best he could. “With monsters, people tend to be more scared than they should be. What do you think being scared means?”

The boy’s eyebrows raised, “they’re paranoid?”

“And—?”

“They...” while it was easy to assemble a mechanical enigma to guard civilians, it was harder to provide a baseline to something as fluctuating as human response. Hajime eventually restored to shrugging his shoulders, “...they’re desperate?”

With that, the private investigator pressed a finger to the tip of his nose before he pointed at Hajime. “Desperate people tend to do stupid. If I’m a single father living in Z-City, you think turning into the terminator wouldn’t be my go-to?”

Such analysis didn’t seem to satisfy the boy. Whether or not it was a challenging diatribe, it was enough of a refutation to make the investigator think a bit, “but you know it’s permanent right? I mean, the cranial nerves aren’t exactly something you want to tamper with, especially if those implants can get into your cerebrum and alter you entirely.”

“Well, you—the kid genius—might know that,” he deflected easily, “but what about me? I’m a single father with a degree in underwater basket weaving. Do you think they taught me about cranial nerves while I was trying to make a basket?”

One could hear a pin drop until the boy piped up, “I mean- if you’re scuba diving and you’re weaving the basket—”

“Just finish your lollipop, kiddo.”

Several weeks had passed when they finally traced a call to one of the robotic manufacturers. It was certainly much more handy than to thread scarlet yarn along what tabs had pinned photographs. Then again, doing things the old fashioned way made old habits die hard.

Needless to say, the private eye could understand the boy’s fascination with his toy-like projects. From a giant action figure he kept buried within the depths of the earth to the robot dogs that served as a pseudo-trump card, it was like assembling legos for him. As the two of them took the public transit to Z-City, the two of them settled into a comfortable silence, save for Hajime’s need to tamper with a Rubik’s cube.

Unlike the other Alphabet cities, the ambiance around Z-City felt calloused and empty. It was but the abyss that stared upon them once they left the transit and it gave the private eye an eery sensation that crept along his vertebrae. It must have been that paternal instinct.

“Stay close to me,” he cautioned, though he should have known better that Hajime didn’t like to be talked down to.

“I can take care of myself.”

“—and if I can’t take care of myself?”

Reverse psychology seemed to do wonders, as Hajime’s vanity subsided for the need to have his partner’s back. Should anyone ask, the detective wouldn’t admit the presence of his little smile.

The call had declared that the deal would be set in the alley nestled next to a udon stand and an apartment complex. It was an easy hole in a wall and, considering how the civilian was late, he and Hajime had to play their part. Between himself and no one in particular, he preferred it that way. The last thing he wanted was for someone to die in front of the boy.

“Oi,” the thuggish chirp resounded from the maw of a strange man who looked mechanically modified. His brows were too close to his eyes, accenting a crueler look. The detective fought every urge to usher Hajime behind him. “You Hammerhead?”

He silently reprimanded himself for not bringing a hammer.

“Yeah,” the detective’s response was nonchalant, a lethargic drawl that could have remained hidden within a thick penumbra of nicotine.

“Who’s the brat?”

“Mine,” short and concise, though he let his russet gaze nearly puncture into the dealer, “you want the money or should I show you my wedding photos?” He went in too eager, though that was exactly the point with desperate people. Fortunately, the dealer turned out to simply comply at the mention of money.

“Seven thousand yen.”

It was agreed upon with a shaky baritone by the real customer prior. However, it was a game that the detective often played prior to meeting Dr. Genus. Once he began to thumb his fingers along the bills in his pocket, the dealer swiftly interjected the detective’s counting.

“I-I meant Seventy thousand!”

“Oh?”

Seventy thousand it was that was instantly slapped into the dealer’s hand. However, there was hardly a moment when the dealer abruptly seized the detective’s arm and held him hostage at gunpoint.

Needless to say, one should never underestimate the strength of a man who wanted to make civilians into cyborgs. With an irritated sigh, the immortal felt his head jerk to the side as a bullet pierced through his temporal lobe. Albeit, the moment his body should have sprawled limp was the instant he seized his machete and took a blind swipe. What astonishment and pure horror from the mechanical marvel only wrought a hand to catch the blade.

Fortunately, the fist that veered to deck the detective never came to deliver. Rather, a tendril that emerged from Hajime’s backpack seized the mechanical marvel’s appendage into a tight lock. It was but a split second when the detective retrieved the machete’s twin and severed the appendage.

“Shit—!” The hydra hydrolauics swiftly seized ahold of the being and attempted to suspend him in the air. Hajime’s hands braced tight to his backpack’s straps, though the dealer proved to be a formidable foe, as he laconically wrapped his free arm around a tendril to toss the brat.

Safe to say that the detective prioritized catching the kid than the dealer. Both had landed with a harsh grunt against the asphalt before the detective hastily retrieved his desert Eagle and fired. Once again, it was a null chance, given how he was abruptly seized by his throat and tossed through the brick masonry of the neglected library.

What sanguine from the brunt trauma coagulated and the flesh wounds he sustained, he could only instinctively block the blow from the mechanical marvel. Regular fisticuffs was a fond favorite of his, typically because of how seldom he did it. What reciprocating strike had been enough to swivel his head evoked him to land a brutal bite of his axe into where his opponent should have been.

“Mr. Detective!”

It was but a moment that the private eye peered over to see Hajime with a snapped tendril, it’s cobwebs of electricity was a big enough hint for him. The instant he distanced himself, the dealer had not a moment to abstain when his back arched under the brutal conduction of carbon and lightning. His howl was guttural, ripping through the empty ambiance before he collapsed at their feet.

What should have been a victorious high-five was but a dreadful beat of anticipation. Hajime could only stare down at the beaten villain, “did I kill him...?” His murmur was rather hushed, as monsters were not the same as modified humans.

For the sake of the boy’s anxiety, the detective brought the tip of his shoe to budge the dealer. The somnolent twitch of his countenance wrought a sense of relief to weigh into the boy’s sigh.

The private investigator offered a high-five for the boy to make. The gesture was slow, as if cautious, but the kid genius managed to reciprocate it. “You did good,” he didn’t know it then, but it was a compliment that Hajime would hold to his heart later.

On taking the transit back to City-Y, the detective opted to intervene the silence. An odd thing for him to do, but it was just them and a few others coming home late.

“So, your parents—” it might have been too sensitive of a subject, but he opted to continue, “—did they uh...” it would have been easy to assume they did die. After all, it was how every hero was sculpted.

Hajime only shook his head, “no,” he said before he retrieved a little Rubik’s cube from his backpack. His fingers fidgeted the slots as his hazel gaze lingered toward the trinket, “I mean, they’re overseas. They send me birthday cards sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” The private investigator couldn’t help but raise a brow at that.

“When they remember.”

Had the private investigator known about Hajime’s profession outside of being a teacher then, he would have been more than happy to demand what the hell was more important than their own kid. Did they know he was handled by suits who depended on currency than their own workers? Even if one of them—two if he counted Badd later—was a child?

Even if he didn’t know it, his furor was quiet enough to make him try to huff out a sigh. His jaw clenched along the curses he would have hissed under his breath when no one was around. Fortunately, Hajime was a quick study.

“What about you?” He must have thought it was a witty comeback, considering how his nose wrinkled a bit, “where’d your parents go?”

“Can’t say I remember,” he knew he had them, but he didn’t know what he did with them. Were they around when he died the first time? Longer? All he could afford to do was wander aimlessly as a phantom without a shell. “Been around since the A.D’s.”

“The A.D.’s??”

As it turned out, Hajime was fascinated with history. The boy’s queries seemed to be rapid fire initially, such as whether or not Shakespeare was a real person (he was), how far has technology gone (far enough), or if the crusades were as brutal as written (it was, but he never had the pleasure in fighting in the wars). The boy’s excitement seemed to tucker him out quickly unfortunately.

Just as the private investigator began to describe what Feudal Japan was like, Hajime nodded off and slumped against the detective’s shoulder. Their stop only prompted him to gingerly scoop the boy up into one arm and carry his—surprisingly dense—backpack with the other. Fortune came in technological wonders, as the lab seemed to unlock its hinges at the presence of their creator’s facial recognition.

The time was late when he finally tucked the boy into bed. Hajime’s backpack slumped against the masonry. There was a strange and phantasmic ache at the base of the detective’s chest, something he hadn’t really felt since he last died.

Prior, he often wondered if it was better to be alone or to try and have a family. He was told he was good with kids by their parents who would hire him to find them. To imagine himself as a father was frightening nowadays, as he could envision that bastard trying to pick up his kids for experimentation.

With Hajime safely in bed, the detective’s thoughts drifted to the newspaper that detailed the triumphs of S-Class Hero Child Emperor against the dreadful turnip monster that interrupted his robotics cla—

...They seriously named the kid “Child Emperor” huh?

The detective contemplated on the transit home just as hard as he was contemplating it back home. His glare lingered toward the shredded up business card. It took every increment of his pride to collect the pieces, but the heroes association weren’t exactly child-friendly.

Did that mean he couldn’t try to do better? For the first time, he felt a sense of balance when handling the dealer. His agency was going to go nowhere and he needed the money, that wasn’t including the fact that Hajime would have ended up, perhaps, the only sensible person there.

he hated being right at times.

He needed to do better, not for the sake of spiting Genus, but to be better for himself.

After he called the intern’s number, he waited until there was a ‘hello?” At the other end of the line.

“Hi,” he says, “I’d like to file a hero application. Do you mind walking me through the process?”

#one punch man #opm #what kendall writes.#Zombieman #child emperor #It took me awhile to write P H E W #sorry about that!#origins headcanon #It’s probably my longest post #hope everyone enjoys though!

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littledarlinwrites · 5 years

Text

Dream a Little Dream Of Me

1940s!Bucky Barnes x Reader

This is for @teamcap4bucky Summer Sun and Fun Game! Thank you so much for hosting and for being so patient with me when I screwed up the due date. This was specifically written for @majesticavenger, I'm so sorry for the wait, but I hope it was worth it! Anywho, this is the first time I've wrote 40s!Bucky and I'm hella needy at the moment 'cause life, so leave me some love y'all! (Also, as soon as I can jump on my laptop I'll add a keep reading link, I'm not savvy enough to do it on mobile).

You trudged up to your Brooklyn apartment, your cat howling on the fire escape outside your bedroom window to be let in. A tired smile graves your face after a long day of work. A job you were grateful for, but bittersweet under the circumstances, patients sick or dying, and men going off to war only to never return either physically or mentally. You couldn't wait to hide away in your apartment for the rest of the night, draw a hot bath, listen to a radio program before nodding off to sleep. And, if you were lucky, maybe your apartment pen pal had sent you another note attached to your cats threaded collar. The thought of it made you pick up your pace as you climbed your apartment buildings staircase.

You practically ran into your apartment and to your bedroom window, flipping the latch and looking for the paper that was typically wrapped around your cats collar and tied with a baby blue string.

You found the paper, tying the baby blue string to an embroidery hoop with the others you collected. Today the note was short, just a song suggestion, something he would do on a rough day. You drew your bath water while turning up the radio station to catch the song. It wasn't until you were crawling into bed that the song played. Moonlight Serenade. You just hoped Lucky, the nickname he had told you to call him, was somewhere listening to it too.

The following morning you rushed around to get ready for the day and out the door in time. You scribbled your note to Lucky and wrapped it around the cat's collar before shooing it out the window.

----

Bucky laid on his bed, window open, waiting for the furry creature to make its way to him like it always did. Nox, she had said was the cat's name. Usually Bucky appreciated cats from a distance considering they would make him sneezy and itchy, but he couldn't help but enjoy the conversations with his pen pal. Luna, she had said to call her. A nickname her mother gave her due to her infatuation with the giant orb in the sky. He won every single match after he started talking with her, and he didn't consider that a coincidence.

