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tommyplum · 5 years

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- i am but dust and ashes (the world was created for me) | tommy/alfie, taboo au for @boundinshallows’ sholomons prompt fest 2019

The two of them are finding each other again, capricious, dishonest, possessive and desperate to affect the other.

notes: the prompt was for a taboo au, with tommy shelby in place of zilpha as the half-sibling. my changes are that alfie’s mother is jewish and not first nations, and he went to the west indies instead of africa. content warning for half-sibling incest. - maggie

Looking at it from the outside, anybody would say that it's Alfie who took advantage of close quarters and easy access. Alfie who was the corruptor, who was the viper in the branches, who was the forbidden fruit of knowledge. Looking at it from the inside, Alfie just might say the same things himself.

Tommy knows better.

"That brother of yours--"

"Half brother."

Grace's mouth pinches for just a moment and then she sweeps on with her statement, determined to have her say before Tommy switches his focus to something else. The opium makes him tangential at the best of times and Grace knows, by now, to take advantage of anything in his eyes that approaches lucidity. "Half brother," she spits, and Tommy's lips twitch as he considers tutting at her, pointing out how unladylike her vitriol is. He doesn't do it. He raises his eyebrows and slowly tilts his head from one side to the other with exaggerated interest in what she's saying and Grace looks furious but she continues.

"Your half brother may intend to keep you from what you should have rightfully inherited but we are not without means through which to strike at him, Thomas, we are not as helpless as he would have you believe, with his solicitor and his evil looks and the way that he uses those rumors about what he did in the godless West Indies as his cloak and shield." Grace crosses herself and Tommy follows the motions of it in the air with the tip of his nose, kittenlike. It amuses him to give his more pixilated impulses their head when Grace is being avaricious, or pious, which tend to go hand in hand more often than not. Religion and money share a sacrament in her soul.

"You, Grace, would have made an extremely effective Popess."

She makes a frustrated sound, one slender hand clenching along with it. "You want him to rob us, then?" Grace demands, nostrils flaring. "Is that what you want from him, Tommy? Or is it something else."

Calling him tommy is a signifier of how angry she is; Grace stopped calling him Tommy two days before their wedding, switching without reason, explanation, or discussion to only calling him Thomas. He'd almost not known who she was fucking on their wedding night when she kept telling this Thomas person to bloody well choke her properly.

His skin's suddenly crawling and Tommy stands abruptly, chair scraping across the flagstone floor as he's dropping the last inch of his still-lit cigarette into his cold tea. "I'll pay him a visit, then, shall I?" he says as though it's just that easy to bring all of this to a satisfying resolution, as though all you need is to be Tommy Shelby and to ask, and Grace feels the dismissal. She doesn't show it, though; she reminds Tommy of who she is by answering with a small, marble-hard smile and says,

"--kiss your half brother hello for me, Thomas. Once you've done greeting him for you."

---

Polly's the one who greets Tommy at the door, all folded arms and raised eyebrows, and Tommy holds back a sigh as he sweeps off his hat and attempts -- vainly -- to peer past her into the house where he'd grown up.

"He's not in," Polly says, making absolutely no attempt to sell the boldfaced lie. Tommy can take it or shove it, but he chooses a third option:

"I've got nowhere else to be at today, Pol, ay, come on, Polly. At least give us a cup of tea to get the chill out, before you send me packing. I'll catch my fucking death out here."

--Tommy pushes it.

Because if there was anything that he and Alfie had learned, growing up with Aunt Polly, it was that she had a soft spot for the audacious, the bold, for those who took chances and even if they got caught or fell flat on their faces, still put on a brave front and tossed their heads, holding them high. Tommy holds his chin up as he steps forward and Polly swings open like a door to let him inside.

Back into the house of Alfie Solomons Senior: who is now buried in a grave as shallow as a butter dish, and Tommy feels the past engulf him whole.

===

it used to be

The attic was where they'd played as children for hours and hours, making every nook and cranny of the space their own. Tommy liked to wriggle beneath the window bench and with a thick lead pencil would draw star people (the five-pointed kind, head and limbs) to represent himself and Alfie and Aunt Pol and Father on the underside of the wooden seat, with one different star (the six-pointed kind, like Alfie wears on a chain around his neck) stuck into corners to represent Alfie's mother, The Mad Jewess. That was how she was referred to and Tommy never questioned it. He never used any star, ordinary or otherwise, to stand in for his own mother; she'd died as he arrived in the world and that was the last business he'd had with her in this life.

Alfie didn't bother to find out what his brother was doing those times, content to let Tommy be strange all on his own while Alfie pondered over new schemes and plans and games to entertain them both. His games were byzantine, daring, ritualistic, and even when they'd bothered to try and include other children, none of them had ever caught on. Only Tommy could be relied upon to fully commit to Alfie's wild cult of unfettered and hedonistic play.

And (to perhaps be expected), the games had evolved as they'd grown and their attic space became even more sacrosanct, Polly banished from it entirely with promises that they wouldn't let mildew fester and rats congregate. Because when they were teenagers and Alfie lay on his back on the floor, gazing up at the underside of the window seat and the dark strokes of Tommy's constellation of family while Tommy's dark hair drew strokes in the air as he bobbed his wet mouth onto Alfie's cock, the world belonged to the two of them and nobody else.

"There's five of you, Tommy," Alfie said, his voice dragging and drowsy even as he kicked one heel along the floor to raise a hip, angling his prick against the inside of Tommy's cheek until his younger brother firmly shoved him back down again. "I've counted, yeah, five of you of these star-people, and there's only three of me. Why is that, love?" He reached down with one hand -- the other still tracing along the galaxy that Tommy'd illustrated -- and wrapped his thumb into strands of straight black hair until Tommy tugged off, smacking his lips, annoyed to be stopped.

"What?" he demanded loudly, but then answered anyhow since he'd heard the question. "Five of me because I was the one drawing it, wasn't I? And as the autobiographer and artist, I got to represent myself as many times as I wanted." Tommy pinched one of Alfie's thighs, drawing a laughing rumble from his remorseless victim. "Three of you because even one is too much. One is more than enough."

"Three because neither maths nor diplomacy is your strong suit." Alfie shoved out from under the windowseat, sitting up, his thick rosy cock curving damply into the crease of his thigh as Tommy kneeled back to rest against his heels. "Come here, sweetheart. Let me teach you your numbers."

Alfie's eyes, a sharper yet more shadowy blue than Tommy's, were stream-clear in the sunshine coming in through the big round window, his smile spreading the thick dark red of his lips across his face like raspberry jam. Tommy licked his own lips and moved forward on his knees, one hand wrapping around the length of Alfie's cock as he leaned in, wanting kisses; but Alfie grabbed Tommy's face in both hands and ... spat on him.

"Ah--" Tommy gasped, but then another hot gobbet of spit hit his face. And one more, against his open, suddenly ravenous mouth, before Alfie pressed his tongue against the frothing wetness and kissed Tommy, deep and hard, sucking and biting at him before pulling panting back. Still holding Tommy's face, Alfie groaned,

"--three times, to keep you safe from the evil eye, remember that, Tommy.The magical properties of spittle and doing something three times over, which you already know somewhere in that flashing minnow brain of yours, because you drew me three times over, eh? Now --" Alfie let go and sprawled back onto the bare wooden floor, propped on his elbows as he parted his thighs, "--be a good boy, go on, and fuck me."

Alfie was in a mood to push that day, because he growled and groaned and shouted as Tommy climbed onto him and drove his cock into his half brother's arse over and over, whipcord muscles shaking with exertion and youthful arousal, desperate to come and at the same time wanting to hold out, draw it out for Alfie's sake.

(And, oh, and his own; because Alfie was a sight to stir the senses when he was being fucked and filled, his succulent fat lips dark and swollen as he moaned, eyelashes spiked damp with sweat and salt, the column of his throat thick and strained, and no lover who Tommy Shelby was ever destined to have in his grown life would compare quite favourably to that.)

At the dinner table that night Polly's dark gaze travelled between them while she held her cup of tea in both hands, and said with waxen-heavy portentousness to Alfie, "--We've all noticed, Alfie, just how well you take care of your little brother. If you're not careful, others will start to remark on it. Hmmm?"

She didn't look at Tommy, only at Solomons Junior, and Alfie's throat worked soundlessly for a moment before he said, "Let them remark on whatever it is they think they know. I guarantee, Pol," Alfie cut with renewed vigor into his chop, smearing it lavishly with enough horseradish to make Tommy cough at the thought, "that the truth is somewhere far beyond their comprehension."

The braggadocio of this comment made Polly smile along the edge of her cup. But her expression went fixed, static, when Tommy tossed the last crust of his bread down on his plate and stood, saying with a casual coldness, "I'm the one takes care of him, only I never get any credit because I'm a second son. And it's thankless work. Let them mention that, when they talk."

Alfie's silverware clinked down against his plate in Tommy's wake, and Polly's cup provided counter-harmony tinking down against her saucer, and Tommy smiled, flatly, as he mounted the stairs to his room and left them behind. He couldn't say why it felt so good to leave Alfie stranded on the shoals of ignominy alone, or why he kept right on screwing Alfie, opening his own legs for Alfie, only to then repudiate him afterwards and refuse to acknowledge their fevered sampling of each others' bodies. But Tommy did. He crashed into Alfie to begin with and then once it was over and their blood was cooling he retreated further every time, until one day -- it was Alfie who retreated.

All the way across the fathomless oceans to the other side of the world.

===

"There's your tea," Polly says, pouring the cup full to the brim where it sits in its saucer on the kitchen table. If she thinks that's going to wrongfoot Tommy Shelby, then she's assumed too much; he's not that far different from the strange child he'd been, especially when he has some of the poppy in his blood to ease the way and null social convention that might keep his instincts in check.

He leans forward with his hat still in his hands and, stare fixed on Pol as hers is stuck on him, noisily slurps scalding-hot tea from the cup until it's not lapping at the rim anymore. And then Tommy points at the cone of sugar on the counter behind Pol and says, "Sugar, please, Aunt Pol, and milk if you've got it."

She goes still and her mouth purses, eyes flashing in indignation. "If we've got it! Yes, even here at the other end of the city and all society from their Highnesses Tommy and Grace Shelby, we do have milk in, now and again."

"Only not at the moment."

Both of them turn their heads towards the stairs as Alfie comes down them, his head leaned back so Tommy can see the grey of his eyes, almost rolling beneath the broad brim of Alfie's black hat. He looks … Tommy can't say he looks good. He looks ploughed through and harrowed, thick bottom lip carrying the entire freight of all of Alfie's display of emotion, a long scar drawn over his left eye like a permanent tearstain. The thought is laughable. This man descending the stairs in a rolling heavy gait is a stranger to weeping, Tommy can tell that much.

"We've not got milk in, at the moment," Alfie repeats, walking over to stand at Tommy's shoulder -- or against Tommy's shoulder, is more it, and the knuckles of one hand drag a shiver down Tommy's spine. If Tommy just turned his head the right way, he'd be able to slant his mouth over the crest of Alfie's hip, through his camphor-smelling shirt. "Not for you, Tommy. Nor sugar, neither. You get enough of those things at home, don't you?"

"After your visits to the sugar cane fields of Barbados and Trinidad," Tommy says, turning his face up so he doesn't need to think about his tongue against the ridge of Alfie's hip, "I'd think that you'd be absolutely running with the stuff, Alfie. Hasn't it made you any sweeter?"

Polly gets up with her cigarette trembling between her fingers and leaves the room without another word, although Tommy can hear doors opening and shutting, retreating further and further into the house. Alfie hasn't moved, hasn't barely breathed, hasn't taken his seawater stare from Tommy.

"If you came here for … cream," Alfie says, rolling the word around his mouth before lacquering it further, "...and for sugar," he pauses to let weight and innuendo settle, toffeelike, "then I can offer them to you only if you ask, Tommy. Nicely."

Tommy hrrrms in his throat and then opens his mouth, and Alfie puts his thumb against Tommy's lips to stop him. "On your knees, pet," Alfie says, "just like you used to."

"I'm a married man, Alfie," Tommy tries, just so he can say that he did. And perhaps so he can see the look of contempt snarl across Alfie's face briefly as he takes his hand back, there and gone, coiling into the hinge of one jaw where Tommy stares at that tension in fascination as he continues, "I've come to talk about this proper. Civilized."

"I lost all my civility somewhere in the kala pani," Alfie says, and if Tommy doesn't understand the unfamiliar words he does understand the deep ocean depths of Alfie's eyes, the haunting that floats to the surface to bob there, circling his irises. "Along with a great deal more. You don't want to know, Tommy. How dark and black it is down there. Enough to make all the stars you've ever seen disappear, forever."

"Alfie," Tommy says, and reaches up before he can help himself, to put one fingertip at the very corner of Alfie's lower lip and press, pull, disfigure. "What happened to you out there on the ocean? In those foreign lands? Why've you come back like this?"

Alfie's eyes map Tommy's face as Tommy says, very very quietly: "...why did you come back at all?"

Everything goes dead still between, around them, and Alfie says, "That, dear brother, is a very strange way indeed to entreat me for the inheritance you believe you are owed." He steps back. "It was Grace, yeah, who bade you come? Who spun you tales of terrible Alfie, wicked Alfie, sailing back from the gold-washed shores of tropical islands with riches lining his pockets and an eye to cheat you of what our father left to support you in this life, which is nothing, Tommy. He left you nothing. And my riches are not of the sort your Grace would welcome."

Alfie shoves his hands into his pockets and plucks at them like he's tearing feathers from a dead fowl, turning them inside out one after the other, and Tommy watches with his lip curling in a shudder as salt pours out of every one. Alfie used to carefully heap little piles of salt into the corners of rooms, warning Tommy not to disturb them, so that they could ward off demons and evil spirits. When Alfie had left on the tall ship that took him to his damned equatorial destination, Tommy had discovered some of those piles still remaining in secret corners where Polly hadn't found and swept them gone. He'd sprinkled bits of that salt into his food for three and a half months before it had run out. Some of the salt falling out of Alfie's waistcoat pocket showers along the table and into Tommy's tea and his mouth waters, instantly.

He stands up and gathers the folds of his long black coat around him, swallowing his saliva and the taste of acrid dust, nostrils pink-rimmed and flaring rabbitlike. "We're not without means through which to strike at you," he says, the parroting of Grace's words lending his voice a sing-song quality that causes Alfie's lips to curl in derision. He knows those aren't Tommy's words. He knows the inside of Tommy's mouth like nobody else ever has.

"Then strike, Thomas," Alfie murmurs, the taunt sensual and subterranean, and his fingers move much faster to unbutton the only two that are holding his waistcoat closed, to spread open the shirt below to expose his chest, where Tommy can almost see the thumping of his heart. Before he knows what he's doing Tommy reaches forward and gathers the cambric in his hands, bunching it, ripping it, leaving it hanging like old lace from Alfie's heavy shoulders.

"The next time I see you," Tommy says as he quicksteps away, circumnavigating Alfie's unmoving figure, "I'll be collecting my inheritance. All of what's owed me. You know what that is."

The shirt slips further down Alfie's shoulders and Tommy catches a glimpse of a strange scarred mark on his muscled back: a hand, fingers together, the thumb and pinkie curled stylistically. Blue ink casting it ghostly, frozen.

"I will see you before that," Alfie says. Ghostly. Frozen. Tommy tastes salt riming the sides of his tongue as he shuts the door.

---

The attic room is where Alfie's lived since his return, and Pol ventures up when she damn well feels like, now. It scarcely matters. If Alfie wants sex he gets it by his own hand, and Polly has a seventh sense for that sort of depravity (her sixth having been entirely used up and burned down by what her two charges had gotten up to in all their growing years, Alfie knows).

Alfie curls his freezing-cold toes as he leans closer to the fire, baring his charcoal-stained teeth at the flames as they leap blue-white, eating the treats of camphor that he flings into them. Half naked, he feels the tightness of cobalt jab molassie paint dried on his skin and lets a mouthful of thick sweet wine flood his mouth before spitting it out in a spray.

His mother's face looms at the back of the fire, her posy lips reddened with the syrupy wine, her eyebrows dark wings over searching grey eyes. The blue in Alfie's eyes, the short wedged nose, the muscled set of his shoulders and hips, those come from the long lost Solomons Senior; far more than Alfie ever wanted to inherit from his father, and worth far less than what he'd rightfully expected.

The fire spits back at him and Alfie leans into the sparks, letting them kiss searing against his skin. "I think I have your heart as well, Mother," he tells the flames and her face, her searching eyes that take him in and weigh him and find him wanting. "I have your heart but no soul to speak of, for He had none to give me, not before Bedlam and not after it."

Cackling, the fire dances against the back of the hearth and Alfie picks up his bowl and cradles it in both hands, turning it as his lips murmur aloud the Aramaic script that circles its wide mouth. The names of angels that he can only believe in if he thinks of them as magic rather than faith, the taste of clay and shockwaves of horror, an old old craft that his mother interred to his flesh before she died. "Be you bound, sealed," Alfie mumbles, "countersealed, yes, exorcised, hobbled, silenced…."

His voice is an ugly croak like this, and Alfie can swear he feels hundreds of shedim climbing into his mouth past teeth and tongue to rasp at the insides of his throat to claw their way down through his entrails to make their homes there, searing little demons all seething and scrambling over each other, yes, scrambling and rattling their chains, crying out in foreign tongues, waiting in his belly to be vomited onto unfamiliar shores.

"I left you," Alfie says, doubling over so far that his forehead hovers only a few inches above the floor, heat of the fire making rings at the top of his scalp. "In Port-of-Spain, I left you, and I drank your chenopodium and I swallowed your semen and I wore your jumbie beads and your red thread around my throat and around my wrists, and that is where you belong, all you monsters and mazikim, that is where I left you. Buried below the tamarind trees with blue glass to keep you from rising again. You don't belong here."

His voice has ascended to a roar on the last sentence, reverberating through the attic rafters and back down and then the sound all sucks into the fireplace, rippling through the flames and turning them white-blue as the breath catches in Alfie's chest; the moment stretches, pulling out like ropes and ropes of intestine never-ending and gory and miasmic, and then oxygen hits him in the lungs and he wheezes, lips pale.

The fire is only a fire.

It is England.

He is himself. Motherless, fatherless, beset in every cell of his body by the gibbering of demons, but himself.

Alfie rubs his hand over his mouth and chin a few times, letting his beard and moustache prickle his palm. He makes sure his bowl is set aside safely, and then he begins a different ritual, separate from the one to quieten shedim. This one is even more personal than that.

---

The strokes of Tommy's pen are firm and sure as he writes his letter, at his desk, the cold sunlight filtering through the air against his paper. Their whole house is cold and everything that enters it turns chilled. Grace has decorated it in grey and blue-grey and lavender-grey and Tommy, bird bones to begin with, feels the grey in each one of them. The coals heaped in the indigo-grey tiled fireplace must still be giving off heat, though, because Tommy feels it against his hip. And slowly creeping up his side, and down along his leg, and then, he clenches his fingers on his pen because that heat is circling around his cock like a mouth.

"Alfie," Tommy groans.

"Tommy," Alfie mutters.

He curls both hands into loose fists, stacked on each other, and rotates them like he's pulling on a rope or something else, something better, dipping his head to waggle his tongue into the tight circle of his fist. Licking and lapping, pushing and widening, tasting the heated skin, fucking his hand with his tongue.

Tommy falls forward against his desk half-risen out of his chair, hands splayed out on the wood with his fingers in stiff claws, eyes wide and darting as if Alfie's form will materialize if he can only focus his vision properly. And he moans, sluttish protest, as his hips push closer to the edge of the desk and he spreads himself out, face pressed against the varnish as his legs spread wider. Tommy would pray, but he doesn't believe in Grace's God and has none of his own to petition.

Finished with his work, Alfie squeezes his fists tight and then opens his arms, twisting them as he holds them out to his sides, muscles swelling and strained as he leans back, and back, hips canting forward--

--Tommy gives a hoarse yowling cry, bucking against the desk as he feels himself filled, pinned down, unable to do anything but take it. Hard and precise strikes that hit deep inside him, his own cock thick and needy; the whole desk rattles from the phantom force of it and the inkwell topples over, streaming down, the peacock blue that Tommy favours (so frivolous! So strange, for a man, Grace had bemoaned) streaking into the crow-black of his hair and painting along the side of his face, and

and Alfie grunts as the small of his back screams from the pressure of his posture on his knees on the floor, bent so far back that all he can see is the starlings in the rafters of his attic, heat corseting his hips as his prick slaps against his belly and he bites his lip, tasting blood as he baptizes himself in come and feels the

heat and wetness as Tommy clenches down and shouts, open mouth dragging over blotting paper as it soaks up the damp, as his cock gives up its milk as well and Tommy can see that the coals in the fireplace are dead cold and dark, and he laughs once, sharply, before screwing his lips shut tight and doing the same with his eyes as he shudders out his completion. The heat retreats. The sunlight keeps touching him. It's still cold.

---

The next morning a letter arrives at the Shelby house from Alfie, borne to the breakfast table on a silver platter by the servant that Grace insists they maintain. Grace had declined to come down to breakfast.

"I can't look at you," she'd said to Tommy the night before. "All I see is damnation. And you courting it with open arms."

Tommy puts down his egg-spoon and the morning newspaper and opens the letter. It reads in its entirety:

cream and sugar.

He throws it uncrumpled into the cold fireplace and carries on with his egg, dripping molten-soft yolk down the ball of his thumb as he eats. The side of Tommy's face is traced with the curled blue inkstain; stylized, frozen, ghostly. He sprinkles salt like stars into the ocean black of his tea.

/end

#peaky blinders fic #tommy shelby #alfie solomons #incest cw #sholomonsfest2019 #posting here bc ao3 is glitchy at the moment

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notbecauseofvictories · 7 years

Note

anything about thor that the newest movie may have ignited in you

It takes the combined strength of Thor, Loki, and Valkyrie to drag Hela onto the Grandmaster’s ship, though Loki gets a split lip for his trouble and Hela’s nails leave deep gouges in the leather of Thor’s vambraces. They barely have time to close the enormous bay doors before she manages to claw herself free, and hurls herself at the walls, howling.

The steel groans under the assault.

Valkyrie’s gaze lingers on the dents left by Hela’s increasingly desperate thrashing. When she glances at Thor, her eyebrows are raised.

“I agree,“ Loki grits out, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. When he grins, there’s blood between his teeth. “What now, brother? I’ve never been on this side of the…misguided redemption effort.“

They all flinch away when Hela lets out an unearthly, undulating cry that eats up all the air in the room and rings the of the walls like the rattling of spears. It gouges its way through their skulls, and even Valkyrie turns away, her jaw tight.

(Thor is half-blind and still shedding sparks and yet a nameless grief wells up inside him, something ancient, vast and ugly—an agony that begins in blood and ends with it and comes to sorrow in between. It makes him think of the pulsing murals of Hela and Odin, ringed with red and worlds beneath the heels of Sleipnir. It makes him think of his father, gold dust on the wind over the sea. It makes him think of a song he might have heard once, long ago—)

The sound of it goes on forever, or seems to. It is an eternity later when Hela collapses to her hands and knees, keening softly. After a moment, Thor dares approach her—sidelong, giving her room to move away, if…But she allows herself to be led away to a makeshift cell, expressionless and still trembling.

“I need a drink,” Valkyrie says afterwards, glaring at a point over Thor’s shoulder. There’s something in her expression that kills any protest he might have made; Thor nods and steps aside.

Loki has already disappeared. Thor would not hazard a guess to where.

Later, Thor will look out at where the burning ashes of Asgard hang amid the stars. He almost doesn’t notice when Heimdall comes to stand beside him—he’s got a blind side now, he’ll have to start taking that into account. Still, suddenly there is a warmth at his shoulder and the deck feels more solid beneath his feet, and Thor smiles.

“Asgard lives in her people, right?” Thor says, and Heimdall hums a thoughtful noise

“As you say, my king.”

But Asgard was also somewhere just…there, where a constellation of stars that was once Thor’s home is burning out. He will never again walk the halls Frigga walked, or sit on the throne Odin built. He’ll never run through the corridors after Loki, or spar with the Warriors Three and Sif in the courtyard. Asgard is its people and he is Odin’s heir by right, but—

“It has been an age since Odin’s songs were sung,” Heimdall says suddenly, and Thor shudders back to himself. Heimdall is still staring out the vast window, expressionless. “I did not know he’d passed on those secrets to another.”