Bucky heard the mewling from the black cat before he felt it curl up on his chest. He scratched the cat behind its ears causing the cat to purr contentedly before he began unfurling the note attached to its knitted collar.

“Silently if, out of not knowable

night’s utmost nothing, wanders a little guess

(only which is this world) more of my life does

not leap than with the mystery your smile

sings or if (spiraling as luminous

they climb oblivion) voices who are dreams,

less into heaven certainly earth swims

than each my deeper death becomes your kiss

losing through you what seemed myself, I find

selves unimaginably mine; beyond

sorrow’s own joys and hoping’s very fears

yours is the light by which my spirit’s born:

yours is the darkness of my soul’s return

–you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars”

-E. E. Cummings

Bucky read the poem three times before reaching for a piece of paper and jotting down some words. He wrapped the piece of paper around the cats collar, tying it with a frayed blue string from his work shirt and turned over to get a couple hours of sleep, if only his heart would stop fluttering like a hummingbird in his chest.

----

Walking through your door was a complete relief, even more so after stripping your nurses outfit and stockings. The hot shower relaxing your stiff and sore muscles. You donned your nightgown before opening your window for your cat to come home while running a brush through your wet strands. Eventually you heard the telltale meowing of your hungry cat before you heard its soft padding jumps to your floor from your window. You manage to scoop the black cat into your arms before you have to chase him through your apartment. You pull the thread holding the note onto his collar and unfurl the note to read it.

My lucky star

You shine so brightly

My lucky star

You guide me through the night

My lucky star

You give me hope

My lucky star

You guide me home

My lucky star

You help me more than you know

My lucky star

Oh how you glow

My lucky star

Please never let me go

The words set fire to your face as your stomach erupted with a swarm of butterflies. You pulled out your journal, pressing the note between the next set of empty pages. You turn your radio on humming along to the song as you lay in your bed fighting sleep just to think about Lucky just a moment more.

When you wake in the morning you grab a paper and something to write with as you write down a couple lines to a song, one of your favorites, before you got ready for the day, humming the tune on your way to work and all through your day. Except, you forgot to leave the window open for your cat to get out to pass on the waiting note.

----

Bucky was fighting sleep waiting for the cat to prance his way through the window before making a home on his bed. Sleep clawed at his mind, his eye lids weighed heavy and sore with a need for rest. And just like that, Bucky fell asleep for the first time without the sound of a cat purring on his bed.

He woke up and walked to the shipyard, loading and unloading pallets until the sun hung low in the sky. He felt off kilter all day. Like he was just a hair off with his footing and could never get it quite right. He was a bit more clumsy than usual. All signs that he should cancel his match tonight and back out while he still could, but he trudged on, assuring himself that he could use the money so maybe he could take his lucky star out on a proper date. He made his way to the Y for his match pumping himself up, he just couldn't help this nagging feeling though that he was missing something.

----

When you got home from work your humming abruptly stopped when you saw your cat staring at you in the middle of the room, tail twitching every so often. Your shoulder slumped when you realized you never let your cat out with your note. You moved slowly to refill the food bowl before making yourself a small dinner. Your gut sinking by the minute that something was wrong. You went to bed that night hoping the feeling would pass by morning.

When you woke you realized you were running late. You dressed quickly before running out the door and to the hospital before checking your patient list, a relatively short one, but you had patients to attend to nonetheless. You made your way through your rounds before stopping at the last bed. A mess of bruises, a boxers fracture, sprained wrist, 2 broken ribs and the rest bruised, a black eye and a concussion. However, one look into the man's eye that wasn't swollen shut took your breath away. You decided then that blue was your all time favorite color. You checked his pulse, administered his medication which involved rousing him from his slumber, and making sure his bandages were fresh and in place. You turned to leave but stopped short at the site of a baby blue work shirt with frayed edges. You thumbed over the loose threads and noticed it was missing a few as if they had been pulled and cut for a purpose. The faintest whisper escaped you.

"Lucky?" A few beats passed before you heard the man you were just attending to clear his throat.

"Luna?" He asked confused. Your hand flew to your mouth as you gasped. You couldn't believe the man that made you blush on more than one occasion, that had worked his way into your dreams even though you had never seen his face, was now your patient.

"You okay there, doll?" He asked. When you barely nodded telling him yes he began to move as if to get out of bed sending you into a flurry of motion.

"Lucky, you're hurt-"

"Bucky. I mean, my real name is James Buchanan Barnes, but most people call me Bucky." He grits out as pain shoots through his ribcage.

"Well, Bucky, you're hurt, you shouldn't move much quite yet." He nods as he waits for the wave of pain to pass.

"What happened to you?" You can't help but ask.

"I, uh, work at the shipyard during the afternoon, but at night I box. Damn good at it too. Guess luck just wasn't on my side last night, doll."

"Uh, Y/N. My name that is. My name is Y/N." A smile made its way onto Bucky's face.

"Why didn't you write back, doll? Didn't think my on the spot poem was that terrible." The giggle that managed to escape you at his humor about his poetry was like music to his ears, and he decided that he wanted to hear that sound forever.

"Sorry, that was my fault. I wrote you a note, I really did, but I forgot to open the window for my cat to deliver it. I loved your poem actually." A blush crawled upon Bucky's face at your words.

"What was the note?" He asked curiously.

"Oh, just some lines from a song, nothing special."

"It's always special coming from you, doll. What was the song?" This time it was your turn to blush.

"Dream a Little Dream of Me." You replied bashfully.

"What lines?"

"Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you

Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you

But in your dreams whatever they be

Dream a little dream of me."

"That's one of my favorites, doll."

The rest of your shift you spent at Bucky's bedside talking music, poetry, family, pets, friends, where your apartment was and everything else under the sun. You told Bucky you would come by tomorrow to spend the day with him since it was your day off. You couldn't wait to come back, although it was bittersweet realizing there would be no note to come home to.

When you woke the next morning you heard a tapping at your door. You opened it to reveal Bucky standing there with a bouquet of flowers with a note.

I dreamt a little dream of you.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky fluff #buckyxreader #james barnes x reader #40s!bucky #40s!bucky x reader #40s!bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes marvel #james bucky barnes #bucky #bucky barnes

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skippyv20 · 5 years

Note

Skippy, JE was arrested on July 6th. On July 10 are cargo ship owned by JP Morgan Chase carrying $1.3 billion worth of cocaine was impounded. There are threads connecting JE to Bear Sterns and JP Morgan Chase all over the Internet. Any anons savvy re banking? Whatever is going down I think the sex-trafficking reveals are actually a smokescreen for what deep state really need to hide.

Oh I think it’s many things....yes...😞❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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davidschnuckel · 6 years

Text

Guerilla Visual Tactics

StreetKraft Features Glass at the Intersection of the Gallery and the Street

2/20/2019

The Winter issue of GASnews is hot off the digital press! Content in this issue is motivated by the theme of SUBVERSION and examines a wide variety of ways in which the glass field hosts, supports and/or promotes the renegade spirit in relation to professional practice. For this issue, I spend time assessing a curatorial effort by Kim Harty entitled "StreetKraft" at the Royal Oaks, Michigan based Habatat Gallery. I was hoping the issue of GASnews would publish far earlier than it did as the exhibition opened and closed within the previous month of September. Regardless, this piece examines an interesting gesture to merge the high-brow context of the blue-chip glass gallery and artists who place their practice (and material relationship) within the guttural modes of self-expression found in street art. There are many more dualities at play within this exhibition that made it an interesting focal point in my constant consideration of this time and place within contemporary glass...and I feel that those stand out in one's reading of this article. it almost demands a follow-up to address things that weren't part of the conversation; things like the brief return of graphics, Imagery and narrative within glass, the brief resurrection of loud, splashy color within conceptually-driven glass work and the socio-political commentary between regional street artists and the artists within StreetKraft about how much "street" may or may not truly present in this exhibition. But until then, this review basks in the yin and yang of StreetKraft's tendency to straddle the fence between reverence and sacrilege visually, conceptually and culturally. Below is the draft I submitted to my Editor in its full, unedited version to serve as supplemental material to what is seen in the Winter 2019 issue of GASnews:

Of all the ways in which the word (k)raft has been scorned as only involving kitsch, misunderstood as only relating to the cheap and the mercantile, and has limited notions of hand-based practice only to the quiet, pious and pastoral comes an exhibition that noticeably turns all those misconceptions on their head. Just outside of the artist utopia that Detroit is resurging to be is the neighboring community of Royal Oak, home to Habatat Galleries. It is here that StreetKraft had been hosted from August 18th to September 15th this past Fall and curated by Kim Harty, artist, writer and Assistant Professor of Glass at the College for Creative Studies. “When I was invited to curate a show at Habatat I wanted to do something that would fit the time and place of the gallery,” mentions Harty. “Detroit has been bubbling with street art throughout the city, and in museums like the DIA and the Cranbrook Art Museum. I also wanted to assemble a show that was very visual, that had a strong sense of imagery, form, and color to bring the viewer into.” In an effort to bridge Harty’s observations of a dialogue that could happen between Habatat and the street art scene of Detroit, StreetKraft was an exhibition highlighting instances of glass thinking from around the world that dwells in the conceptual underbelly of the street: the renegade vernacular of its visual language, its symbology (both real and imagined), its literal tones and its figurative textures. Although initially seen by Harty as an opportunity to create connections between separate creative forces within her region, StreetKraft expands the conversation by inviting artists from a little bit of everywhere...including Detroit, but well beyond it, too. With seventeen artists from various corners of the United States, Poland, Australia and Japan represented in the show, ‘the street’ reveals a diversity of impetus within the work as widespread as the international standing of its participants. Regardless of place, each artist is spoken to - and speaking through - ‘the street’ to explore ideas that evaluate, assess, predict and push a spectrum of issues related to contemporary culture. “I’ve also noticed a counter-cultural thread in glass that isn’t often acknowledged as a trend or theme,” Harty mentions. “Certainly, pipe culture is part of that, but there are many artists working in other genres that have subversive or political content to their work. I wanted to assemble a critical mass of artists to acknowledge the work that is being done and contextualize it together.”

The range of glass vernacular in StreetKraft is as varied as what the individual works are speaking to. Glass processes like blowing, neon, flat glass imaging, kiln forming and flameworking engage a few ties in conceptual approach: Leo Tecosky representative of a shared body of work in the show visually reinterpreting street markings, signage and other guerilla modes of linguistical coding. Emily McBride representative of a shared body of work in the show engaging the generally overlooked emblems of low-class iconography, mass production and other fixed tokens within the daily grind. Esteban Salazar representative of a shared body of work in the show visualizing – even prophesying – concern through city-scaped lens of a perhaps not-so-fictitious, future dilemma involving ecological and societal collapse. Caledonia Curry (aka SWOON) representative of a shared body of work in the show accentuating a romantic angle to the street; of finding and amplifying the extraordinary potential of elements hidden in plain sight within an urban scene. The convergence of ‘the street’ and glass practice in StreetKraft does reveal itself to be a curious intersection to cross…full of interesting ironies between the two platforms of creative inquiry and activity. Various forms of street art, tagging and graffiti being unsanctioned gestures and, therefore, motivated by a sense of immediacy in one’s materials and process. Quickness is key, not only in what is done and how, but boldly in what and how the work visually articulates itself once done and discovered. Glass, on the other hand, is full of rules; not legally enforced, but rules governed by elements of time and temperature in order for anything to survive even its own making. Unlike the street’s immediate modes of visual communication, glass is – even at its quickest mode of processing - time intensive. And expensive. And fragile. Part of what makes StreetKraft such an interesting premise is that it resides in duality; a creative field that demands such sensitivity, consideration and protocol that glass does mingling with a creative field that’s primarily built on aggressive resilience, the gut and subversion. And the sass. The shamelessness and brazen disposition of ‘the street’ crossing over into the sanctified character of how glass is approached, handled and produced for exhibition is interesting, too. The exhibition title invites further upheaval; not only integrating one of the dirtiest words in contemporary glass parlance, but subverting how the term “craft” is both understood by its believers and misperceived by its dissenters…simultaneously. StreetKraft bypasses the notion of (k)raft as but an aesthetically rooted approach to making and demonstrates it existing best instead as a method of thinking by way of doing. Especially in terms of creative activity. Especially more so in terms of street-savvy, insurrectionally motivated matters of making. It is here that StreetKraft claims (k)raft as a verb…not a made thing per se, but the idea of taking action. And if it has to be regarded as a noun, (k)craft as belief system of “fuck you” to the pomp and circumstance of glass, glass making, glass culture and maybe even the context of the blue-chip gallery context. You will not find things like finesse for the sake of finesse here, nor will you find high-end commodities that’ll go with the couch.