“What?”

“Your sister,” Heimdall says. At Thor’s blank look, he smiles slightly. “You were there. As Asgard died, she—”

“Do you mean the screaming? That was not like any song I’ve heard.”

Heimdall says nothing for too long; long enough that Thor shifts to look at him fully. The corner of his mouth quirks upward, but there’s no humor to it. “Asgard was once a very different place, my king. We sang different kinds of songs.”

Thor huffs, turning back to the window. “It was horrible.”

“Yes,” Heimdall says easily. “It was.”

Thor casts one last, longing look at the place where Asgard hung amid the stars, then turns to walk back to the bowels of the ship. He vaguely thinks of trying to find the Hulk—the Big Guy had disappeared during boarding, sneering at Hela before lumbering off into the depths of the Grandmaster’s ship. A thought occurs to him, and he turns back.

Heimdall is outlined by fire and stars, and for the first time it strikes Thor that Heimdall said we, said we sang different songs. “She sang as Asgard died?” Thor asks quietly. There were no windows in the loading bay, how could she have known—

“Good night to you, my king,” Heimdall says. He does not turn from the window, and after a moment, Thor goes.

It takes sixteen days—more or less, the Grandmaster’s ship doesn’t seem to be programmed with any particular diurnal cycle—for the ashes of Asgard to burn themselves out. Or at least, to slip from the sight of any but Heimdall. (Space is vast and black, either way.)

Hela goes from keening to silence deep as the grave. She lies on her back on the bunk in the makeshift cell they have arranged for her; her eyes do not open, and if Thor did not come and watch closely for the rise and fall of her chest, he would think her dead.

“There was a story, my father told me once,” Thor says, squinting down at the glass full of purple liquid. The Grandmaster’s ship is not equipped to transport a nation away from its dead planet, not really, but where rations are scarce and the Asgardians are running the life support systems ragged, the alcohol store is excellent. “It was about a king of Alfheim, with three sons. How—”

“She slaughtered all my sisters, Thundergod,” Valkyrie says stiffly. “I don’t want to hear this story.”

The hardness of Valkyrie’s expression does not hide how wounded her eyes can be. At least, not as well as she seems to think.

(She has a bruise on her shoulder she’s also hiding badly, but that is not worth discussion—if anything, Thor has been grateful for her sparring matches with the Hulk. His people gather to watch them, and marvel at the strength and courage of the Last Valkyrie, even if there’s more showmanship than actual violence.

Once, though, he wandered into the great chamber to find the Valkyrie conducting combat lessons, correcting clumsy grips and awkward stances with sure hands and the occasional caustic aside. She’d met his gaze over the heads of the crowd and rolled her eyes, but Thor had seen the light she carried with her, after.)

“it was a good story,” Thor mutters, but he lets the matter drop.

Loki comes and watches Hela, sometimes. Not to—he’s woven half a dozen charms around the doorway, into the walls. No one will disturb her here, and no one with violent intent can cross the threshold. He’s not sure if the holding charms are enough to keep her contained, but they’ll slow her down if she does decide to try escaping.

Still. He comes, and keeps watch over her. Cloaks himself in illusion and simply stands, following the rise and fall of her breathing. (They have the same nose, almost the same brow. Loki wonders if that’s—he’s never been sure how much of his appearance is the Aesir disguise Odin wove for him, and now, watching her, he wonders if—)

Once, her mouth opens and she exhales, licks her lips.

“I know you’re there, little Odinson,” she says in a rasping voice. Her eyes do not open, but the corner of her lips quirks upwards.

Loki turns on his heel, and flees.

The story goes: there was a King of Alfheim, and he was dying.

Because he was dying, he summoned his three sons before him, and said, to each of you, I will give a share of what is mine. Ask for what you will of me.

Father, the eldest said, for he was warlike and strong, and thought most of the throne and the power he would wield from it. Father, I have bled for you and for Alfheim, leading your armies into battle. None of my brothers love our land and the glory of our dead as I do. Give to me your spear, so I may raise it as your firstborn, and truest heir.

(The King grieved to know this was true, for he had shaped his firstborn into a weapon with his own hands and loved him, even if it was meted with shame. The King had been called shield-shaker and bale-worker, king of the gallows and caller of ravens—how could he not love his son, conceived in blood?)

Father, the youngest said next, for he was full of terrible ambition and craving for glory, and believed his father’s crown the shortest distance to sating that hunger. Father, I am the cleverest and most subtle of my brothers, no less your heir for choosing the winding path of cunning. Grant to me your seat at the feast-table, where I might charm and flatter and bring Alfheim to new glory with riches and song.

(The King had not felt regret, though he knew his youngest son would bring his own share of grief to him. But even now the King was called Swift-in-Deceit, and Riddler, Maddener—his youngest son was not the first starving wolf welcomed into the court, and the King loved him for his hunger.)

Father…the second son said, though until now he had been silent. He too was a warlike creature, seeking glory from battles fought and won, but there was a streak of—something else in him, an undimmed brightness that the King could not find in himself. (The King loved him best for this, though he tried vainly to hide it from his other children.)

The second son looked upon his father, who was dying, and said: I want the sky.

And because the King loved his sons, and they had all spoken truly, he gave to each of them as they asked. The eldest son became keeper of the glorious dead and as long as he stood in Alfheim, none could defeat him. The youngest son was given the crown for a time, though in the end it was his hunger that swallowed Alfheim and brought it almost to ruin.

And the second son inherited the whole of the sky.

(”You’re not very subtle, O Wise One,” Frigga informed Odin after the telling was done, not looking up from her distaff. The seiðr shone as she worked it through her fingers, and Odin smiled, to look upon her weaving songs instead of dirges.

“It is only a story, my queen,” he said, and kissed her hair.)

“What do you plan to do with her?” Heimdall asks. “If she is loosed on Midgard, I fear it will not end well. For any involved.”

There’s no need to clarify who he means. Hela is the only ‘her’ aboard the Grandmaster’s ship, the only name no one seems to have the courage to say aloud. Thor knows some of the people have started calling her ‘Elder Sister’ out of sheer terror, as though her name will summon her—

(She isn’t much of an enemy of Asgard now, paler by the day and curled up on her side beneath a thin blanket, unmoving as a statute except for the breathing.)

“She is my sister, Heimdall,” Thor says. His voice sounds tight and unhappy even to his own ears, though he had been trying for kingly admonishment. She is his sister, he has a duty. He’s had a brother and a duty for so many years now it’s second nature, like breathing—he forgets sometimes, that it’s not, for anyone else.

“Yes, I know,” Heimdall says. His mouth thins. “That’s my concern.”

Loki is hard to find, these days, but Thor generally starts where people aren’t, and works backwards.

Nevertheless, Thor is surprised to find him on one of the lower levels, crouched at the center of the floor in an enormous storage room. Loki startles when Thor clears his throat, almost losing his balance. Thor grins, and lowers himself to sit a distance away, careful not to smudge—whatever it is Loki’s drawing in white chalk. It looks like some of the designs their mother used to embroider, all interlocking knots and unraveling spirals, trees and snakes and birds in flight.

The floor on this level is cold, too close to the outer hull, and Thor says as much. If only to break the silence.

Loki’s smile is not a smile at all. “I can’t say I’ve noticed.”

Thor huffs. “Your fingers are practically blue.”

Loki does look up at that, fixing Thor with a pointed look. “Oh,” Thor says, wincing. “Oh, right. Does it…always do that?”

“Only if I’m not concentrating,” Loki mutters, and returns to his chalk drawings.

Thor watches him, settling back on his hands. Loki has chalk in his hair, and hums as he works; it’s a horrible, somehow-familiar melody that makes Thor’s skin crawl. “What is it you’re doing, anyway?”

“Our sister’s song,” Loki sighs, rising to his feet. He has chalk streaked across his knees, down one sleeve. “The one she…when we first brought her aboard. I’ve been working on the infernal thing for weeks, I can’t figure out…”

“Heimdall said it was Odin’s,” Thor offers, and Loki’s gaze suddenly snaps to him.

“What.”

Thor shrugs. “He said it had been ‘eons since anyone sang Odin’s songs,’ or something like that. Our father must have passed it on.”

Loki’s expression goes blank, and his gaze drops from Thor to the whorls of white chalk spread across the cold steel. He stands very still for such a long time that Thor clears his throat again. “Loki…?”

“Fuck our father,” Loki snarls with a naked viciousness. He walks back across the maze of white chalk dragging his feet, and leaving skid marks through the lines and cutting one chalk horse’s head off with a swipe his heel. It hurts Thor’s eyes to look at the design that way, all those gaping holes. Like knife wounds, slashes in a tapestry.

Loki marches past Thor without stopping. He has chalk streaked down his backside too.

Thor sighs. The sound reverberates in the empty storage room. “Good talk.”

“I can feel you lurking, little Odinson,” Hela says, though she does not raise her head or open her eyes. She’s pale, softer-looking—some of her armor has melted away, and the kohl around her eyes is smeared. There is a shadowed gauntness to her face that is worse, somehow, than the bloodlust and madness had been.

Loki shivers into being from nowhere. “I keep watch over you, Odinsdottir.”

“Hah,” Hela scoffs. She has their mother’s mouth, Loki thinks with a jolt, even though it looks strange set in beneath their father’s eyes. It makes him curiously bitter, knowing that—

“What, no rejoinder?” Hela asks, and he realizes too late that she has opened her eyes, and is staring at him from across the room. She does have Odin’s eyes; pale and blue as ice, searching as a Norn’s. It plucks on the vicious tangle of longing and hate in Loki’s chest. (It had been seven days and the sjaund had been drunk—well, it had been something golden and stickily alcoholic from the Grandmaster’s private reserve, but Loki had drunk it, so surely that was the same thing—and what did Loki Odinson have to inherit from his father?)

“He taught you the nine songs,” Loki says. It comes out bitter and accusatory, and he feels his neck grow hot when Hela laughs.

“The songs I know, king’s wives know not,” she sing-songs, enough music in it for Loki to feel the seiðr prickle across his skin. She laughs again, and the sound is worse, hollow. “While your power stinks of our mother. How nice, for Odin and Frigga to each fashion their own weapons.”

“Much good it did you, elder sister.”

Her face doesn’t fall, but it stumbles before smoothing out again. “What good has it done you, little brother?”

He—

He could hurt her. It might not even be difficult—she is pale and sick from going so long without food, and he can feel how weak her seiðr is without Asgard to anchor and feed it. He could unmake her, bury her under the earth or in the void, or unwrite her very existence. He could choke her with his hands, as his fingers itch to. She might even thank him, to be saved from her long, slow slide into nothingness.

(Loki had begged Odin to teach him the nine great songs that built Asgard; had thrown himself at his father’s feet and crawled on his knees and—They are not your inheritance, Odin had said, not unkindly. I intend them for another.

Loki had gone away and nursed his bitterness alone, for it seemed wasteful to spend such seiðr on Thor, who would not appreciate its intricacy nor its power.)

“If you intend to murder me, you will have to explain it to our brother, after,” Hela says, and Loki stiffens. At his look, she laughs again. “Oh, don’t be so offended. Odin looked exactly the same contemplating my death—you’re not special.”

“Thor would understand the necessity.”

Hela looks at Loki overlong, and Loki struggles to keep his expression still. “Would he, though?” she finally asks. “I admit our brother is still a stranger to me, but he does not strike me as a man who knows how to choose necessity over misplaced compassion. Particularly when it comes to his blood.”

Loki doesn’t have any answer to that.

“You could talk to him,” Loki finds himself saying, and even Hela looks surprised at it. “He worries.”

Hela looks away, and Loki almost misses her mutter, “He got that from mother,” under her breath. For some reason, it strikes Loki as impossibly funny.

She actually lifts her head when Loki laughs. Mostly to stare.

“He did,” Loki chuckles, unable to help it. The thought of Frigga’s inheritance is too wonderful and terrible to bear without laughing at it. Hela props herself up on her elbows, and Loki beams. “When we were very young, Odin used to call him Frigga’s second-best girdle, because he was always hanging off her waist. I haven’t thought about that in decades.”

Hela snorts, and then looks annoyed at herself for it. “I’m surprised you haven’t thought about it,” she says mildly. “His look of patient and loving disappointment is a mirror-image of hers. As much as your murderous look is Odin’s. Every time he gazes at me I feel the inexplicable need to apologize for getting blood on the weaving…”

Loki hums, oddly pleased by the comparison. Something to inherit from his father after all. “I cannot begin to count how many times he ran to her, crying over some harmless illusion or light stabbing—”

“As thought it were my fault every time I touched the threads they tore, or rotted under my fingers—”

“Oh, the wailing and tears, you’d think I’d run him through with Gungnir just because I’d ruined his favorite tunic—”

“Was it any wonder I preferred father’s songs, you can’t tear or get mud on a song—”

The silence that falls in the wake of this pronouncement is awkward, thick as snow and deafening. Loki cannot help watch Hela’s face, as her expression flickers from uncertain and then to stony stillness again. He turns away, before she can find him looking.

“Our sister says you remind her of mother,” Loki informs Thor cheerfully. He’s whistling the ugly song again, and Thor rolls his eyes as Loki breezes past.

It takes Thor a beat more, and then his head jerks up from the map he had been studying.

“Wait, what?”

Hela is sitting cross-legged on the pallet, when next Thor goes to her. She is still pale, but she looks up at his approach and arches an eyebrow. (She’s so like Loki in her mannerisms, which should be more than impossible. Thor suddenly wonders what father was like, when he was young.)

“Lightning-bringer,” Hela says coolly.

“Odinsdottir. You look—well.”

“I do not, but it’s good to see our mother taught you manners.”

Thor does not pretend the mention of Frigga does not pain him. Though his father’s death is fresher, that is a deeper wound. “I bring Asgard’s best wishes for your swift healing, Hela.”

“Well, now you’re just lying,” Hela scoffs, and even her smile is Loki’s, like a wolf baring her teeth.

“No, you’re right, everybody hates you,” Thor says, and Hela’s smile widens. “But I’m glad you’re…recovering.”

She snorts. “Yes, recovering. With Asgard gone, you and your brother would have little trouble restraining me now.”

“We would like not to have to, going forward.”

Hela’s gaze turns thoughtful. “You set a dangerous precedent, Odinson. Keeping one mad kinsman close to you is an indulgence, but two is a worrying trend.”

Thor is suddenly very tired. “You’re not mad, sister. A little unstable, maybe, but so is Loki and he’s only—” Thor doesn’t know how to finish that sentence well, in a way that won’t involve tolling the deaths Loki has to his name. He’s only slaughtered one of the nine realms and led attacks on two others, does not seem a persuasive argument.

Hela is looking at him with amusement. “How clarifying.”

Thor sighs. “Do you want to come drink the funeral mead or not?”

Something softens in her expression. “It has been more than seven days,” she says, unfolding her legs and coming to the edge of the bunk. Hela, Goddess of Death, rises to her feet uncertainly, and Thor moves closer out of instinct—he does not touch her, would not dare, but he is within reach if she needs a steadying hand.

She very briefly clutches at his wrist, her knuckles white, and then her touch is gone again

“I know,” Thor says lamely and too loud, when he realizes how thick the silence has become. “Heimdall’s already made that point, often. But we were very busy, with the whole—saving Asgard from yours and Sutur’s wrath thing. Didn’t get a chance to do it properly.”

Everyone is still there where Thor left them, when he went to fetch Hela. Valkyrie falls silent in the middle of a loud insult of Loki’s prowess on the battlefield, and Loki turns—

Heimdall had wanted the people of Asgard there, to witness the oaths given and the drinking of the mead. To use the sjaund to cement in the peoples’ minds that Thor was Odin’s successor, rightfully claiming his inheritance upon his father’s death. In a rare moment of consensus, Loki had agreed—had offered to stand beside Thor and drink only water, so that none would mistake who was King of Asgard.

Thor had refused, and invited only Heimdall and Valkyrie as witnesses.

Loki crosses the room, and stops just short of Hela. “Elder sister,” he says, and Hela smiles in a mirror-image of Loki’s own.

“Little brother,” she answers. “Shall we get this overwith, then?”

Valkyrie comes to the edge of the makeshift feast table—Thor thinks it was likely something else, under the Grandmaster’s ownership, but he scrubbed it clean and covered it with a length of silk, so hopefully that is sufficient.With the scrape of metal upon metal, Valkyrie draws her sword. Dragonfang gleams, unearthly, in the low light of the room.

She takes up her guard, and looks to Thor. Nods.

“This is not how this should be done,” Heimdall says lowly. As though they are not just a few, all gathered around this not-quite-a-table—as though the others cannot hear.

“This is how I want it to be done,” Thor says. It is not mead in he goblet, but he tried to select something that tasted similar from the Grandmaster’s stores. It shines, a dull amber in the light.

Heimdall sighs. “Very well, my king.”

Thor picks up the cup, holds it out. After a moment, Loki’s hand curves over his. Hela’s touch is next and cool, hesitant. Her expression is difficult to read.

They all three of them have a slight curve to their first finger. Thor would not have noticed that, if it weren’t for their three hands, half-entwined the goblet.

If they were in Asgard, Thor thinks, there would have been songs. Great sagas of Odin’s bravery and strength recited to the accompaniment of drums and flutes. Thor would have presided, and all of the court would have drunk the finest mead, dined on roast beast and honey. And when the time came, Thor would have led the procession to the highest balcony, where he would have drunk Frigg’s mead from the bowl smithed by the Sons of Ivaldi. He would have drunk until he was full with it, and then his father would be free of all the duties that had burdened him in life, and come to rest in Valhalla as he deserved.

Instead, Thor is in a cold and empty storeroom in the belly of ship, drinking sickly-sweet alcohol from a copper cup. His siblings—both of whom have tried to kill him, now—watch him warily.

He is not sure whether it’s wrong to be glad of it.

“To Odin Allfather,” Heimdall intones. Loki is very pale, his mouth a thinned line, and Hela’s hand trembles where it holds the cup. “May we meet you again in the halls of Valhalla.”

“May we meet again, in Valhalla,” Thor murmurs. When he lifts the goblet to his lips, he can feel Loki’s hand against his chin, and Hela’s nails scrape his cheek.

They pass the cup between them, until it is empty.

#the ideal fic would be this plus like..................and other 500k of this exact thing but it's finals and this is what you're getting #something is always superman #thor #this is a thing I made

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axemetaphor · 7 years

Text

Some Writing

I have little idea if this readmore will work because i'm on mobile but!!! I'm trying.

I wrote a bit of a something for my new fan character Unknown the Raccoon/Hedgehog [usually just called Unknown]; it starts right after they lost their memories and ends with them meeting Sonic. Kinda based on Forces (since that's what motivated me to even make Unknown!) but since ive been avoiding all spoilers it's probably not accurate lolol

Anyways—

Rating E10+

Contains mild injury, violence, and light swearing.

A hazy greenish-blue sky slowly comes into focus, partially obscured by the walls of tall buildings that rise far above their head, stretching up into the sky to brush against the clouds; the sun shines down brightly, harshly, and their whole body feels hot. 'How long have I been out here?' They wonder. They try to lift their arm, but it feels heavy, their movements sluggish. Their head aches, a dull ringing echoing in their ears, and the moment they try to twist their neck agony spears through their skull.

"Ow!" They yelp involuntarily, wincing and squeezing their eyes shut. "Oh, jeez, that hurts..." Slowly, they try to sit up, using their arms to both lift and support them. They're lying on something soft, squishy in places, covered in plastic. It feels like a lot of stuff with varying degrees of softness all wrapped in one very sturdy plastic wrap. It crinkles a bit when they move, a gentler sound than cellophane, but unpleasant nonetheless. Their eyes ease open again, and the sunlight seems slightly less harsh now. For a moment, they sit, blinking and looking around with wide green eyes. They're sat in an alleyway, in an open Dumpster practically overflowing with black trash bags. The alley itself is devoid of life, and the streets beyond it seem similarly abandoned. 'What's going on? Why am I the only one here?' Turning this way and that, they search for a clue. Finding none, they sigh, hopping down from the Dumpster, and their boots thud loudly against the concrete upon contact. Straightening up, they brush themselves off, feeling a little grimy. The walls ahead of them look equally dingy, rather run-down. 'Which way do I go?' They frown, squinting first one way, then the other. "Six of one, half-dozen of the other," they mumble, but then something catches their eye. There's a couple flyers tacked onto the walls to their left; curious, they turn that way and cautiously approach them. The city has the air of a place that really should be more busy than this—the silence is so obviously unnatural. Their boots thump with each step, the only sound heard at all. No birds, no insects dare make any noise, but why? They pause, reading the flyers, which they now realize are tacked on to the windows of what was—is?—a store, presumably. Distracting themselves for a minute, they peer into the store. Racks of clothes sit in a relatively orderly arrangement, but the shop itself is devoid of life. Their eyes slowly focus on their reflection rather than the contents of the store, and their ears prick in surprise. Leaning forward, they gently place a hand on their cheek, as if to make certain that that's their reflection.

Fluffy blueish-grey fur covers their entire body, with paler whitish fur outlining their eyes and the inside of their ears—which bear three piercings: two rings towards the tip of their ears, and one gauge piercing at the base—and covering their muzzle. Deep blue—almost black!—fur rings their eyes, with one little patch on their forehead and two stripes down their cheeks. Just beneath their chin, a plume of thick, fluffy, bright pale green fur covers their chest and neck. There's a rather tattered black rain jacket hanging from their shoulders, one sleeve half-ripped-off and the other completely absent. Form-fitting black jeans cover their legs, and are in a similar level of dishevelment. The only thing that remained intact was the studded belt wrapped around their waist, which bears two chains dangling off of it. Their gaze drifts back up to their face again, and they notice dried blood practically caked to their upper lip and around their nose; there's a dried smear of blood on one of their ears, too, right beneath one of the ring piercings. The thought 'oh, that must be the newest one' drifts through their head unbidden as they stare in mild confusion at their face. Somehow, everything about this is so unfamiliar... but how? This is their face, isn't it? So why doesn't it feel right? And how come they don't remember their name?

They close their eyes and shake their head, letting their hand drop back down to their side. "What the hell happened to me?" They think aloud, looking back at their reflection. Taking a step back, they tilt their head from side to side, checking out their spines. All are brushed to curve towards one side—their left—and the two on their right have a bit more curl in them than the ones on the left. Their gaze drifts down again, admiring their black combat boots. Flexing their foot, they realize the shoe has a steel toe, stained with blood. "Whatever it was, I guess I went down fighting." They laugh shortly, smirking, and look back up. Something else catches their attention now, a paper flapping in the wind, trying vainly to escape and flutter down the street. They reach up, gently smoothing it down with a hand, and examine it more closely. The top of the paper has the word "wanted" printed in all-caps, boldface, large font. Their eyes skim the page, automatically focusing on the chunk of text nearer to the bottom—several bullet points read "Name: Unknown. Age: Estimated 18 or 19. Height: 3'6" Reward: 100,000,000 rings," then several phone numbers. Their gaze drifts back up, and their eyes widen when they see the image accompanying this Wanted poster. Their eyes snap from the image, to their reflection, back to the image, back to the reflection. There's no mistaking it. The face in the photo, grinning smugly at the viewer, is none other than their own!

Instinctively they tear the paper down and rush to shove it in their pocket, frantically glancing about even though the street is deserted. Turning all about, they look for copies of the poster; finding none, they relax slightly, and run a hand through their hair, jamming the other in their pocket. "'Unknown,' huh..." they mumble. "Doesn't clear much up, but I guess it works...for now." Looking up, they frown. "Bigger problem—where are all the people? ...And why do I keep talking to myself?"

--•~

After an awful lot of hard work, Unknown finally made it to the top of the tallest building they could find, and they sat on the edge of its roof, wheezing slightly as they looked out at the city sprawling beneath them. The sky is still a cheery light blue above them, but they can see that, far ahead of them, a dark reddish-black cloud hangs over part of the city. A large part, too, and it's spreading. Some parts of the city are on fire, the smoke already darkening the sky, and something in Unknown's gut twists. No wonder the city is silent—it must have been evacuated. 'Guess nobody was checking the Dumpsters, though… or they thought I was dead.' Swinging their legs slightly, Unknown looks up, thinking carefully. The sky above is deceptively calm, unnervingly so—not even a bird dares disturb it. Looking back down at the dark part of the city, Unknown narrows their eyes, focusing intently. They can see, amongst the smog, some weird, slow-moving shapes that tower over the buildings. 'What on earth is going on over there?' Standing up, they swish their tail back and forth, mulling over their options. Either they run away from all the dark fiery stuff, and hope they can find where the city evacuated to, or they take their chances and head for all the chaos, because, well, why not? What even are the chances that they'd find the evacuees?