Instead, StreetKraft illuminates the philosophical roots of (k)raft under a highly contemporary lens of proficiently wielded sacrilege: making with intentions off the beaten path of the “exquisite art object” and, instead, on the hunt for empowerment…to artist and public alike. The conceptual integration of (k)raft within the notion of ‘the street’ provides an interesting angle to a conversation we thought we’ve talked to death already. To help illustrate, I imagine a twenty-something Basquiat, prior to becoming famous; an adept - yet still unknown - graffiti artist. I imagine him in action in the dead of night. I imagine the agility with which he accesses forbidden public surfaces to enhance. Each step towards his empty canvas a moment to finalize his plans to illegally modify it with his vision. And to modify it brilliantly. I imagine the dexterity with which this proficient, yet to be recognized street artist commands the movements of his can of bargain-bin spray paint. The quick wit of his message, the thoughtfulness of its placement and the timing of its social sting once discovered by an unsuspecting public at first daylight.

In this fictitious moment – of me attempting to identify with someone I’ve never known by way of an art form I’ve never done in a moment that may never have happened – I begin to find parallels of similarity between the two very dissimilar worlds that glass and ‘the street’ are. The engagement of meaningful creative activity, of bodily performance as one chases their vision down, of making creative decisions in real time, in real space and in doing so with real impact internally and externally: this is where the power of (k)raft within StreetKraft resides. On the surface, StreetKraft has much to convey. In this post-millennial, post-recession and post-#yeswecan political and cultural era, StreetKraft hosts glass-based thinking and making as a call to action. When present, the rough-and-tumble contributions to the show elicit a sense of urgency. But the slick and savvy contributions are red flags in and of themselves, representing the calm before an ambiguously predicted storm. And the relationship between a show like this being hosted at a venue like Habatat Galleries is worthy of a longer conversation of its own… “I think [StreetKraft] demonstrates that there is a place for somewhat radical (at least in the glass context) work in commercial galleries,” says Harty. “This show is unlike anything Habatat has done before, yet it actually fits seamlessly into their space.” Even so, StreetKraft doesn’t give a shit about formalities. Pipes exist here, as do sculptural objects, as do image-based works, spatial arrangements, sound-inducing kinetic works, the rough, the tight, things on the wall, things on the floor, things in your face. The correspondence between what is so alluring about ‘the street’ creatively and what is so intriguing philosophically about traditional notions of (k)raft is just so poetically ripe. For starters, I’m drawn to the exhibition’s abstracted comparison of street art in relation to (k)raft’s historical associations with function; the hand and its gestures as a vehicle with which to “produce” a circumstance of “usefulness” in relation to broader areas of critical conversation. But I’m also drawn to elements of conceptual wordplay between the two seemingly different worlds: the impetus of street-inspired art to rise from objection in relation to (k)craft’s historical associations with the object and object making… The immediate connotations of StreetKraft are interesting indeed. But its undercurrents are just so, so rich. For information and images of StreetKraft visit the exhibition catalog here.

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geminimoonbeamx · 6 years

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Retrograde: Part Two

A/N: Okay, y'all- here it is. My installation of 'Retrograde', a story I'm writing with one of my closest friends peacefulwriter88. I will be writing mostly for Beth Buckley- I hope you guys like her

Word Count: 2k+

Warnings: As with all of my stories, there's a permanent warning of Cursing. I have a mouth like a sailor, and I express myself through the word Fuck.

Summary: After the initial meeting or the reader at the Gala, Beth reflects on her past.

As per usual, the gala had seemed to drain Beth of all the energy she had. Left her feeling shell-like, had her all but dragging her self up to the ritzy hotel room she was currently inhabiting during her stay in New York. One that she was hoping would be brief, not that she liked spending a prolonged amount of time anywhere these days-she thanked fuck, frequently, that she had a career that kept her up in the air, but New York City?

Yeah, she was always anxious to put these city lights in her rear view. Wanted to put as much distance as possible between herself and these people...

Except Y/N, Beth thinks as she wipes off the layers of makeup off of her face. As she declutters herself of the "costume" she was used to donning at these parties. The ones that she had been forced to attend since before she could remember. Hair pins sticking uncomfortably against her skull and the pinch of designer heels on her feet were like second nature to her.

But finding someone that she could actually communicate to? That held her interest, who wanted to talk about something other then how expensive the wine they were drinking was. Someone who didn't small talk about the charity that they were donating thousands of dollars to, the same one they only knew two facts or so about... now that was a rarity.

As Beth collapses into the large, plush bed with plop. She stares at the ceiling. Zoning, allowing her mind to wander, to chase memories that she usually kept under lock and key. Ones filled with icy blue eyes and promises of a future that never came-

The night Beth met him, Carter Baizen-

The dull thump of pain that came from her chest, while painful, at least didn't make her physically flinch anymore.

-had gone something like tonight. A big, crowded party and a pretty dress.

And a boy who had turned her inside out.

It had been a musky June evening, the Texas heat unforgiving as ever and Beth had been cursing what ever non-native had planned the event as an outdoor excursion. The pale pink dress Beth had dawned for the night didn't breathe at all and she was sweating so much her hair had started to curl at the root. She made her rounds, dutifully, though. Kept a beaming smile on her face, forced awkward conversation through her teeth. The gossip flowing through her ears and sticking somewhere dark in her brain. She hated to admit it, but even she wasn't strong enough to resist the pull of juicy gossip.

She managed to make it through multiple rounds of drunk racists pretending that they gave a shit about kids before peeling herself away from the crowds and find a quiet corner where she could dissociate in peace.

Beth missed Bree, and she couldn't help but sulk as she sipped on the fizzy champagne. She still wasn't used to flying solo at these things- and as she stared at the thousand thread count dinner cloth, she thought of her cousin. What was she doing? Where was she- Bree had sent a few postcards here and there but in reality, the line of communication was all but dead between the two.

Beth didn't blame Bree for being pissed at her- if anything she was grudging through some serious self hate with the whole thing.

If only she wasn't such a pussy, if only she was as brave as Bree; she'd be touring around Europe too.

She was so wrapped up in herself that she almost didn't notice his approach. Him, in that dark suit, the one that's at fit him like a glove. The first couple buttons of his button down popped, leaving him with that casual aesthetic that he'd perfected over the years. Her eyes had trailed up his form, until moss green clashed with gun metal.

In retrospect, she thinks from that very first look- from the moment that they're eyes met, she'd been hooked. It's cliché and it nearly makes her gag now, but the way Carter had looked at her...like he'd actually seen her, in the haze of socialites and politicians.

Elisabeth Buckley had gone nineteen years being invisible- she was a good looking girl, but she was "big", round, plump. Overweight, so people overlooked her. She was smart, but not brilliant like her older brother. She wasn't business savvy like her many cousins and she wasn't charming like Beth. She was the plain Buckley cousin- they one who somehow managed to be boring, even though her very conception had been a scandal.

No one paid any attention to her, not really. And she had grown to be okay with that, flying under the radar was safe. It was comfortable.

But he smiled like sunshine- and flowers didn't bloom in the shade.

"You hiding out back here?" Carter had grinned and Beth had choked on the words, they got stuck in her throat in a way that left her flustered and feeling stupid. For Christ sake, she scolded herself.

"Um, kind of? I like to drink in peace...I also like to be able to hear myself think, so there's that" Beth could have slapped herself- could've shaken herself for being so damn awkward all the time.

Carter didn't seem to be deterred.

He nods, that half smirk not leaving his face as he sipped on his own drink "Quality time with your thoughts is always important...would you mind if I sat with you for a while? I, too, enjoy being able to hear myself think while I drink"

Beth's head tilted to the side slightly, as though she was analyzing him. Her thick brows pulling together and her pout quirking. Carter couldn't help the way his curiosity peaked. He'd never seen a person be so...transparent before. All of her emotions shown through on her face, the honesty in her hazel eyes startled him.

It was endearing.

It took his eyes flashing to the chair, the blue orbs coaxing her.

"Of course. I mean it's not like I own the place" Another mental face palm and a chuckle from Carter, and he was sitting next to her. She thought he'd take the seat across the table, but instead he'd sluffed down next to her, he didn't fail to notice the way she curled into herself, seeming almost shocked that he'd want to be near her.

It confuses him, it's not like she's unfortunate looking, Yeah, she could lose a few pounds, but she has nice hair. And those big, doe like green eyes border on hypnotic. From what he could see peeking out of the bottom of her dress- her legs we're curvy, attractive...

"I'm Carter- Carter Baizen" he introduced himself smoothly, holding out his hand for her to shake. Of course she knew who he was- even if she hadn't grown up in New York- all the influential families knew about eachother. She thinks she remembers him from one of her families many beach houses, a childhood vacation long past...

"I'm Beth. Nice to meet you, Carter"

"The pleasures all mine" He'd charmed and Beth remembers just how...awe inducing he was. How beautiful. The way that she'd blushed so hard, her cheekbones almost matched her hair color.

But even from that first meeting, he could tell that he'd have to be gentle with her. She looked ready to bolt. To get up and run away from him, and if there was one thing he was good at(although he'd probably offer that there were many), it was the way he could read people. Dissect them to their core. He had a gift, a knack for being able to peel away layers. Of saying exactly what people needed to hear.

And Beth made it easy.

She wanted to talk, was dying to give her opinion to anyone who would bother to listen to her for more then five seconds. And surprisingly, for him, he actually agreed with most of them. He didn't expect to ever be sitting and debating about the religious war in Israel or renewable energy sources. Fuck he hadn't even expected her to really even know what UNICEF stood for.

She was a Buckley after all- and they weren't known for being so...knowledgeable.

They end up talking, about anything and everything. Drinking until she's far past tipsy and his face is so warm and his inhibitions loose.

"Come for a walk with me" he suggests, already standing up "it's too stuffy in here- I can't breathe with your uncles ego taking up all the air in the room"

At that, Beth had let out a peel of laughter. One of her uncles had just given a twenty minute speech on the podium at the head of the gazebo and she's grimaced through the entire thing. It had been painful to watch.

"I can't" Beth had giggled airly, shaking her head. Her main of hair around her shoulders bouncing with the movement.

"Why not, what's stopping you?" Carters brow raised in challenge and it had stirred something in the pit of her stomach. Some sleeping fire, a rebellious spark just waiting to be ignited.

It was uncomfortable.

Scary, and new.

Beth chewed her overly plump bottom lip for a second, her face clearly set in uncertainty. Her internal struggle pellucid.

Carter extended his hand out, opening his palm and offering it to her, the way you'd offer a cornered dog a treat. Everything in his body language unthreatening and open.

"C'mon, pretty girl. Let's get out of here"

Beth's face skews up, her eyes shutting as though it will block the memory of his voice, of that name. As though she can shove it back.

Down.

Put it back away, because she's never admit it to anyone, but even after almost a decade, memories of him still had the abality to level her. To sucker punch her with such force, it was almost hard to breathe.

She wonders, she hopes, that one day all the therapy and growth she's been through since the whole ordeal will desensitize her, that she'll be able to think of those pretty pink lips and the silken lies that had come out of them and feel nothing.

It takes a rummage through the mini fridge, two shooters of J. Wray and turning on the TV, drowning out the sound of her own intrusive mind with bad reality TV. If she was sober-er, and gave herself more credit, she'd be proud that that was all it took these days to recover from thoughts of he who shall not be named. At one point, she was sure she'd never recover...

But that was a long time ago, and honestly, thoughts of Carter Baizen these days were few and far between. It was being in this fucking city that made them attack- knowing that she was in his stomping ground put her on red alert.

Sure, Beth knew that he was on business leave. She always made sure to stay clear of him, made sure their paths would never cross. Chuck Bass, although the villain in many a story, was actually a decent human being to her and would give her the heads up more times then not. He'd been working with the Buckley's for years, a partnership that was lucrative and didn't seem to be going anywhere anytime soon.

She liked him, he was a required taste- but she actually enjoyed his presence. His wife and her gaggle of friends, well now, that was another story.

Beth isn't a fan of Blair Waldorf, and she knows the feelings mutual. She thinks the woman's the wicked witch of the Upper East Side and needs a heavy dose of "get the fuck over yourself" and Blair thinks she's a hick- no matter how traveled and cultured she may be. They both stay civil, Blair for her husbands buisness endeavors and Beth because...well, to be quite frank, she doesn't give a damn.

She'd grown up around Blair's, spent her entire life around people like that and she knew that the world was full of good people who countered the evil, self entitled people that lived in cities like this.

And well, there were worse people then Blair. People like Serena Van Der Woodsen and her husband, it was laughable that the two though they were anywhere close to decent humans. People like Donald Trump, and Taylor Swift and Harvey Weinstien. Like the entirety Ku Klux Clan(she wonders if she has any family members who hide under white masks, and then wonders if they'd happily burn her at the stake for her mixed heritage) and the guy who wrote Gangnam Style because it had been stuck in her head for the past five years and she was sick of it.

There were people like Carter...

But the world always balanced itself out, Beth had come to learn. And for all that bad, there was good.

She'd met you. You, who walked with your head held high in a world that still confused her even though she'd grown up in it, but that you managed to navigate with ease. You, who'd allowed her to shade pour hiding space, who had played silly games with her and never once called her childish.

Beth couldn't help it, she was still struck by you. She hadn't expected you to be so...down to earth. So real and tangible and relatable. Legada, and the material that your mother had created were reshaping the the face of the fashion industry. You literally had an empire behind you- the fucking possibilities were endless. There was a good chance in the next twenty years you'd surpass most of the centuries old money families in New York, be up there with Chanel and Versace...

Beth sniggers, drunkenly. You'd be richer then her grandfather. Oh, how she wished she could see his face on that day.

She'd given you her phone number before she'd made her exit from the party- a bold move on Beth's part. She was still very much that introverted teenage girl at times and although being forward, putting herself out there was a part of her job, being a journalist and all, she still sometimes couldn't help the nervousness that bubbled in her gut.

She'd prepared herself for your rejection.

And yet, you'd smiled radiantly and asked her for her phone, programming your number under Y/N, and telling her to call you sometime.

"We have to hang out sometime soon- I can't even remember the last time I had a conversation that wasn't about work or shoes or fucking luncheons- not that I don't love my work, I very much do...but you know. Sometimes it's fun to imagine being in a forced situation and having to decide who you'd rather fuck to live" You'd told her sincerely and she did know.

What it was like to love your job, to love your charity work and your family...

But to feel lonely in this world, one that you seemingly genetically weren't designed for.

Beth had promised she'd text, that you'd get lunch while she was still in the city for the next few days. And Beth wasn't one for breaking promises.

The Taglist for this story is still open! Let me know if you want to be added!

@Sad-af1121, @whichwayisthebeach-Sebass, @theplumbclub79, @4theluvofall, @tatathekissypatato, @baezen, @lostinthoughtsandfeelings-blog, @plumbfondler, @pegasusdragontiger, @prettybubblesintheair, @docharleythegeekqueen, @brieannakeogh, @palaiasaurus64, @emotchalla, @thejenniferincident, @shayla-markele, @supernovasandcoronas, @toastmaster94, @brandybucky, @papi-chulo-seb, @jaamesbbarnes, @paulxrudd, @badassbaker, @letsalltakeanap @papi-chulo-bucky, @moonbeambucky, @jaceyfade, @samingtonwilson, @violentlybarnes, @wehaveathor, @buckfics, @frostbitebakery, @killmongerdreams, @plussizeappreciationfics, @softlybarnes, @prettyyoungtragedy, @angryschnauzer, @221bshrlocked, @yslbucky @zohoffman @ssweet-empowerment@capsofwinchesters@tacohead13@harleycativy@pietrotheavenger@francezka10@papichulosebastian@obsessionsofmynerdheart@melaninmarvel@avengedqueen26@nasteaxluvgal@winterbuttmunch @nys30 @buckyslongasshair@ohlumi@wellthirsted

#carter baizen x beth buckley #carter baizen x oc #carter baizen x person of color #carter baizen x reader #carter baizen #beth buckley #plus size reader

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xtruss · 3 years

Text

Dollar’s Purchasing Power Gets Zapped. It’s Permanent

"No one has ever been through this kind of combination of massive monetary and fiscal stimulus while inflation was raging"

— Wolf Richter | August 6, 2031 | Wolf Street

“The biggest money-printing spree in modern times, where the Fed printed $4 trillion in 16 months and spread them around, and repressed short-term interest rates via its policy rates, and repressed long-term interest rates via its continued bond purchases that still amount to $120 billion every month”

This stuff is now going on everywhere, all the time, at all levels. Polaris, the Minnesota-based manufacturer that makes the Indian Chief motorcycles, a variety of snowmobiles, off-road vehicles, and other vehicles, raised its prices in May in response to higher input costs, and now, a couple of months later, it is again contemplating price increases.

Big consumer-products makers have been announcing price increases, and sometimes sequential price increases, since earlier this year. This includes Procter & Gamble, Coca-Cola, Kimberly-Clark, General Mills, Unilever, and many others.

Unilever, which makes products across beauty and personal care, home care, and food and drinks, announced price increases in April. Then a few days ago it said that if would accelerate and fatten those price increases because of still rising costs of ingredients, packaging materials, and transportation.

It said that “inflation has been higher than we anticipated.” And that has been the universal truth all year.

Automakers don’t announce price increases during the model year; manufacturer’s suggested retail prices, or MSRPs, are announced at the beginning of the model year. But what they’re doing is cutting back incentives, and people just pay a whole lot more for new vehicles. And profit margins have ballooned at automakers and at dealers. The largest auto dealer, AutoNation, disclosed monstrous historic per-new-vehicle gross profits.

Other companies use dynamic pricing which changes prices from minute to minute, and from location to location, such as rental cars, hotels, plane tickets, and the like, and those prices have shot up.

Small companies also face input cost increases, and they raise their prices for goods and services they provide. Everyone I know who has a small business has either already increased prices, or is now planning and implementing price increases.

In my little bailiwick, all the services I need in order to run my WOLF STREET media mogul empire have gone up in price: the costs associated with the dedicated server at a server farm, the costs of the email service that many readers subscribe to, the costs of the broadband service, which doubled….

Heck, even the beer mugs I send out as thank-you gifts for generous donations. All the costs around them have gone up: The cost of the mugs, the cost of shipping them on a pallet to my global headquarters, the cost of shipping them individually to the final recipients, the costs of the cardboard boxes, the cost of the special filler material that I so lovingly wrap them in. This has been an ongoing litany.

The good thing is that WOLF STREET is supported by ads and donations and doesn’t sell anything, and so there are no price increases, and no shrinking or ballooning profit margins. I just eat the higher costs.

All companies are struggling in their own way with higher costs and are weighing or have already implemented price increases. Small companies are quietly raising prices of goods and services they provide, without media-savvy announcement. They simply let their customers know what is coming, and their customers have their own issues with costs and prices, and they already know what’s coming.

But big public companies that everyone knows are in a different ballgame. When big consumer-products companies announce price increases, it’s an effort at a form of perfectly legal price-fixing.

With a price-increase announcement, the company lets the competition know what it is doing, and to what extent it is doing it, and thereby it is letting its competition know to what extent they can raise their prices without getting undercut. And they’re doing it.

And they cite higher input costs, such as materials, labor, and components, and higher transportation costs coming and going, and higher packaging material costs, and they all want to protect their profit margins, and they want to increase their revenues, and increase their profits, and the best way to do this is via price increases, if competition lets you get away with it, and if your customers can’t find a better deal and are staying with you despite the higher prices.

There is an art to raising prices and getting away with it, and this art has now kicked into high gear, and consumers are paying for the sharpest price increases without going on buyers’ strike.

A buyers’ strike would end these price increases, but something big has changed. The whole attitude about price increases has changed. An inflationary mindset has set in. And this psychology of inflation tends to be persistent.

The government has different inflation measures. According to its lowest lowball inflation measure, the Personal Consumption Expenditures Price Index without food and energy, inflation rose by 3.5% in June from last year. At the other end, the government’s Consumer Price Index version that it uses for the Cost of Living Adjustments to Social Security payments, jumped by 6.1% in June compared to a year ago. Private-sector measures are much higher.

Inflation means that the dollar loses its purchasing power. It means that labor loses its purchasing power. In other words, people have to work more the maintain their standard of living. Or people can work the same and cut their standard of living.

And people who get performance-based pay raises, and think that this greater performance is going to allow them to raise their standard of living, they find out that all or much of that performance pay raise just allowed them to keep up with the loss of the purchasing power of their labor dollar.

There’s another way, the Federal Reserve’s preferred way. This inflation is not an accident. The Fed was the primary engineer of this inflation with its policies, dominated by the biggest money-printing event in modern times and by 0% interest rates. Now the Fed wants people to make up for the loss of purchasing power of their labor by borrowing more.

The Fed keeps insisting over and over again that this inflation that it is largely responsible for is “temporary” or “transient.” But there is nothing temporary or transient in the loss of the purchasing power of the dollar, including of the labor dollar.

These prices of consumer goods and services that have jumped aren’t going back to where they were two years ago. Only deflation would do that.

But long stretches of deflation that would recapture some of the lost purchasing power of the dollar are not allowed in this country, and there have only been a few quarters during my lifetime of deflation. So long-term deflation is out, but long-term inflation is a reality. And now we have a massive bout of inflation, with the only question being whether it will get worse or better.

The Fed and economists and others point at lumber as an example as to why this inflation is temporary. Lumber had spiked in the spring to ridiculous levels, and everyone knew it would have to come back down because those spikes in commodities don’t last, and it came back down as expected. But it has now stabilized at a price that is roughly 50% higher than it was two years ago. The Fed isn’t talking about that part.

Other commodities are still spiking. Some, like lumber, have returned halfway to earth but remain much higher than two years ago.

There is always some kind of a unique story behind each and every one of these price increases, and sure the huge spikes will eventually unwind, but like lumber, prices are likely to remain much higher than two years ago.