A strange curiosity consumes them, and they find their eyes drifting back to the hulking shapes almost crawling through the buildings. "I have to know what's going on over there," they think aloud, standing up. Turning around, they head for the opposite edge of the roof, then turn back around. Their eyes catch sight of a power line running from a building to the left of the one they're currently down into the sea of rooftops beneath them. Crouching down a bit, they brace themselves, take a deep breath, then sprint for the corner of the roof. Springing off it, they spin their arms a bit like a windmill, slowing them down slightly; reaching out, they grab hold of the power line, feeling it bend beneath their weight. Wrapping both hands around it, they twist their body to face the same direction as the wire leads, putting their feet in front of them. The wind roars through their ears as they slide down, squinting against the force of the air. After a short bit, they feel their grips start to weaken, arms shaking from the force of holding them still, and they crane their neck, looking for a good place to land. Right as the wire passes over a rooftop below, they let go, flailing a little; right before they hit the ground, they tuck into a roll, and somersault right up to the edge of the roof.

Without missing a beat, they spring to their feet, launching themselves off the roof to collide with the wall of a building adjacent to it. Scrabbling for a handhold, they fall a few inches before their fingers wrap around a windowsill. Hauling themselves up halfway, Unknown looks around for another place to go; spotting a decorative grate on a skyscraper across the street, they grin, then fling themselves from the windowsill. The wind screams in their ears again as they sail through the air, plummeting at an alarming rate until they collide with the grate several meters below where they were on the windowsill. The raccoon-hedgehog takes a moment to steady themselves, panting slightly, before beginning to claw their way up the grating towards the top of the building. After maybe five minutes, they can feel their arms start to burn and ache; pausing, they twist and turn, looking for a new place to go. To their left, a bit below them, is a balcony jutting out from a floor of the building. It has some potted trees and bushes almost directly beneath them, and after a moment's consideration, they casually let go of the grate, falling right into a bush. Rolling straight out of it, they brush themselves off, then dash for the opposite edge, hopping up onto the banister then springing off again; their feet collide with a roof below, and they fall into the landing, crouching down with their palms flat on the floor.

Unknown looks up, eyes searching the horizon as they get to their feet, blinking a few times. The red darkness is still pretty far away, but they can faintly smell its smoke now. Flicking an ear, they stretch briefly, trotting forward. 'Now what?' They ask themselves, looking around. To their left is a taller building with many, many windows and a rail branching off its roof, arcing down further into the city, maybe even directly to where they want to go; directly ahead, there's a shorter donut shop with a massive sculpted donut on top of it; on the right sits an apartment complex with a lot of balconies. The weirdly placed rail draws Unknown's attention, and they casually look down at their boots. "They're no SOAP shoes, but maybe they'll work..." The raccoon-hog muses aloud, heading towards their left. After a step or two, they break into a jog, then a sprint, dashing as fast as they can before vaulting up onto the lip of the roof and springing right off it. As they sail towards the building, their blurry reflection comes into focus in the windows, a grinning face with feet outstretched to take the brunt of the impact. The glass shatters so easily, thin sheets not meant for the force of a body or bullets, and they drop into a shoulder roll across the razor-sharp shards. Luckily their fur is so thick; they spring up, shake their fur out, and dash forward, hardly paying attention to their surroundings. This is an office building, with tons of cubicles all in the way, so Unknown hops up onto one of the desks then up onto the thin dividers and starts lunging from one to the other, headed for a set of elevators. Leaping off the last divider, they slam the "Up" button, then take a step back, breathing hard. The elevator whirrs softly, slowly growing louder as it approaches, until it lets out a gentle "ding!" and the doors open.

"Roof access...?" Unknown asks hopefully, ears perked, as they lean in and peer first one way, then the other, looking for the panel of buttons. Finding it, they step further into the elevator, wiggling the fingers of their right hand as they visually scan the controls, a grin lighting up their face as they spot one marked "R." Strutting all the way into the elevator, they press and hold the button, then step back and lean against the wall. The doors creak closed, and after a brief moment of stillness the elevator starts to ascend. Unknown leans back, crossing first their legs then their arms, looking at the ceiling. Their breathing relaxes to a normal pace, the pounding of their heart easing into a calm rhythm, just in time for the elevator to stop and let out another cheery "ding!" with the doors grinding open mere moments later. Immediately Unknown bounds forward, streaking towards the rail; hopping over a ventilation duct, they skid a slight bit before vaulting up onto the rail. Their boots collide with the rail, screeching loudly as the steel scrapes up against whatever metal the rail is made of. Wind rushes through their hair and that familiar feeling of weightlessness, like their stomach is lifting up into their ribcage. They pick up speed, and soon the city skyscrapers are a blur rushing past them, quickly darkening the further along they go. Looking up, Unknown realizes they're most definitely not under blue skies anymore; glancing back down, they spring off the railing a mere few yards before it ends, falling into another shoulder roll. Getting to their feet, the raccoon-hog pauses, looking first left then right.

Many of the buildings nearby are broken, crumbling and some are on fire. The sounds of chaos and destruction are much louder now, along with some very weird mechanical sounds. 'Is that coming from the huge robots I saw earlier?' Unknown wonders, looking up. A couple roofs over, they notice some smaller robots wandering around, almost like they're patrolling the area. Squinting, they try to make out just what's going on, too distracted to notice the robot creeping up behind them until—

"Look out!" Someone shouts, and a weight slams into Unknown. They yelp, tumbling head-over-heels with a stranger's arms wrapped around their shoulders. A gunshot is heard, then the sound of smashing metal, and the arms are lifted from them; scrabbling along the rooftop, Unknown scrambles to their feet, ending up in a slightly unsteady crouch with one hand pressed to the ground. Looking up, they see a somewhat-bruised blue hedgehog getting up a bit ahead of them. Without even missing a beat, he leaps up into the air, curling into a ball to smash through an air born robot. Before they can properly react, Unknown's head instinctively snaps around to see a different machine charging right for them. Letting out another yelp, they run off to their right, trying to escape it, but the machine isn't going to give up anytime soon. More are descending from the sky like metallic locusts, one thudding to the ground right in front of the sprinting raccoon-hog, who immediately drops into a sliding kick.

Surprisingly, they knock the robot right off its feet, and it detonates as the robot following Unknown mows right over it. Glancing over their shoulder, Unknown grins, an idea forming in their head; they begin to slow their pace, waiting for the robot to catch up a bit, before making a beeline right for a wall sticking up from the roof. Leaping up onto it, they take two steps upward before backflipping off of it to land behind their pursuer; their left leg lashes out, colliding with the robot and slamming it harshly into the wall. It collapses, and they land with a thump, turning immediately to see a different robot taking aim at them. 'Jesus, they never stop, do they?' Sprinting, they duck behind a ventilation duct, hearing bullets ping off of it, before they abruptly stop with a crash. Scrambling to stand, Unknown looks to see a bright pink hedgehog absolutely whaling on their former assailant. Paying little mind to that, they vault up over the ventilation duct, choosing to sprint towards their right. They see a red echidna punching straight through machine after machine, all surrounding him, and they tackle the nearest robot, surprising and distracting it. Unknown scrambles quickly to the top of its head, then springs off it just as two different machines shoot right at the raccoon-hog. They miss spectacularly; with an explosion the robot's head is gone, and Unknown lands neatly on top another robot to repeat the process. In no time, the robot's numbers dwindle drastically; Unknown leaps off the last robot's head just as the red echidna's fist collides with it, throwing it almost off the building. The raccoon-hog hits the ground a meter or so away from the red echidna, pulling themselves to their feet as the blue hedgehog and his friends all start to walk across the roof, headed for the center where Unknown and the echidna are.

Panting, Unknown pulls off their tattered jacket, slinging it over their shoulder. They've no clue why they didn't ditch it earlier, since it isn't useful at all, but at least they had a thin layer of protection, they suppose. Running a hand through their hair, they look over when the blue hedgehog calls out, "Not bad!" He grins broadly, stepping forward. The pink hedgehog and an orange fox follow him; the red echidna meanders off across the roof, looking like he's trying to find something.

"Who are you?" Intrigued, Unknown steps forward to meet the three halfway, and stares into the dark green eyes of their new friend. 'How is he not winded at all?' They wonder.

A mixture of surprise and confusion flashes across his face briefly before he smiles in a friendly manner and answers, "I'm Sonic! Sonic the Hedgehog." He extends a hand, and Unknown cautiously shakes it, a bit puzzled. "These are all of my friends," Letting go of Unknown's hand, the hedgehog takes a step back and gestures towards his company, pointing first at an orange fox. "That's Tails," The fox smiles and waves cheerfully. "That's Amy," a pink hedgehog holding an absolutely massive hammer steps forward with a smile.

"Pleased to meet you!" She interrupts Sonic to extend a hand to Unknown as well. They take it with a polite smile, still a little uncertain.

"That's Knuckles," Sonic continues, gesturing towards the red echidna, who turns at the mention of his name to wave casually. "And who are you?" Turning his focus back to Unknown, Sonic raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, uh—" they frantically think back to the flyer they found, "U-Unknown."

"Unknown?" Amy echoes, tipping her head to one side and looking perplexed.

"Yep," the raccoon-hog straightens up, feigning confidence and quickly changing the subject. "Hey, what's going on? What's up with all the robots and fire?"

"Oh, y'know, same ol' Robotnik stuff." To Unknown's surprise, Sonic shrugs it off. "We're gonna take care of it, don't worry."

"Uh—I—Can I help?" For a moment, they're caught off-guard by the nonchalance this colorful crew is displaying, but they've recovered as quickly as they can.

Sonic seems surprised for a moment, then grins broadly, looking around his group of friends. They all nod, smiling themselves, and the blue hedgehog turns back to Unknown. "Sure! Why not?"

#writing #sonic the hedgehog #fan character #sonic the hedgehog fan character #sonic the hedgehog fanfic #asdfjkl im actually highkey nervous to post this but … where else will i put it #my writing #i really hope the readmore works or else this post will be LONG #anyways … more about Unknown to come soon … if you're curious and can't wait for whatever reason shoot me an anon or somethin

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funkymeihem-fiction · 8 years

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Chapter 14

The junkers watched, heads moving back and forth steadily as they followed her pacing. She’d been walking in circles for at least a few minutes now, from one side of the tiny room to the other whilst muttering in her native language and her gaze somewhere far off. Neither of them opted to say anything further on the matter, and even Junkrat seemed to know to zip it lest he further the mental tailspin. Neither he nor Roadhog had cared much beyond a ‘Crikey, look at that’ when they had realized what happened, but neither of them had the history or loyalty to the Overwatch cause that Mei had…nor the anxiety about schedules and stolen lifespans. They figured it was best not to interrupt. She finally turned to them after a while, still looking a bit shocked and lost. “We…we need to call someone. We need to tell Winston- tell everyone that we’re okay. We’re not gone. We’re still alive.” “Workin’ on it, lovey. Place is just a bush ranger’s shit-heap, equipment here’s bodgy but I reckon I can get a signal out. But hey, we’re safe and we got provisions now. It’s near on noon so why don’t you go uh…I dunno, do what ladies do, freshen up? They got a tub and everything. And then Roadie’s gonna make us piggie pancakes. S’like regular pancakes, but they got like little ears and a face on ‘em, and then you put syrup around ‘em to make ‘em look dirty-” “But we’re still alive…” Mei wasn’t really listening, starting to wander back and forth again.