Price increases in services have now commenced. This includes things like broadband and communication services, restaurants, travel related services such as plane tickets, hotels, rental cars, and many others. Services are two-thirds of consumer spending.

One of the biggies among services is rents. Rents are surging for suburban single-family houses. And they’re surging for apartments outside the urban cores of the largest cities. Apartment rents in many large urban cores are still lower than they were two years ago – this includes San Francisco where asking rents are down over 25% from two years ago, as the city’s population has declined. But in cities an hour or two by car from San Francisco, rents have spiked. And as always there are unique stories behind all of them.

But the underlying common thread of these price increases is that there is a huge amount of money – of newly created money – blindly and vigorously chasing after limited goods and services.

No one has ever been through a combination like this before:

The biggest money-printing spree in modern times, where the Fed printed $4 trillion in 16 months and spread them around, and repressed short-term interest rates via its policy rates, and repressed long-term interest rates via its continued bond purchases that still amount to $120 billion every month.

All of this simultaneously with the biggest fiscal stimulus of modern times, about $5 trillion in borrowed money that the government then spread around over a period of 16 months, and much of this fiscal stimulus and deficit spending continues.

No one has ever been through this kind of combination of massive monetary and fiscal stimulus while inflation was raging.

You have to go back to the 1970s and early 1980s to see the pace of inflation we’ve experienced over the past few months. And back then, interest rates were much higher, and there was no QE. And even back then, inflation didn’t just go away of its own.

So now, to support their claim that this is transitory and will go away on its own, the Fed, the government, and some economists point at inflation expectations in the bond market. They measure this by looking at government bond yields, including the yield of 10-year Treasury securities and the yield of 10-year Treasury Inflation-Protected Securities, or TIPS.

And given how low yields are, and how small the difference is between the regular 10-year Treasury yield and the TIPS yield, they’re saying that inflation expectations by the market are well-anchored at around 2.5%.

But this is a bunch of hocus-pocus because the Fed is still buying Treasury securities, thereby pushing down those yields, and the Fed is still buying TIPS, and has bought more TIPS since March 2020 than the government has issued.

All the yields are immensely manipulated by the Fed, they’re the product of the Fed’s policies, and now the Fed is citing these forced-down yields as an indication that markets see this inflation as temporary that will go away next year? Come on, give me a break. This is just manipulative hogwash.

As long as the Fed purchases bonds in such huge quantities, the market says nothing about future inflation. What the market is saying is a reflection of the Fed’s policies and manipulations.

No one has been through this combo of bond market manipulations, massive QE, repressed interest rate, huge government stimulus with borrowed money, and raging inflation.

That combo hasn’t happened in recent history. But now we’re in the middle of it. Even when the Fed tapers its asset purchases, it will be too little too late. And interest rates are still at zero, and there is no discussion about a liftoff yet. And the government’s fiscal stimulus with borrowed money continues. The most likely outcome is a persistent heavy loss of the dollar’s purchasing power – until the Fed decides that enough is enough.

At that point, if it seriously wants to bring inflation back down, it will have to be aggressive because by that time, the inflationary spiral is likely to have been ingrained and will be tough and painful to dislodge.

— Source: Wolf Street

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ghostbustermelanieking · 7 years

Text

shadow demon; part one: october 30, 2017

s11 spec. based off a prompt by @firstofoctober: Mulder and Scully find themselves wrapped up in an unexpected case at a Halloween carnival when a teenage boy asks for their help.

happy halloween!

Another hotel room, another state. Wyoming is surprisingly chilly for October, and Scully has bought bulk in jackets for Mulder that she will inevitably steal. The suitcases they bought in a Walmart in Tennessee still have the tags on them, and they have black zip-up bags full of rolls of cash in the glove compartment. They keep their guns on their waist and their car keys in their pockets. They've lived like this before, except for one notable difference: before, they were running away from their son (running away from his memory). Now, they're running to him. If they can find him.

They didn't tell Skinner where they were going. They needed his help, but they didn't trust him. Don't trust him. They don't know who they can trust anymore. A night with bullets flying through their living room, guns to their heads and cold metal around their wrists as they were shuffled out to a car together, chains clinking between them. The close escape, the stumbling run into the woods. Deciding to disappear as she picked the lock with a piece of wire while Mulder rubbed her thumb with his. Meeting Skinner in the parking garage. They lied, told him they went to Massachusetts. They've been heading west. They're looking for their son.

Scully is sitting on one of the beds of the hotel room, trying to hack into public records without setting off about a million alerts to their location. They've barely made any progress on searching for William because of their fear of being caught. The new Syndicate seems to be more tech-savvy than the old one ever was; they found them last time because of a search on fucking Google. Langly taught them how to set up a private, untraceable connection. (Years in a bunker had taught him a lot of new tricks.) Mulder's running out to pick up dinner, and she's trying her best to distract herself until she gets back so she doesn't panic, doesn't think too much about what could be happening. Her fingers click-clack over the keyboard, the blue of the screen lighting up her face, and she's so concentrated in what she's doing that she doesn't hear the pounding footsteps outside until the door bursts open.

She jumps, eyes widening as a lanky kid bursts into the room, Mulder on his tail. “Mulder, what's…” she starts, uncertain.

“It's a long story,” Mulder says. His hand is on the shoulder of the boy and he nudges him towards the bed gently. The kid is trembling, so pale that Scully can count all of his freckles. “This is Dr. Scully,” Mulder tells him. “She's my… my partner.”

The kid nods, seemingly distracted, hands balled up in his jacket pockets.

“This is Jackson,” Mulder says evenly. “He's, um, he saw something.”

Scully blinks. “Saw something?”

“It was the carnival,” the kid croaks. “There's something evil in there, I swear. I saw it. I barely escaped.”

Scully reaches out and feels his forehead with the back of her wrist. He's freezing, covered in a cold sweat. “I'm going to get you some water, okay, sweetie?”

Mulder squeezes his shoulder again. “Stay here, we'll be right back.” The kid, Jackson, nods, staring at his knees. Mulder follows her into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

“Mulder, what… who is that? What's going on?” Scully hisses, taking a paper cup from the counter and filling it with water.

Mulder gulps, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was at a convenience store, putting groceries in the trunk of the car,” he says. “And this kid comes running out of the woods, looking scared out of his wits. He was sprinting, Scully, he had a baseball bat in his hand, he almost brained me with it when I stopped him. He said something was chasing him, he said it took his friend. He flipped out when I offered to take him home or to the police station, said it wouldn't help anything. He said his parents weren't even home in the first place, and whatever it was would come for him if he was alone. I couldn't just leave him there, Scully.”

“Where the hell did he come from?”

“He said he was at a carnival or something.”

Scully chews her lower lip nervously. “It's good that you helped him, but, Mulder, we can't do this right now. I think we need to take him to the police if someone's gone missing…”

“We can't,” Mulder says. “They'll never believe him, what he saw. Besides that, it's a teenage boy and everyone always likes to say they've run away.”

“That doesn't matter. If there's been a disappearance, the police need to be notified. Besides we're supposed to be low profile, and we don't even know if he's telling the truth!”

He motions frantically for her to speak quieter. “He's telling the truth, Scully. I saw… it.”

She’s strangling the paper cup a little in her fist; she sets it down, sitting down on the edge of the tub. Her head hurts a little at the prospect of another X-File; after the doppelgangers in Idaho and that case with the fucking statues, she'd hoped their bad luck had run out. “What is… it?” she asks wearily.

“It's a demon.”

Mulder turns away from her, revealing the kid standing in the doorway. Jackson. His face is flushed, dark hair hanging in his face. “Or… something,” he adds. “I'm not sure what, exactly, but it… it followed me. It took Danny and it followed me.”

Scully swallows. “Danny’s your… friend?”

Jackson nods solemnly.

“Here, let's talk out there.” Mulder motions Jackson out of the room, hand on his shoulder. Scully follows quietly. Jackson sits on one of the beds and they sit across from him on the other one. “Tell Scully what you told me,” Mulder says encouragingly, squeezing her knee. “She may seem skeptical, but she comes around most of the time.”

Scully might’ve slugged him if it weren't for the circumstances, the nervous kid shifting on the bed across from them. He rubs the back of his neck nervously, says, “Okay.” He gulps, chews his lower lip. “Okay, um. Danny and I went to this traveling carnival thing. They're new in town and all, right? Mom and Dad are out of town and I was staying--am staying--alone, so I figured, you know…” He shrugs. “Thought it'd be fun. So we went, and we hung out, and we went through this haunted house thing. And that's where it was.”

He's quiet, knee bouncing frantically. Mulder squeezes her knee again. “What's it, Jackson?”

“I dunno, I don't…” The kid is shaking his head. “We went into this room, this really dark room. We couldn't see anything, no one jumped out at us. We were just kind of walking through this room when we heard laughter, this awful hysterical laughter. Not cheesy movie laughter. Danny had kind of been making fun of the whole thing, making snarky comments the whole time. So he yells, he yells, um, ‘Where the hell’s the scare?’ or something like that. And the laughter stopped. The laughter stopped, and uh, I felt this scratch on my leg.”

Jackson leans down and motions to his leg. Scully looks, too, and sees a long scratch along his leg, right through his jeans, coated in dried blood. “Oh my god,” she says, horrified. “You need to get that looked at.”

Jackson waves his hand impatiently. “It's not a big deal. Danny is the one in trouble. He's the one they took. I was trying to figure out what had scratched me and he made this awful gaspy sound, almost like… almost like he didn't have time to scream. I just, I looked up and he was gone.” He gulps. “Just gone. And I have no idea where… no idea what… I yelled his name, I whirled around looking for him, but I couldn't find him. I couldn't see the exit but I could see the entrance, I tried to run away but I couldn't, someone grabbed my ankle and yanked me to the ground. The door slammed shut. And then I heard the growling… I felt this awful, cold feeling, and something's hot breath on my face... I screamed and screamed, but no one listened. Everyone's fucking screaming in a haunted house.” The kid shudders. “I thought I was a goner until someone opened the door. The thing was gone, just like that. I don't even know how it happened. I got up and ran out, and I told the attendants that Danny was gone, and they helped me look for him, but he was gone, too. They thought he was playing a prank on me, they didn't believe me. But I stuck around to try and look for Danny. I looked through the entire carnival, but I couldn't find him. And that's when I saw it watching me… watching me from the shadows.” He chews his lower lip, picking at a thread in his jeans. “That's when I ran.”

Scully gulps, looking at the long wound along Jackson’s leg. Something definitely scratched him there, got him good. She can't say what it is. But she can tell that the kid isn't faking; the tremor in his voice, the haunted look in his eyes speak volumes. She's seen that look on Mulder's face again and again through the years. She addresses Mulder: “And this is what he told you?”

Mulder nods solemnly.

“He said you were FBI,” Jackson says suddenly, eagerly. “FBI agents who work on paranormal cases. He said you could help.”

Scully bites her lower lip, considers. He might be lying, her rational side reminds her. And he very well might be. But she isn't getting that vibe from him. He's clearly distraught, clearly hurt, and if he's telling the truth, then another child is missing. In danger. Mulder says he saw something, and whatever he saw (a human killer or… otherwise), it could be pursuing this kid. She can't just leave him alone.

“Yes,” she says, even though the words feel clunky in her mouth. “We can help.”

---

There is some friction at first. Scully insists that they need to notify, if not the police, at least Danny’s parents. Jackson insists that they can't. “Danny’s parents are out of town, too, they're best friends with my parents and they all rented a cabin together… they left Danny and me alone to, like, test our responsibility or whatever,” he says, flapping his hand dismissively. “And you can't tell them; if you tell them, they'll freak out. It's better if we can find him without them ever having to know.”