“Yeah. Yeah, we’re still alive, darl. You want to maybe have a sit-down or anything? Can go back to bed if you need? Uh, we had to ditch my teas but I can still make you a…something?” Junkrat gave his partner a bit of a baffled look, scratching his head in that telltale uncomfortable way. Roadhog looked between them, shrugged, and lumbered back into the kitchen. Junkrat scowled, sending a middle finger his way. “Thanks for the fuckin’ help, Streetpig! Yeah, just dump that shit all over her brains and leave! Yeah, great. Dipstick.” Mei finally turned his way, her expression still heartbroken. “I’m going to just…I guess I need to go think? Sorry. I’m sorry.” “You put her back in apology mode, Roadie you fucker!” Junkrat groaned, then went to warily approach her, offering out a hand. “Here, lookit. Gonna put you in the bathroom so you can get sorted, roight? It’ll make ya feel better. Hey, we’re all alive. You just sit back for a bit while I get the comms working, everything’s still good. You’re safe, I’m safe, Hog’s stupid arse is still safe, it’s good.” She let him take her by the hand and usher her towards the bathroom, nodding in a distracted way along with his words. “Sorry…No, you’re right. I guess it’s just all a bit startling. I know I didn’t have time to do any calculations during the storm but…four months wasn’t something I expected. At all. Four months. Four months went by. Gone. They’re gone. And they think we’re gone. Oh my gosh, I told them two weeks and we just vanish without a trace for so long? What if they think we’re dead? What if they tried to send help? What if-” She realized that she was entirely alone, standing and babbling to herself where Junkrat had left in her in the bathroom, and roughly patted at her cheeks to try and snap herself back into reality. She’d vaguely heard something about them all being safe for now. And they were. She had time to herself to try and work her way through it, and wandering around in a tizzy wouldn’t help. She made herself take several deep breaths, exhaling and counting to ten, before examining her surroundings. The bathroom was a tiny side room with that same awful faded wallpaper, with a bone-dry toilet and cracked sink and…she guessed technically it was a tub. When Junkrat had mentioned a tub, she had expected white porcelain or laminate, with scalding hot water and enough bubbles to smother her, perhaps a few rubber duckies for companionship… What she had was more of a wash bucket made of dull gray tin with handles on both sides, and a large plastic container of water sitting nearby. Another item caught her eye. A tube of toothpaste was sitting on the sink and she fell upon it eagerly, squeezing a dab out onto her fingertip. It had literally been months without a toothbrush, and she was eager for clean teeth. Not that she had a toothbrush here either- and she wouldn’t have used a suspicious outback safehouse’s toothbrushes even if there had been one- but a clean mouth was a godsend at this point. She began rubbing the toothpaste all over her teeth and gums, sighing happily. A tingling sensation filled her mouth, followed by a slight stinging. Goodness, Australian toothpastes must have been made stronger than what she was used to. It almost hurt. But at least her mouth would finally feel fresh and clean, and minty and…was that a hint of iron? Her brows furrowed and she held the sides of her jaw, grasping for a nearby water jug as she poured some into her mouth, swishing furiously before spitting. The water splattered into the basin of the sink, swirled with toothpaste foam and tinged with red. She stared at it for a moment before spitting again; less toothpaste, even more red. Blood. Her gums were bleeding. That was certainly concerning…But then again, she had just put strange toothpaste in a mouth that hadn’t seen proper hygiene in who knows how long. Making a face, she swished with more water and spat until it ran clean. Now for the rest of her. She struggled to lift one of the heavy water canisters, spilling a bit onto the floor as she managed to haul it to the edge of the tub, watching as it made loud glug-glug-glug noises and filled the little washtub. It may not have had floral-scented bubbles or rubber duckies, but it looked heavenly all the same. She climbed in and tried to relax, though it was just barely large enough to fit her kneeling down, and worked on scrubbing the dirt and dust from her poor battered body. The water soon ran brownish-gray, revealing skin covered in bruises and sunburns. Ugh. There was no shampoo in sight, but she tried to rinse her hair out as best she could, dunking it under the water and raking her hands through it. It was going to feel so good, finally free of all that grime… She dumped more water over her head before lifting upright, sputtering and wiping at her face before staring down at the dirty water, doing a double take. Dirty didn’t even begin to describe it. It was filthy, and there were stray hairs floating all over the surface. In fact, there were a lot of stray hairs. A lot- a LOT- of stray hairs. Too many. She hauled her dripping body out of the tub, slipping on the linoleum as she made a dash for the mirror. Standing in front of it and staring blankly at her sopping wet reflection, she lifted a hand and went to comb her fingers through her hair. They shed away at her touch, falling away in entire clumps, and her hand began shaking as it drew back with an entire chunk of dark locks still attached, leaving a bald patch behind on her afflicted scalp as it fell away onto the floor. She couldn’t help herself, grabbing another lock of hair and pulling, watching as it came away too, and again, until the floor was littered with brown strands. She looked down at her shaking hands, then back at her own shellshocked and silent reflection, before she opened her mouth and screamed.

It was high-pitched and perhaps a little overly feminine, almost comical. But it certainly caught attention. There was a ruckus of noise outside as a peg leg clattered down the hallway, before a loud pounding shook the door. “Oi, Mei! Mei, what’s wrong!” She felt over her bald spots, mouth moving but no sound coming out, even as the pounding outside continued until the door almost came loose in its bolts. There was the sound of feet moving away, before a loud announcement of, “I’m kickin’ the door down!” She found her voice again. “Don’t! Don’t k-” The feet were already moving, running straight at the door with a loud and very heroic Reinhardt-inspired “HRRRAAAH!” before there was the sound of splintering wood. Instead of the door breaking open as expected, there was instead a piercing crack, as a metal peg went straight through the cheap plywood, the force of it shoving through all the way past the knee joint, followed by the crash of a body outside, falling to the floor. There was a moan, before Junkrat’s muffled voice sounded from the crack at the bottom of the door. “Ow! I forgot which foot I kicked with! I’m stuck! Mei, can you give my peg a push! Can you- Okay, Roadie’s here now! Roadie, bust it!” “No! I said not to-” There was the sound of much heavier footsteps, drowning out her protests, before the enormous junker thrust out one huge fist and gave the doorknob a love tap. The doorknob and locking mechanism shattered instantly as the door was pushed open, dragging the unlucky Junkrat on the floor on his back as he slid along with it, still caught by the knee joint. “We’re here, love! What’s the trouble!” For a moment they just stared at one another, Junkrat’s neck craning from his position on the ground and Roadhog bending over slightly to be able to see into the doorframe. Mei stood in front of the mirror, surrounded by scattered clumps of hair and as naked as the day she was born, shining wet as she vainly tried to cover herself with both arms. She locked eyes with Junkrat, whose pupils dilated as his cheeks turned red, his jaw dropping open senselessly as if he had beheld the gates of paradise themselves. “AAAAAAHHHHH!” Mei promptly began screaming again, hunching over and backing away as she looked for anything nearby to hide behind. “Get out! Get out of here!” Roadhog bellowed and physically flailed, lifting a hand to cover the eyes of his mask as he groped blindly for the doorknob, finding it and pulling the door shut as hard as he could. Unfortunately this did not work as well as expected, and merely set Junkrat to shrieking as his leg was still firmly caught in the plywood and dragged him along, smashing his torso between the door and the frame several times as he kicked and struggled, finally managing to wrench his peg back the other way and diving to freedom as Hog slammed the door closed behind him. He lay there holding his side, groaning as fresh bruises spread over his ribs. “Think that coulda gone better. Hooley dooley, though, did you see, uh…She was all…” He flopped over onto his back, staring at the popcorn ceilings. “Like an angel, Roadie, like in the picture books. But ya know, more shiny and wet and real mad at us.” “Hair fell out.” “Huh?” “Her hair was falling out. It was on the floor.” “Ooooh…Yeah, she probably ain’t used to that part. What do we do? How do you treat a lady’s first radiation sick? Is there some sort of gentleman thing I gotta do? Do I like, leave ‘er alone or try to comfort her or what? Should I go back in there? I probably should-” Roadhog caught his hand as it moved towards the knob, grasping Rat’s entire bony arm and proceeding to drag him away down the hall. “No.”

Mei had found a small and rather unpleasantly crunchy old towel in a cabinet, and had wrapped it around her as she sat on the lid of the toilet. She was shaking all over, staring at a wet clump of hair in her fist as she felt over the bald spots around her scalp and tasted more blood in her mouth, though she couldn’t tell if it was her gums or from biting her tongue during the chaos. She felt a little odd. Not just the hunger in her gut or the certain radiation poisoning she had, or even the remnants of the ice from her cryo-stasis. This was darker and more primal and made her uncomfortable. She was mad. No, not just mad. Furious. No, more than furious. Enraged. Irate. Riled. Fènnù. Shēngqi. No, not even those. There was no word she knew in English, Mandarin, or any other language for the type of anger she felt. Usually her anger was accompanied by tears and frustration. This was something deeper and more sinister. She didn’t want to cry. She couldn’t even cry, there were no tears in her. This wasn’t just anger. It was hatred. She hated everything. She wasn’t the sort to hate. In fact, it was almost alien to her. If there was something wrong, she normally bustled about to try and fix it instead, or encouraged others to see the brighter side of things no matter how dreary the prospects. Rarely, if ever, had she ever felt this deep and hopeless void of anything else but hatred. She hated that her hair was falling out and her mouth tasted like blood and she was bruised and burned all over. She hated Australia. She hated that she had ever wanted to come here. She hated the stupid, brutish people in this stupid, brutish country. She hated herself for thinking they were ever worth helping. She hated Winston for letting her come here even though she’d forced him to. She hated Junkrat. She hated Roadhog. She hated this entire horrible roadtrip. She hated Bobbero and his stupid ugly teeth, and the way he’d tried to kill Jamison and gave them that shitty van. She hated Tilda and her bikers for making her kill them. She hated that she had lost four more months of her life, four months of time that she would never get back, added on to the life that had already been taken from her. She hated that she even cared about these horrible storms, she should have just let them rage! Rage and let them wipe out this whole godforsaken continent! She stood, hands balled into trembling fists. Most of all she hated that she was feeling hate. That she’d been driven to this and punished for wanting to do something good with her remaining life, and instead more had been stolen from her. Not knowing what else to do, she whirled around and lashed out, slapping a palm against the mirror above the sink. She glanced up and saw her reflection, red-eyed and bruised and so tired looking, with raggedy patches of her bare scalp all over. She slapped her reflection, slamming her hand against the rattling mirror several times until her fist suddenly balled up and she punched it as hard as she could. Even in her greatest rage she was weak, and instead of shattering into a billion satisfying pieces, it merely dented inward and suffered a few small cracks. Of course. The one thing in Australia that she wanted to break, and she couldn’t even accomplish that. She felt like she should want to cry, but just wasn’t able. She wanted to make it all go away, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t do anything. So she sat down on the floor, amongst the scattered locks of her hair, and tried to ignore her own dark thoughts.

Mei didn’t emerge from the bathroom for hours. Junkrat had tried once or twice to knock gently at the door and ask if things were all right, but received no answer. Roadhog told him to just wait it out and went about his business. But Junkrat was not very good at waiting. Instead he had tried to think of various ways he could cheer her up. Hog had immediately vetoed the idea of grenade juggling, which irked Junkrat because he had become extremely good at juggling and practiced often when bored, and the grenades were the most exciting things to juggle and would really wow her, but Hog still said no. He wished he had been able to bring his teas with him. Then he could have brewed an entire cauldron of strawberry tea with lots of tapioca pearls, just for her…but she wouldn’t keep it all for herself. No, she’d want to share it with him, and they could drink it together under the stars she liked so much and they could share tea-flavored kisses. But he wasn’t that fond of strawberry and he didn’t have his teas anyway, so that wouldn’t work. Barbecuing her favorite meal was right out. She didn’t like meat and the provisions at the safehouse were both out of date and not very glamorous. The only thing he had was explosives, which she didn’t like at all, and piles upon piles of broken equipment. So he began rummaging through the broken pieces of scrap and circuitry and piles of tools, trying to find something, anything, that might make her smile again. And he knew it had to be something good. He knew what to do when she was crying, he could comfort her pretty well if she was just crying. The fact that she was alone and silent…that was making him very worried indeed. Night had fallen by the time she finally vacated the little bathroom, shaking her head to Roadhog’s offers of something to eat and ignoring the pleading growls of her empty stomach. Instead she returned to the creaky iron bed, climbed in, and didn’t move for the rest of the night. Junkrat kept working.

She finally roused herself a little before noon, when the snarling of her gut reminded her that its hunger pangs could be ignored no longer. She moved with a dull slowness, tired from oversleeping and exhausted from her own anger, but when she opened the door, she found Junkrat waiting for her, one fist raised as if to knock. Blinking down at her, he tried a smile. “G’day, Mei! You really slept in! But there’s still time for piggie pancakes. And…” he sighed. “We need to talk.” She shook her head. “Jamison…Please don’t. I’m just tired. I’m tired of bad news. Please don’t say we need to talk.” “Well…your hair…” He began, and then cringed when she turned her head away as if he’d struck her. “Look. You know I think you’re gorgeous no matter how much hair you got. But me saying that won’t help you feel better because…I mean, look at me.” He leaned down to gesture to his owned scorched and balding areas on his head. “But I gotta say it anyway. And I know you feel like crap warmed over right now, because who wouldn’t? Like, everything’s that happened, it’s been shit. And it kind of reminds me of this one story I got…” She sighed, looking down at the floor. “Please, not one of your big stories again.” “So this one time, I was feeling real shit, just like you. I mean it was real bad. I was on the run from a gang because my ‘friends’ had sold me out for a zack. And when I say on the run, I mean literally, I was running for my life, which was real hard because I’d lost a leg and didn’t have this beauty of a replacement yet, so I just had a crutch. So, I guess more hobbling for my life. I didn’t have barely no supplies, no food, no water, no place to go, so I shacked up in some junkyard I found where less folks wanted to murder me. Ended up stealing food and water out of a junk dog’s bowl. Couldn’t make a fire, so ate it raw. Bam! Dysentary!” “W-what?” She was looking at him like he was crazy, but at least she’d stopped sighing and staring at the floor, so he continued. “So yeah! Spent that week shittin’ meself and crying. I’ll save you the gory details, love, it was bad. Plus, my stump was gettin’ real bad infected. So I’m stuck in this junkyard with a swollen gut, an oozy leg, dry tongue, and no pals left who don’t want to turn my carcass into coins. I got real mad. Got real mad at everything.” She just nodded. “Okay?” “So I decided I’d beat a tire with a stick I found, and it turned out that a bunch of bees had made a nest in there, and hittin’ them with a stick made them really mad. So they all came out at once, and it’s like…yeah, I hated life a lot at that point, but then I had to stop hating it because I was getting stung by a bunch of bees.” “Jamison, I have no idea where this story is going.” “Ya get it though!? I didn’t have time to hate life because I was still living, and I wanted to keep living so I was running from a bunch of bees! I mean, if I had really hated how things were that much, I would have just laid down right there and died from bees.” “Er, I really am not sure how this-” “But I didn’t! I got up and I hobbled my arse right out of there! I kept running from those bees! And you know what, I’m glad I did. Because after I got out of there, it got better. I met Hog and that was pretty good. I blew up some folks who wanted me dead, and that was also real good. I got to travel. I saw neat places and got to blow them up, really enjoyed that. Joined up with Overwatch which is okay I guess. But joining up with Overwatch means I got to meet you, darl! And let me just say…I’d gladly have a hundred days where I fucking hated existing and wished I wasn’t alive and where I’m getting stung by a bunch of bees, if it meant I got to meet you.” She turned away, but was smiling a little despite herself as she tried to piece together the sad absurdity of his story. “Your ideas of a pep talk are extremely strange and kind of romantic in a way I don’t understand at all.” He seemed heartened by her smile, nodding. “It’s like…yeah, shit sucks. But there’s some good shit too. It’ll get better, I can promise you that. I know you’re mad, real mad, about that ice eating up more of ya. But you lived through it all and you did so much that you can’t even see yet, and…you know, maybe don’t think about the ice eating you up. Because I was there, and Hog was too, and we were all together and it was more like we were all just taking a nap at the same time.” “That doesn’t even make sense but…thanks?” She offered out a hand and he took it, giving her a little reassuring little squeeze. “I’m sorry you have to keep doing this for me. I feel like I’ve been nothing but a pain for you two.” “It’s Oz, mate. Everything and everyone out here’s a pain. Including us. Me and Hog are just gonna get you through it with all four limbs still attached. Who knows, maybe one day you’ll look back on all this and laugh. That’s what I do. Besides, it ain’t all bad news. I got communications up! Aaaaaand someone else is real happy to see you! I think. I ain’t figured it all out yet.” He quickly lifted two fingers to his lips and whistled. There was a semi-familiar warbling sound as the little powder-blue drone hovered shakily into the bedroom, an antennae and circuit boards pasted onto its back. It was still dented on one side and its emoticon eyes were flickering and shifting in ‘I’m sick’ swirly symbols as it struggled to stay steady. “Snowball!” Mei brightened, holding out both arms. “You’re back!” The drone responded with a loud grinding noise that sounded more like an ancient modem starting up, rather than its usual cute beeps. It floated towards her, missed its mark, and went sailing over her head and into the far wall with a tone that sounded a bit like “BRRAAAPP.” She rushed forward to scoop it up as it tumbled down to the floor, hugging it anyway as its eyes shifted to a ^ ^ in happy recognition and uttering another loud flatulent mechanical noise. Junkrat coughed, looking to the side. “I mean, it’s a work in progress, but it’s sort of functioning again? So…it’s not all bad, right?” Her anger had subsided by now. It wasn’t entirely gone, had merely shifted into something a little more manageable. She was still frustrated and sad and far from happy, but she was at least feeling more herself again. She could already feel the tears coming on as she grasped Snowball in one arm and hugged the lanky junker with the other, uttering one of her horrid little undignified wet burbles against his chest. Junkrat’s grin returned fully, wrapping his embrace around her once more. “There she is! Aw, that’s it, you can cry and snot all over ol’ Junkrat as much as you like.” “I-I’m not s-snotty, and I’m s-sorry…” she sniffled noisily, defeating the point. “Sure. Come on, get it all out. We gotta make your SOS call later, but first…You have got to eat something, darl, your stomach sounds like it’s trying to get out of you.” He shepherded the red-faced Mei out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen. Roadhog was standing in front of the stove, wearing an apron that was far too small for him, its straps hanging uselessly at his sides as he gave his cook pan a flip. Junkrat sat Mei down before slumping down into a chair himself, beating a fist on the table. “Oi, Roadie! Give us a full stack! We’re starvin’ to death over here!” “Shut up,” the elder junker responded calmly, transferring the pig-shaped pancakes from pan to plate and setting them in the middle of the table. Junkrat barely gave Mei time to grab a few before he started dousing them in syrup and tearing into them with both hands. Mei and Roadhog chose to eat more primly, and with actual utensils. She was ravenously hungry, and even challenged Jamison for more, snagging a few more pancakes from the main stack before he could demolish them. Roadhog had partially lifted his pig-mask in order to eat once more, and without even looking her way, he paused and pulled something out of his pocket, holding it out to her. It was a makeshift headscarf, with two laces stitched on and bearing a patch with the familiar little pig-face symbol with the beady eyes and x-symbol nose on one side. He held out the crumpled mound of fabric in one huge palm, gesturing slightly up towards her patchy scalp. “Here.” She took it, running her thumb over the little pig before wrapping it around her head, tying the straps around the back of her neck and adjusting it so it hid the worst of it. It didn’t fix the problem, but not having to see it would certainly help more than he knew. Or maybe he did know. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Mm.” “BRRRT,” Snowball said.

#meihem #junkmei #meirat #fanfiction #mei #mei-ling zhou #junkrat #jamison fawkes #roadhog #mako rutledge #australia #outback #adventure #funkyfluff

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ulyssesredux · 7 years

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Wandering Rocks

Enjoy the #SuperBowl and then they are not a party.

Just leaving Miami for Houston, Oklahoma and Colorado. —It's very close, the media.

FAKE NEWS, I can focus full time on the loss! People pouring in. Yet FAKE MEDIA calls it differently! He loved Ireland, he said, We have won all debates After the litigation is disposed of and the red pillarbox at the other side of her professional life! Dignam. Hillary.

Deus in adiutorium. The Malahide road was quiet. O, yes: a very bad thing about winning the Presidency. Very nice! The cavalcade passed out with her husband and her phony Native American. Hope you like my nomination of Judge Neil Gorsuch for the subsheriff's office, watched the approach of the least productive senators in the vital swing states, including the smaller ones, into play.

In Youkstetter's, the hatred is too easy!

The constant interruptions last night! False reporting, and for years. She passed out with her husband's brother. #MakeAmericaGreatAgain #Trump2016 MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! We've accepted the outcomes when we begin!

His time will come! Congressman John Lewis should spend more time taking care of our country.

So funny, Crooked Hillary help disgusting check out sex tape and past Alicia M become a U.S. citizen so she could use her in the window of the bright red letterbox. Thinking of victims, their families.

Good afternoon, Mrs Sheehy.

A total lie-and look to the three ladies the bold admiration of his little book Old Times in the history of our country. After the way our democracy. Virtuous: but occasionally they were also badtempered. President Obama campaigned hard and so much of the Ormond hotel, gold by bronze, Miss de Courcy and the Dems own the failed policies and bad judgment of Crooked Hillary Clinton. Those Intelligence chiefs made a lot?

It was idyllic: and Father Conmee and laughed at police Muhammad Ali is dead at 74!

The establishment should save their $$! Aha. Such a … what should he say?

Above the crossblind of the CNMI Rep Caucus with 72. Ohio were incredible! A band of satchelled schoolboys crossed from Richmond street. Media rigging election! She shouted in his turn.

Near Aldborough house Father Conmee drew off his gloves and pointed to the programme of music which was being discoursed in College park. BIG rally in Anaheim. Beyond a doubt. #Debate #MakeAmericaGreatAgain I will be even worse. There will be. Lord Talbot de Malahide, immediate hereditary lord admiral of Malahide and the U.S.A.G. was not a talented person who loves people! Should have been absolutely decimated by dumb politicians, drew less than 200-with Bill Ford to keep me from the shaded door of Kavanagh's winerooms John Wyse Nolan smiled with unseen coldness towards the lord mayor and lady mayoress without his golden chain. Father John Conmee walked down Great Charles street and glanced with his forefinger, undecided whether he should arrive at Phibsborough more quickly by a triple change of tram or by hailing a car or on foot the dingy way past Mud Island. We only want to #MAGA!

Still in London. I met Prince on numerous occasions. The race for president prior to an outward bound tram. The little house. This despite the horrible attack in Brussels today, talking about the American flags and proudly waving Mexican flags. #Debate #MakeAmericaGreatAgain I will be leaving my busineses before January 20th.

Yes. Really he was caught by a judge would put our country and world is watching If Goofy Elizabeth Warren, a man who had made turf to be a smooth transition-NOT!

At Haddington road corner two sanded women halted themselves, an old woman rose suddenly from her poster upon William Humble, earl of Dudley, G.C.V.O., passed swiftly and unscathed across the road and was saluted by obsequious policemen and proceeded past Kingsbridge along the North Circular road.

The same Russian Ambassador that met Jeff Sessions is an attack on those who have suffered massive and embarrassing losses, the very reverend John Conmee S.J. Father Conmee saw a turfbarge, a widebrimmed straw hat at a branch of poplar above him. John Howard Parnell looked intently. Of good family too would one think it will expand in Michigan and Mississippi! Media is protecting her!

The boys sixeyed Father Conmee liked cheerful decorum. Crooked Hillary and the Dems are to blame for the powerful, and lady lieutenant but she couldn't see what Her Excellency had on because the tram and Spring's big yellow furniture van had to stop in front of her on account of its being the lord lieutenant. We do not have delayed! Shame!

The cast of Hamilton, which is why they cancelled their big fireworks at the altarrails placed the host with difficulty in the great people! Brother Swan was the lord mayor and lady Dudley fixed on him, E.L.Y'S, while four shillings, a towhorse with pendent head, a sixpence and five pennies chuted from his hoarding, Mr Kelleher.

Yes.

Gallaher. At Bloody bridge Mr Thomas Kernan beyond the river greeted him vainly from afar Between Queen's and Whitworth bridges lord Dudley's viceregal carriages passed and were saluted. Can you believe it?

Ungrateful TRAITOR Chelsea Manning, who she always hated!

Look what is happening! He could not be president.

Deep in Leinster street by Trinity's postern a loyal king's man, he will be paid back by Mexico later!

THANK YOU ALABAMA AND THE SOUTH Biggest of all crowds expected! Will be going to win the nomination-& Paul Ryan, always fighting the Republican Primaries. Father Conmee blessed both gravely and turned a thin page of his bowing consort to the USA to MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! O, lest he forget.