“They're his parents,” Scully says insistently. The thought at the back of her mind is her son--her son, who would be about the same age as Jackson. Her son, who she'd hate to think about being pursued by a monster or murderer or whatever without her knowing. She wishes she knew he was safe--she wants to give these parents that advantage. “They need to know that their son isn't safe, and so do yours.” She thinks the police need to be involved, too, but selfishly, she wants to keep this under the radar, at least until they know how serious it is, how much danger this child is in. For their sake, for William's. “I'm fine with leaving the police out of it for now, but your parents need to know.”

Jackson looks from her to Mulder eagerly, like he hopes Mulder will be on his side. To Scully's astonishment, Mulder is nodding in agreement. “She's right, kid,” he says gravely, and she wonders if he's thinking of Samantha. Or William.

Jackson looks nervously between them before sighing. “All right.” He pulls a cell phone out of his pocket. “But let me call them, they'll freak out if a stranger is calling from my phone.”

Scully nods her assent. “I want to talk to them, though. And as soon as you finish calling them, you need to let me clean up your leg, check it for infection.”

Jackson nods, standing. “I'm going to take it outside,” he says, grabbing the baseball bat. “So you guys can, like… figure out a game plan or whatever.”

“Be careful out there,” Mulder says quickly. “Stay close to the room, and we'll be right inside if you need us.”

Jackson looks at the guns on their waist, nods. The door creaks horribly when he exits the room, the bat thumping against the door frame.

As soon as he's gone, Scully turns to Mulder. “Tell me exactly what you saw,” she says quietly.

Mulder nods, catching her hand against his chest. “It was right after I stopped him. He was explaining, practically babbling, and I looked over his shoulder and I saw a… a clown in the woods.”

“A clown?” He nods seriously. “I knew seeing It was a mistake,” she says dryly.

“Well, he wasn't in the sewer and he didn't offer me a balloon, but it was definitely a clown. In the trees, right where Jackson came out. Staring right at me.”

Scully considers. “That puts the possibility of a human perpetrator into the mix,” she says. “If it was a clown… they were in a haunted house, he could've used the advantage of darkness and sound effects, he could've cut Jackson and abducted Danny…”

Mulder is smirking at her. He pats her hand as if comforting her. “Nice try, Scully, but your theory doesn't fit with how quickly Danny disappeared, the fact that Jackson saw nothing. Or the fact that I saw the clown disappear.”

“What? You saw him disappear into thin air?”

“Not exactly,” Mulder says, hesitating. “He was… he sort of melted into the shadows.”

Scully blinks at him. “He melted into the shadows,” she repeats in a deadpan.

“Exactly.”

“He couldn't have just… stepped into the shadows and used the advantage of darkness to hide.”

“No, definitely not. I'm telling you, Scully, I saw him, he saw me, he smiled at me, and then he melted into the shadows. It was like he became part of them.”

“That's impossible, Mulder.”

“Not if it was a demon, like Jackson said. A demon could take on different forms like that. A shadow demon, maybe…”

Scully suddenly remembers the teenager on the other side of the door. “Jackson,” she says, dismayed, letting her breath out with a whoosh. “What are we going to do with him? We can't leave him alone, but we can't take him with us while we look for his friend… I don't even know where to start looking for his friend, Mulder. What do we do here? It'd be better if we could call the police…”

“You know we can't do that, Scully.” He slides his fingers through hers and squeezes. “As soon as we make that phone call, or use our badges, the Syndicate will catch up with it. Cancer Man will find us, him and his new little lackeys. And we can't just turn him over to the police because they'll never believe him.”

“They will if it's a human kidnapper,” Scully says stubbornly.

“You know it's not a human kidnapper, Scully.”

“I know nothing of the sort.”

“You're in denial, Scully. Jackson and I both have proof that it was something supernatural, eyewitness accounts.”

Scully sighs, lifting her hand to her temple. “Okay. Fine. Whatever. But what do you want to do now, Mulder? What do you want to do now?”

“Why don't we sleep on it? It's late, and we'd probably get busted for breaking and entering if we went to the carnival this late. And the kid needs some rest, Scully, he's running on pure adrenaline right now.”

She sighs again, takes her hand out of his. “You're right,” she says. “Do you want to just stay here? He could have the other bed.”

“Seems like the best idea. We can't leave him alone, not with a demon after him.”

A thought occurs to her, a particularly unwelcome one. “Mulder,” she whispers, stepping closer. “If you really think a… demon or a monster is pursuing Jackson… how can we protect him? Or ourselves, for that matter? How can we fight something like that off?”

Taken aback, Mulder pauses, chews his lower lip nervously. He opens his mouth to answer.

The door creaks open, and they turn to find Jackson standing in the door, cell phone in one hand and baseball bat in the other, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. “They want to talk to you,” he says, shoving the phone towards Mulder.

“What did they say?” Scully asks.

“They freaked out,” he says. “Just like I said. They want to come back right away, but they're in Colorado so it’ll take a while… especially because of the snow, it snowed the other night… Mom calmed down a little when I told her you were FBI agents, but she wants to talk to you.”

Mulder takes the phone, uncertainly. Jackson is still bouncing, eyes too big for his face, long cut down his leg looking worse in the moonlight coming in through the door. “Why don't you let me take a look at your cut while they talk, sweetie?” Scully offers.

Jackson nods again, in agreement, and comes into the room, closing the door behind him. “Oh, and I didn't see the thing, Mulder,” he says. “The… shadow demon thingy. I haven't seen it since the woods. That's good, right?”

“That's great, kid,” Mulder says, audible relief in his voice. He raises the phone to his ear and says, “Hello? Ma'am?”

Scully leans Jackson into the bathroom. “Can you roll up your pants leg a little bit, sweetie?” she asks. “I'm a doctor, I know what I'm doing.”

Jackson props his leg up on the toilet. On the other side of the wall, she can hear Mulder giving his name and badge number. God, she hates this; if Skinner really is working with the Syndicate, if they catch up with them, they may never find William. Or the Syndicate will find him first. She hates this. She knows it's important, knows they can't leave another child alone, in danger, but she hates this. She wants to keep looking for their son.

She wets a cloth under the faucet and hands it to Jackson. “Here, try to wipe the blood off,” she says, grabbing for the black bag of medical supplies she insisted on bringing.

“No, no, Jackson is fine, Mrs. Van de Kamp,” Mulder says outside. “Danny… We're not sure what happened to Danny. We only know what Jackson has told us.”

“I felt awful,” Jackson says, passing the cloth back to her. She rinses it in the sink and drapes it over the side of the counter. He’s chewing his lip nervously, drumming his fingers on the counter. “Having to tell Danny’s parents… it was awful.”

“Jackson told you… yes, we're here on… vacation, and I ran into him. I wanted to help… I felt like it was my duty,” Mulder is saying.

“I know the feeling,” Scully says. “In our line of work, you have to give people bad news a lot. Here, sweetie, put some of this on the cut.” She passes him the Neosporin.

“I can assure you we are trained for this, and will do everything in our power to protect Jackson and find Danny,” Mulder says, and she hears the thud of him leaning heavily against the wall. “We just want to help him.”

Jackson's shoulders are stiff. “They thought I was lying at first,” he says to the rug on the bathroom floor. “About the thing. I had to swear a thousand times that it wasn't a prank. I still don't think they believe me, that a demon took Danny… they're just panicked he's missing.”

“It's up to you, whatever decision you want to make, but if you're really stuck up there, my partner and I would be glad to protect Jackson and search for Danny until you get back,” says Mulder.

Scully pulls a roll of bandages from the bag. “I'm just gonna bandage your leg, okay, Jackson?” Jackson nods. She crouches on the floor beside him and begins to wind the bandages along the cut. “You and Mulder would have a lot to talk about,” she says. “He has a long history of not being believed.”

“You guys investigate, like, ghosts and shit, right?”

“Something to that degree, yes.”

Jackson snorts. “I'm not surprised, then. I mean… I would've thought this entire thing was batshit a few days ago. I never would've known… until I felt it. I've never felt that before.” He gulps. “Even if my parents don't believe me… you believe me, right?”

Scully swallows, cutting off the end of the bandages. “Yes,” she says, getting to her feet. She doesn’t know if she’s lying to be reassuring or not. “Yes, of course we do.”

Mulder appears in the doorway, holding out the phone. “Jackson? They want to talk to you again.”

Jackson nods, headed towards the door. “Thanks, Scully,” he says, taking the phone.

“Of course,” Scully says, nodding. It feels strange to have a child call her Scully, but then again, that’s probably what Mulder called her the whole way back to the hotel.

Jackson steps outside of the room to take the call. “They're suspicious, understandably,” Mulder tells Scully. “And frantic. But they didn't see any other choice. I think the FBI thing comforted them. They said they're gonna try and leave the mountains tonight. They want us to protect him in the meantime, keep an eye on him. I said he could stay here, and they didn't seem to think there was any other choice. He doesn't have any family in the area or anyone to stay with.”

“Okay.” Scully licks her lips. “Okay, so. They know who we are? Our real identities?” She knows that they do, Mulder wouldn’t have given out his badge number if they didn’t.

“Yeah.” He swallows, shoulders hunched up sheepishly. “I'm sorry, Scully. But it seemed like the best option to protect the kid.”

There are things she wants to say--maybe protests, maybe an agreement, maybe just an acknowledgement. But Jackson appears in the door before she can. “Got cut off,” he says. “Bad signal. But Mom says to tell you guys that they're on their way.”

“That's good,” Scully offers.

“Yeah, um. So I guess I'm staying here tonight?”

“Yep,” Mulder says, in a thickly false-cheerful tone. “Guess so.”

---

Scully sends the kid on to bed after he gets off the phone. (It feels bizarre to be doing this with a stranger. Mulder can't help but wish that it was their son they were spending time with. A look at Scully's laptop reminds him that they are going to find him.) Jackson protests vehemently, wants to go looking for Danny right away, but he immediately conks out when he climbs into bed. Mulder recognizes that kind of furious adrenaline turned to exhaustion. They'll find his friend in the morning, he hopes. If he's not already dead.

He and Scully crawl into the other bed, somewhat awkwardly, actively aware of the other presence in the room. They haven't shared a hotel room with anyone else that they can remember, and it's uncomfortable as hell. Haven't shared a room in general with anyone besides the dog and their newborn son. But Scully must be exhausted, too, because she falls asleep almost instantly, too.

Mulder can't sleep. He tosses and turns for hours, the breaths of a stranger unnerving. He gets up for a drink only to find the ice bucket full of liquid, pulls on his/Scully's jacket and leaves the room in search of ice. The breezeway is empty, save for a paper skeleton fluttering from one of the railings. He walks through the chilly air to the vending machines, fills up the ice and heads back. He is not thinking about demons when he hears it: a sharp scraping sound.

At first, Mulder can't find the origin of the sound. He looks right and left and in front and behind him. He'd be halfway convinced he imagined it if it weren't for the repeat of the sound, a long, drawn-out scrape, metal against metal. It seems to be coming above him. He looks up and hears it again, on the other side of the roof of the breezeway.

Heart pounding, Mulder steps off of the breezeway, onto the lawn, and looks up onto the roof. A girl is crouched there, dressed in a torn white dress and sharpening a knife. A sharp shreet sound, then another. Shreet. Shreet. Mulder almost can't breathe, is too captivated to look away. The girl, bending over her knife, seems to sense someone watching her. Looks up and reveals her obvious makeup, the white and red splotches on her face and body. She looks like an actress in a haunted house. But she smiles at Mulder, and that smile is not human.

She drops the stone, raises her knife. Mulder starts to back away, hand reaching for his gun.

The girl shrieks, a horrible sound, and raises her knife before lunging at him. Mulder staggers backwards, raises his gun and fires at the girl, aiming for an area that won't be fatal in case he is wrong. The bullet makes no impact, only blows the girl backwards onto the breezeway. Mulder steadies himself and aims the gun.

The girl stands slowly, brandishing her knife. She is glaring at Mulder, her eyes as inhuman as her smile. She makes a low growling sound in her throat and steps towards him, but the creaking open of a door and Scully’s frantic, “Mulder?” stops her. Her eyes flicker down the breezeway, towards their room, and blessedly, she doesn't head towards the sound. She instead steps backwards into the shadows and simply disappears, much in the same matter that the clown did.

“Mulder!” Scully is there, suddenly, gun drawn, Jackson right on her tail. “What happened?” she demands.

“We need to go,” Mulder says. “We need to go, right now. Scully, get the car keys.”

She doesn't argue, mercifully; there'll be time for that later. She disappears back to their room. Jackson stays, staring at Mulder in astonishment. “You saw it, didn't you? You saw the demon,” he says knowingly.

Mulder gulps, nods.

---

He tells them what happened on the way to Jackson's house, where they're planning to wait out morning. Jackson starts nodding instantly when Mulder describes the girl. “She was in the house, just like that,” he says. “Sharpening a knife above us, and then she jumps down at you. I think she was on a harness or something. Danny laughed so hard…” He stops, mid-sentence, and some familiar dark emotion flits over his face.

“Jackson?” asks Mulder, hoping to distract him. “Were there clowns in the haunted house?”

“Oh, yeah. Whole freaky room full of white stuff and strobe lights and clowns getting up in your face. Why?”

“Just wondering,” Mulder says. He exchanges a look with Scully, who clutches the steering wheel a little harder, grinds her teeth in frustration, but says nothing.

They get to Jackson's house relatively quick, a charming farm house with Van de Kamp painted cheerfully on the mailbox. Jackson lets them in with his key. “Make yourself at home or whatever,” he says, flipping on the lights.

“Thanks, Jackson,” Scully says as they come inside, into the living room. “Do you go by… Jack or anything?”

“Just Jackson.”

“Okay.” Scully smiles a little. “Jackson, you should get some sleep, okay, sweetie? We'll stay awake. We'll take care of you.”

Jackson shrugs. “I don't want you guys to get hurt.”

“We have guns, remember?” Mulder says, half teasing.

“Oh, right.” He shrugs sheepishly, grinning a little. “I'll be upstairs, I guess. Good luck shooting the demon, Mr. Mulder.”

“Just Mulder is fine,” Mulder says.

“Mulder,” repeats Jackson, waving awkwardly at them before turning and leaving the room, his feet pounding the stairs.

The strangeness of being in a stranger's house only increases when they're alone. Scully exchanges an uncomfortable look with Mulder as she sits on the couch. He sits beside her, close enough that she can feel the body heat coming off of him. “Are you hurt, Mulder?” she asks, shuffling her fingers through his hair.

“I'm fine, Scully. She missed me by a mile.” His shoulder bumps hers companionably. “It was weird as hell, though.”

“Not really,” she says thoughtfully. “I have a new theory. What if the employees of the haunted house are working together on this? They might be trying to scare people somehow… this could be some kind of prank on Jackson, hell, his friend could be in on it… or maybe they're trying to kill Jackson and his friend. Or they kidnapped the friend and don't want Jackson to expose them. Whatever the case, I think the employees are the perpetrators. That would explain why you saw the clown and the girl with the knife that Jackson remembers from the house.”

“But it doesn't explain how they literally melted into the shadows, Scully. Or why my bullet had no effect on the girl.”

“You said you shot at her shoulder? Maybe you missed her.”

“She was blown backwards from the blow, Scully.”

“You could've been seeing things.”

Mulder rolls his eyes, highly exaggerated. Scully smirks a little at him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Well, whatever the case, I'd say this all warrants looking into the carnival tomorrow,” he says, giving in a little. He puts an arm around her shoulders.

“How the hell are we going to do that?”

“I brought our badges, remember? If we can convince the carnival people not to call the local police, then no one will ever have to know outside of the boys’ families.”

“Hmm.” Scully turns her face into his shoulder, her hair brushing against the bare skin of his arm below his sleeve. “And what if someone does happen to let it slip that Agents Mulder and Scully are in small town Wyoming?”

“As soon as the kid is safe, we make a run for it.” She’s quiet, leaning into him. He presses a kiss to the part of her hair. “Come on, Scully, you have to admit that the kid isn't safe.”

“He's not,” she says. “I just… oh, I don't know. I'd feel better if his parents were here. Or the police, or someone who could actually protect him.”

“We can protect him. We might be the most qualified to.”

Scully lifts her head, her blue eyes glinting in the darkness. “It's not a shadow demon.”

“Oh ye of little faith.”

“Twenty-four years together, Mulder. What did you expect?”

Mulder grins, hand running up and down her back. “Follow the evidence, Agent Scully.”

She licks her lower lip determinedly. “I'll make you a deal, Mulder. If it's proven--concrete evidence--that the people or things pursuing Jackson are, in fact, human, can we call the police and let them take charge in this?”

“That would be more than responsible, Scully, if humans really are responsible.” She nods, satisfied. “But if they're not human…” he ventures.

“Oh, great. How, exactly, are we going to catch that? We're not the Ghostbusters, Mulder.”

“Oh, you loved the remake,” he teases her, and she gives him a look somewhere between a glare and a prodding: Well? “I'm working on a plan,” he says. “First we need to find out what happened. Establish a timeline. See if we can discern Danny’s whereabouts.”

“And get some sleep.” Her hand is on his cheek. “You look exhausted, Mulder.”

“I'm not exhausted,” he protests, but the fatigue is creeping up on him like the rising tide. Scully gives him a knowing look. “It feels wrong to sleep in a stranger's house.”

“We don't have any choice; we have to protect Jackson, and we couldn't stay at the hotel.”

“What if that thing comes back?”

“Then I'll shoot it.” Scully looks vaguely amused. “I have plenty of practice. Go to sleep, Mulder. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

He concedes, kisses her forehead and curls up against her on the unfamiliar couch. Upstairs, a teenage boy they have inadvertently become responsible for sleeps. “Hey, Scully?” he mumbles, head against her hip. “This is one of the more bizarre things we've done, don't you think?”

“This is more bizarre than the lizard-human?” He doesn't say anything. She sighs, says, “Yes, it is.” They both know why, know what is at the back of their minds. They don't speak on it.

Scully traces lines on his forehead and orders him to sleep. He drifts off slowly, dreams restlessly of knives being sharpened, the sound scraping his ears, and a little boy with Scully's eyes staring up at him.

#happy halloween #i'm mostly posting to force myself to pull this all together tomorrow and post it #but i'm so close!! i can't believe i finished #i have an actual halloween fic thats not a lame sweatshirt joke based off of something that happened to me #this year i'm doing an actual costume so #xf fanfic #i wrote this

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ladydracarysao3 · 7 years

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Get Into Ian Hawke

Tagged by @idrelle-miocovani and @galadrieljones (I know you asked for Abner, but I really wanted to take this opportunity to introduce my new OC. I can do Abner too, if you want)

NAME: Marian “Ian” Hawke

AGE: 25 as of 9:34 Dragon (which is the year of the events of her canon) or roughly 1888 A.D.

GENDER: female

ORIENTATION: heterosexual

PROFESSION: Some may say: Criminal, others: Opportunist, but others still: Savvy Business Woman

BACKGROUND: First things first, Ian’s tale is a mash-up of Dragon Age’s Kirkwall and Victorian England’s Jack the Ripper.

Born in Ferelden, Ian was the eldest daughter of Leandra and Malcolm Hawke. Her parents fled Kirkwall due to the tyrannical gang that calls themselves the Knight’s Templar. To be a conjurer, as Malcolm was, is strictly forbidden, and the Templars take it upon themselves to hunt and imprison such people in the name of the Maker. They are not officially a sect of the Chantry, though it is common knowledge that is untrue.

Malcolm cared for his family by secretly conjuring magic for many types of organizations, but it was a dangerous life that he did not wish upon his children, regardless of their natural potential in magics. Because of this, Ian grew up knowing she had some talent, but never learned how to properly wield it. Instead, she relied on her wits and her brawn to get her through the world.

Leandra had come from the high society in Kirkwall, and dreamt of returning. As such, she taught her daughters the sensibilities of delicate females. Her younger daughter took to it without question, however Ian was a thorn in Leandra’s side at every turn. Ian preferred the dress, manners, and even names of men, and rejected the notion that she was destined to live a life corseted and serving tea.

When destruction, war, and blight struck Ferelden, Ian took charge in saving her family. Her father had since passed, but his scrappy and determined nature to do anything for his family was very alive in Ian. By tooth and nail she got them all to Kirkwall and at the expense of her reputation and soul, neither of which she much cared for, she managed to drag her family out of the gutters and placed her mother and sister in the affluent lifestyle she knew they wanted and deserved.

Now, she works to keep their status by any means necessary and above all else, protect those she loves from the chaos that living in a crime-ridden, over populated, neglected city brings.

PHYSICAL

Body type: tall and athletic

Eyes: Bright Blue

Hair: near black, short/choppy

Skin: pale/creamy/alabaster

Height: 5′9″ (~175 cm)

Weight: ~165 lbs (~75 kg)

SKILLS (S.P.E.C.I.A.L + M)

Strength- 8/10 - She’s scrappy and fearless, not afraid to get in a bare knuckle fight or stick you with her knife should the need arise.

Perception- 7/10 - Ian is pretty perceptive, it goes along with her intelligence. To make it in this world and to make sure no high-ups or other nobs get in her way, she needs to stay one step ahead... in theory... somedays are better than others.

Endurance- 10/10 - Ian will not quit.

Charisma- 2/10 - She is about as charming as a pile of dirt. She has zero fucks to give on whether you like her. She only cares for results. She’s not even nice to her family members, and she does all of this for them!

Intelligence- 9/10 - Smart as a whip, that one. Needs to be, to make it the way she has.

Agility- 7/10 - She’s a woman usually fighting men that are sometimes larger than her, she needs to be agile to gain the upper hand.

Luck- 1/10 - Hawke has got to be about the most unlucky person ever, I think that is a universal truth we can all agree on.

Magic- 5/10 - Okay... so magic works differently in her universe as opposed to canon DA. It is more dangerous, and usually takes aids to do anything. It’s not like: Fire bolt - fire bolt - I got you!!! There is more to it. Ian isn’t trained in it, so she barely knows what’s she’s doing, but that won’t stop her from trying when she finds a reason to.

LIKES

Colors - She enjoys the Blooming Rose, and it has lovely red silks, golden threads and tassels, and lovely dark damask wallpapers. I guess that would be her aesthetic rather than one color. Rich, bold, sensual colors.

Smells - Exotic scents of jasmine or sandalwood. Along with nostalgic scents that bring the memories of the rolling green hills of her home in Ferelden: Grass, woods, clean air.

Food - She’s not picky about food.

Fruit - A luxury for sure. She gets things like grapes and oranges for Leandra and Bethany, but she tends not to indulge in them herself.

Drinks - Hard liquor. Spirits call to her most nights in the Hanged Man.

Alcoholic drinks - lol, see above.

OTHER

Smoke: Yes, she will smoke a pipe/cigar/or rolled cigarette from time to time. Especially if relaxing in the pub.

Drugs: Okay... when you think Lyrium, think Opium. Lyrium is needed for a lot of conjuring. So yes, she may dabble in Chasing the Dragon..... There are also other narcotics that were sometimes used in those days that are more taboo now.

Driver’s license?: Ian? No. She walks mostly, but once she reached hightown, she did purchase a carriage, a horse, and began to employ a young man by the name of Sandal. He will take her, or more aptly her family, where they need to go.

This was a lot of fun, and very long, so I’m sorry if you are angry to see it on your dash. I really enjoy reading these, so I would like to tag the following lovelies if they would like to participate! @kaoruyogi @ma-sulevin @long-liv-prairies @kagetsukai @roguelioness @gwen-cousland @silent-of-spirit @princessvicky01 @gugle1980 @thesecondsealwrites @a-shakespearean-in-paris @john-cousland (Hey John, I was talking to your wife earlier about this new character, will you let her see this if she’s interested? Thanks!)

#meme #oc meme #ian hawke #marian hawke #jack the ripper au #more to come #story to be released later this month!#Meet Ian #I'm so excited #I hope you like #my ocs

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emily84 · 7 years

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Thoughts on Runaways Ep.4

(this show keeps getting better and better with each episode)

NAY:

the parents continue to be boring af, and incompetent to boot (except Nico’s mother who’s my fave villain at this point)

Karolina’s mom sleeping with the mummy in her closet bedroom EWWWW ರ_ರ

I’m angsting about Alex being evil =_=

Chase continues to be irrelevant (but had some good moments with Karolina so maybe not all is lost)

YAY

The group chat scene was hilarious XD

Karolina and Gert bonding in non-cringy ways

Like I really loved Karolina and Gert this episode

They toned down Gert’s Super-Fake SJW attitude (reminder that instead of"woke”, she’s written like a 50-year-old meninist thinks feminists speak)

The ending scene was impeccably executed

Karolina’s alien form reminded me so much of Young Avengers I want to cry ;____;

Nico’s flashback to her sister’s death. Hard to watch, but A+ acting, Lyrica Okano.

Molly (◕‿◕✿)

Nico’s mom shutting down Gert’s parents escape plan. That was some Walter White shit right there *__*

Surprise! I didn’t hate the dinosaur. I actually liked it!

Nico and Alex teaming up and Getting. Shit. Done. <3

Also I love how they’re trolling non-comic-savvy fans into thinking Karolina and Chase will get together lmaooo (¬‿¬)

Sidenote: stylistically, the episode was really well written. I loved how the two most pragmatic characters (Nico and Alex) band together to investigate and expose their parents’ evilness, while two of the most idealistic characters (Karolina and Gert) get together to prove their goodness. And in the end the threads converge seamlessly.

The last scene when Karolina, all happy and safe, suddenly gets Nico’s call telling her what they found out, and you literally see her entire world collapse in her eyes, all while in the background her parents (who kidnap and murder people, often young girls Karolina’s age) are laughing and celebrating and calling her to them. And the irony that Karolina is the one who wants to believe the most, yet her mother is the one who is the most evil.. That was some decent writing, imo.

#ramblings #runaways #my thoughts #review #my reviews #hulu #runaways spoilers #runaways 1x04 #runaways episode 4

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trbl-will-find-me · 7 years

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Hearth & Home

He just wants peace. He wants somewhere safe and dry to lay his head at night, a place where the floors creak and the sunlight pours in, where broken things can be mended once again.

The house might be enough. @companionwolf: some fluff for you

All things considered, the house isn’t in bad shape. Sure, there’s a few boards on the outside that need to be repaired, and the floors need to be redone, and that step creaks, and the shutters are loose, but overall. It’s not in bad shape.

The owners had moved out towards the city center in Chicago years back. The stragglers who stayed behind at adopted the house as their own. Strange, maybe, but that’s small town Kansas for you.

Kansas. God, the thought of being back here voluntarily is strange. When he’d left, he’d sworn he was gone for good. Then, XCOM happened. After that, he knew he’d never be back.

But they’d needed gear from the base. He’d needed files. His mother’s house was still a warm place to winter. Manhattan still had salvage. But once again, he’d promised himself: this is the last time.

He’d left for the ocean; now, he wants to be as far from it as possible. So, Kansas, once again.

Slowly, the world is reforming, reintegrating. There are challenges, and there will be for some time. The almost total loss of skilled manual labor outside of the Resistance and Haven communities will be a challenge that takes years to really overcome. The losses in biodiversity may never truly heal --- at least not without intervention. The decimation of the Lost cities remains an ever present concern.

And that’s not factoring in integrating the ADVENT forces, newly able to act of their own agency, into a society that still isn’t sure how to react.

He is tired. He has fought so hard for so long. The ache of old injuries never truly goes away, and the new ones throb in ways he never truly thought possible. His nerves are raw, his nightmares ferocious, and his strength worn.

He just wants peace. He wants somewhere safe and dry to lay his head at night, a place where the floors creak and the sunlight pours in, where broken things can be mended once again.

The house might be enough.

He brings the idea up after dinner one night, a sketch of an idea presented to the partner curled against his side. The Commander listens and nods, rubbing circles into his palm while he talks.

“Sounds like we’re finally getting our chance.” A better benediction than he could have hoped for.

They’ve come to know the community, or at least what remains. Those brave enough had made contact with the Avenger when it had landed in one of the fields on the outskirts; they’d been happy for the supplies and rations, and had welcomed the crew into their lives.

It is a chance to begin again, maybe the last one; he has no intention of squandering it.

Three months in, and the big things have all been fixed. The shutters have been re-hung, the rotted boards replaced, the creaking step silenced, and the floors redone. Their small solar grid keeps the house comfortable, the lights on, and the water running. It has been long, hard work, but he is satisfied.

Menace had liberated a mattress from a former ADVENT warehouse as a kind of housewarming gift for them, parading it off the Skyranger with such solemnity before asking if they could surf it down the stairs. The Commander had just laughed, unable to respond to such an absurd request. For his part, he’d simply glowered up at their surprisingly cherubic grins.

“Not unless you’re planning on fixing the wall --- and doing it the right way.”

That had been more than enough to disabuse them of such an idea.

He sits on the porch steps with Kelly that night, watching the sun set over the land.

“It’s amazing what you’ve done,” she says. “You’ve gotta be exhausted.”

He shrugs. “Take this over the war any day.”

She chuckles. “Yeah, I’d imagine. God,” she sighs. “I’d kill for a break. Even just a little time away from it.”

“So, stay.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You’re gonna have to steal your own mattress, but we’ve got the room.”

“You mean it?”

“I’m not the only one who’s earned a break.”

The garden starts as a joke, a bet that a human bonded with an incredibly powerful alien, the only person to survive being inserted, removed, and re-inserted into the ADVENT network, is, in fact, not in possession of a green thumb.

It is not the correct assumption.

The berries have taken over, sprawling out into the lawn, with watermelons and summer squash chasing after. Oregano, mint, and lavender sprout in the window boxes, and tomatoes climb towards the sun in their cages.

“This your doing, or his?” He asks one afternoon.

“Both, I think?” The Commander answers. “I think he likes that it’s constructive.”

“Keep it up, and we’re gonna have to find help eating all this .”

“That’s the goal.”

There are still nightmares. He suspects there always will be: the faces they couldn’t save, the friends they lost, the horrors they saw, the few agonizing seconds waiting for the Commander to come back to him after Leviathan. These are the things that haunt dreams.

They have been in the house for five months. They have beds and bookshelves and the kitchen cabinets are almost almost entirely refinished. The swing he’d put up for Kelly as a joke has become something of a neighborhood attraction. There is a kitchen table in progress, even.

There are times it is still not enough.

So, yes, it is 4 AM. Yes, he is awake. Yes, he is sanding the damn kitchen tabletop because yes, he has to do something.

“Hey,” a gentle voice says. “Don’t jump. It’s me.”

He offers the Commander a tired grin over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“Could ask you the same thing.”

He shakes his head. “Tried. Failed. Had to do something.”

“So, our table?”

“Yeah, our table.”

The Commander settles next to him. “Can I help?”

“You’re gonna get covered in sawdust.”

“Ah, the miracle of a working shower.”

Kelly finds them later that morning, asleep against the wall on the back porch, hand-in-hand.

“Remind me why we stole you two a mattress?” She asks.

“So you could try surfing down the stairs on it,” the Commander mutters.

Central just grins.

Seven months in, and they have made real progress. Every bed has a mattress and every mattress has a bed. The kitchen cabinets are finally finished and the table sits proudly in the breakfast nook.

The town has grown, opening its doors to ADVENT refugees of all stripes, both human and hybrid. He has been drafted into the efforts to build a better gazebo for the green, a bigger one, one that might actually be able to hold all of the faces that flock to the teach-ins.

He has thus far resisted being drafted into giving one of those.

There is a market of sorts, a place where people come to swap their goods. The Commander and Kelly bring the extra produce, and come back with books and tools and hats and coats and sweets.

There is a rug at the bottom of the stairs now, and on each of the bathroom floors. Curtains line the windows and the wallpaper that once peeled has been stripped away, replaced by a fresh coat of paint. There are sheets and spare sheets, soft towels, and an understanding that you will take the damn boots off when you walk in.

There are even rumors of a sofa.

He comes down the stairs every morning to the sight of three coats hanging from the rack and knows he is home.

They crowd into town for First Night, watching a small fireworks show set against the Kansas cold. There is tea and coffee, and hot apple cider from one of the orchards farther west. The Commander’s glove-clad fingers are threaded through his, and Kelly’s head is on his shoulder, her usual baseball cap foregone in favor of warmer headgear.

The hybrids and humans mingle freely, much of the fear having been abated. The Commander had played no small part in that, loud and public speeches about the oppression of the former under the ADVENT administration, the vital efforts of their freed brethren to help reclaim the earth. It had been enough wiggle room, enough of an in, for the Skirmishers and their kind to have a chance --- and that was all they needed. Confronted with the reality of the individuals, wise yet curious, battle savvy yet not blood thirsty, many found themselves embraced.

As they trudge home through the newly fallen snow, he feels something funny in his chest, something he almost doesn’t recognize: hope for what’s ahead.

The nature of children is that, left unattended, they will bring home unexpected animals. The nature of soft-hearted parental figures is that they will be powerless to do anything except welcome these creatures into their homes with open arms.

At least she didn’t bring home a pony, he tells himself.

The rumors of ADVENT scientists working to reintroduce decimated livestock populations had begun sometime last summer. Of course, he hadn’t paid it any mind. Sure, he’d love for fresh milk and eggs to make a comeback, for steak to be edible once again, but he’d refused to get his hopes up. Stories came in fits and spurts, but they never added up to anything more substantial than alluring rumor, a fantastic but ultimately false hope.

He hadn’t been sure what to say when Kelly walked through the door with a chicken under each arm, and a floppy eared puppy at her heels, her eyes beaming with joy.

So, yes, naturally, he’s building a chicken coop on this early February afternoon. What else is he supposed to do?

He sits on the porch steps, Toto’s head resting in his lap. He’d protested the name, at first, but warmed to it quickly enough. Thelma and Louise, Kelly’s much loved chickens, strut proudly about the yard; they’ve been a good source of both eggs and laughter since their arrival.

It’s been a year since they moved in, so to speak, a year of building and rebuilding, repairing and reinventing. There are beds now, and a table, dressers even, but still no sofa. There is power, water, and a garden out back. From the ashes of the old, they have built anew.

He looks out across the yard to the tree beginning to bud, the grass beginning to green. He looks up at the cloudless blue sky and offers a silent thanks to what, or who, ever allowed them to get this far. The front door closes and the Commander is next to him, nuzzled into the crook of his neck. “You okay?” Comes the muffles question. He nods. “Just thinking.” “About?” “What’s next.” The Commander squeezes one of his hands. “I don’t know, but as long as I’ve got you, I’m sort of excited to find out.”

#xcom #fic #central officer dadford #found family #gen #fluff

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