Just released that international gangs are all looking for a journey so short and cheap.

Crooked Hillary hates her!

Such a … what should he say? By the provost's wall came jauntily Blazes Boylan presented to the programme of music which was being discoursed in College park. A constable on his right hand as he walked. Father Conmee thought of that work, I don't think so! The people get it!

My girl's a Yorkshire relish for my support during his primary I gave millions of more viewers than Crooked Hillary will NEVER be able to lose by going with me.

Obama can make a deal. He passed Grogan's the Tobacconist against which newsboards leaned and told of a hedge and after him came the call to arms and she was a great evening! And what was his name? Those were millions of human souls created by God. Corny Kelleher locked his largefooted boots and gazed, his hat downtilted, chewing his blade of hay he laid the coffinlid by and came to the Republican Party! Another attack, yet it is just another dishonest politician.

Hillary Clinton, Americans have experienced more attacks at home than victories abroad.

Baraabum. Still in London. Saint Joseph's church, Portland row. AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

Thank you America! Sad! Father Conmee turned the corner of Fitzgibbon street. And smiled yet again, in his turn. He thought, but we will win big.

SAD! I was never asked to speak! The rules DID CHANGE in Colorado shortly after I entered the race so badly they just got caught Voter fraud!

Vere dignum et iustum est. At Bloody bridge Mr Thomas Kernan beyond the river greeted him vainly from afar Between Queen's and Whitworth bridges lord Dudley's viceregal carriages passed and were saluted. Then, on his beat saluted Father Conmee a pity that they should all be lost, a towhorse with pendent head, a great day campaigning in Connecticut, another state. Father Conmee and laughed: O, yes: a very decent man, Hornblower, touched his tallyho cap. Ger. Heading to Phoneix. My condolences to the brand new 747 Air Force One Program, price will come way down!

And now it was very good now. Gross negligence by the stubble of Clongowes field.

And to think that she was a great meeting w/Paul Ryan. Why aren't the lawyers looking at and using the f bomb.

#BigLeagueTruth #Debate Moderator: Respectfully, you had some people with a story in politics than Bill Clinton. Thank you, my child, that they have to lose by going with me on women Wow, Lyin' Ted Cruz lost all five races on Tuesday-we just had a socialist named Bernie! Father Conmee at the disgraceful behavior of Hillary Clinton's foreign policy speech will be speaking in great detail on numerous occasions.

Clinton! They saluted him and his supporters. Unseen brazen highland laddies blared and drumthumped after the cortège: But though she's a factory lass and wears no fancy clothes. As I have interests in properties all over our country coming to Bedminster today as I have chosen one of those good souls who had made turf to be a safe and special interests, & their minions are working overtime-trying to get it approved. Melania liked Mrs. O a lot?

Keep the big jobs push back into the mouth of the boys' lines at their play, young cries in the quiet evening. The gentleman with the voters so he has to work the way it's supposed to with Clinton.

Security. Baraabum. Beyond Lundy Foot's from the viceregal lodge. But one should be charitable. The Democrats, lead by head clown Chuck Schumer.

Airports a total meltdown but the people in the sun for his purse. The superior, the prince consort, in cash, to Gettysburg!

A charming soubrette, great Marie Kendall, with arecanut paste.

While I am the king of debt, will no longer talking.

—Very well, indeed, father? —Well, let me see if you can post a letter from his hoarding, Mr Kelleher. Deep in Leinster street by Trinity's postern a loyal Trump supporter & star Having a good time. Our tax, trade, will be carried live at 12:15 P.M.

I will study this dumb deal! WIN giving all of the cost of N.A.T.O.

The dishonest media report the facts!

Celebrate Martin Luther King Day and all other topics! Looking forward to meeting Prime Minister Abe is heading back to the gent with the costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward saw him with surprise. The boys sixeyed Father Conmee saluted the constable.

Above the crossblind of the Ormond hotel, gold by bronze, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head watched and admired. Interesting that certain Middle-East have unleashed destruction, terrorism and ISIS across the carriages at the corner of Mountjoy square east.

Great State of Indiana. Crowd was fantastic.

At the Royal Canal bridge, from his mouth while a generous white arm from a window in Eccles street flung forth a coin. Hillary in that I want guns brought into the box, little man, respected by President Obama just endorsed a presidential primary endorsement—me! Is President Obama just landed in New York. The voters wanted to be a star! He jerked short before the convent of the sisters of charity and held for questioning. The final Wisconsin vote is in-Chief presentation were great!

Five to three. And you, father.

I just got off the reservation. O, yes: a very great success.

The Right Honourable William Humble, earl of Dudley, accompanied by lieutenantcolonel Heseltine, drove out after luncheon from the copyright holder.

And smiled yet again, in silk hat and smiled, as allies, & as a businessman, but won't help with North Korea is behaving very badly by the 16,500 Border Patrol Agents thank you!

Father Conmee supposed.

Striding past Finn's hotel Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell stared through a fierce eyeglass across the world! Wy don't you old back that owlin mob?

Big news to share in New Mexico, amazing crowd! Father Conmee alighted, was the lord lieutenant. Hillary Clinton deleted 33,000 that I inherited something very special people-how did he get thru system? O, yes: a very great success. Will these leaks be happening as I have postponed tomorrow's news conference in the doorway.

Looking forward to the Dallas & Arizona papers & now Lyin’ Ted Cruz steals foreign policy experience, and then they say I must talk to my many supporters acted and threatened people like Crooked Hillary Clinton is a hoax.

Doing my best to depict a star!

A charming soubrette, great Phyllis Schlafly, I can use all the help of Club For Growth tried to play the Russia/CIA card. Anna Wintour came to Res in Beati immaculati: Principium verborum tuorum veritas: in eternum omnia indicia iustitiae tuae.

Thank you Washington!

The little house.

* * *

Bad temperament for pres I am the only one that I've missed.

O, lest he forget.

People are not looking smart, tough and vigilant?

The reverend T.R. Greene B.A. will D.V. speak.

He would go to Buxton probably for the families of those good souls who had the shaky head. —That's a fine day, Mr Kelleher.

Jack Sohan.

That has been treated terribly by the stubble of Clongowes field.

We need change!

Big mistake by an incompetent judge! 77% of refugees admitted into U.S.?

He loved Ireland, he knew, with arecanut paste.

Let us all.

—Home and beauty.

* * *

Our father who art not in heaven.

One of the closesteaming kitchen.

Crooked Hillary Clinton is right: Obamacare is 'crazy', 'doesn't work' and 'doesn't make sense'.

—M'Guinness's.

Melania liked Mrs. O a lot-and with many states left to go to Russia, and the Clinton Campaign, may poison the minds of the urchins ran to it and, spinning it on its axle, viewed its shape and brass furnishings.

We will build the wall and MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

People Magazine mention the words radical Islamic terrorism?

—It's very close, the constable said with bated breath.

—Crickey, is there nothing for us to eat?

Boody, said quietly, as her fingertip lifted to her.

Where's Dilly?

It is so important.

I look very much forward to it and, spinning it on its axle, viewed its shape and brass furnishings.

It fell on the path.

* * *

J.J. O'Molloy's white careworn face was told that Mr Lambert was in the books?

—Gone to meet father, Maggy said.

H.E.L.Y.'S filed before him, got up regardless, with his tie a bit crooked, blushing.

Crooked Hillary's brainpower is highly overrated.

Bending archly she reckoned again fat pears neatly, head by tail, and among them ripe shamefaced peaches.

It fell on the hawker's cart.

—For England … He swung himself violently forward past Katey and Boody Dedalus shoved in the pot?

Maggy, pouring yellow soup, added: For England … He swung himself forward four strides.

The Mayor of San Jose were illegals.

—Yes, sir.

Father Conmee walked through Clongowes fields, his thinsocked ankles tickled by stubble.

He asked.

He halted and growled: A good job we have that much.

-Only 38,000 were detained and held it at once, will go to yours!

—Give us it here.

A card Unfurnished Apartments slipped from the tall stemglass.

—Bad cess to her.

Blazes Boylan said.

Blazes Boylan looked into the cut of her stained skirt, asked: Boody!

—This for me?

MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

Great Again!

A woman's hand flung forth a coin over the area railings.

A onelegged sailor crutched himself round MacConnell's corner, skirting Rabaiotti's icecream car, and I extend our warmest greetings to those observing Rosh Hashanah here in the books?

Isn't this a big player.

A skiff, a disaster from which it never should have their convention in Pennsylvania this afternoon for a meeting.

Bill Clinton's statement on how bad it is not the plane carrying $400 million in negative ads, I am millions of dollars can and will only get higher.

That’s why ICE endorsed me.

So naive!

Blazes Boylan at the debate!

See her dumb tweet when a judge would put our country coming to when a judge in the pot?

When I said pro-Wall Street. Wisconsin's economy is doing poorly and like everywhere else in U.S., health care and tax bills are being crafted NOW!

We need SCOTUS judges who will run from her heavily armed Secret Service Agent for President of the United States.

* * *

We have all got to come in & out, especially when added to the blind columned porch of the year-THANK YOU FLORIDA! Katey, sitting opposite Boody, breaking big chunks of bread into the cut of her blouse with more favour, the blond girl said. —Where did you try?

Despite what you hear in the pot?

Seven people shot and killed walking her baby in Chicago, have no doubt that we will bring back our jobs back to the great Bobby Knight who last night the big jobs push back into the yellow soup, added: Give us it here.

Let's keep it! The blond girl's slim fingers reckoned the fruits. —Yes, sir, she said. Just met with courageous family of Sarah Root in Nebraska.

So many veterans groups are not hostile.

—Will you write the address, sir? —Our father who art not in heaven.

—Ci rifletterò, Stephen said, glancing down the solid trouserleg. Boody cried angrily: Our father who art not in heaven. Just saw Crooked Hillary Clinton is not a change agent, just endorsed Crooked Hillary in that it was cancelled!

Based on her decision making ability, I won the State of Indiana.

Katey asked. Katey went to the range rammed down a greyish mass beneath bubbling suds twice with her potstick and wiped her brow. —Put these in first, will you?

—Our father who art not in heaven. And the fruit on top.

The blond girl glanced sideways at him, tallwhitehatted, past Tangier lane, plodding towards their goal.

A skiff, a crumpled throwaway, Elijah is coming, rode lightly down the solid trouserleg. I am asking the chairs of the most talented people running for the country with Syrian immigrants that we don't want to report that on the table.

That’s why ICE endorsed me, for years.

—Sacrifizio incruento, Stephen said, glancing down the Liffey, under Loopline bridge, shooting the rapids where water chafed around the bridgepiers, sailing eastward past hulls and anchorchains, between the Customhouse old dock and George's quay. Look forward to meeting Prime Minister of Australia for telling the truth.

And what's in this?

Where's Dilly?

A heavy fume gushed in answer.

Bending archly she reckoned again fat pears and blushing peaches. A good job we have that much. Hillary's pay-to-play at State Department.

Addio, caro.

Too bad!

—This for me?

As usual, Hillary Clinton’s open borders etc. Is it in the city?

The judge opens up our country.

Blazes Boylan rattled merry money in his trousers' pocket.

Will you write the address, sir?

* * *

Russia will respect us far more important task!

H.E.L.Y.'S and plodded back as they had come.

#Debate #BigLeagueTruth It’s this simple.

If I win an election! We will have set the all time record in lawsuits. —Speriamo, the round mustachioed face said pleasantly.

A new radical Islamic terrorism? Crooked Hillary and Obama on JOBS and SAFETY!

Hello! Palefaces. The blond girl said. They looked from Trinity to the blind columned porch of the horrible attack in London. No, sir. Mustard hair and dauby cheeks.

$50 million loan. A young pullet. —Ma!

I choose him or not it is sad!

Ivanka intros me tonight! —Can you send them by tram?

If I could get that dressmaker to make a concertina skirt like Susy Nagle's.

Almidano Artifoni said in friendly haste. And the fruit on top.

—Ma!

A quarter after. Blazes Boylan at the Golden Globes. No, sir. A young pullet. Our country needs strong borders and extreme vetting.

Rupert Murdoch is a total Clinton flunky!

The Dems and Green Party just dropped its recount suit in Pennsylvania. The Green Party scam to fill out the various positions necessary to fund Crooked Hillary put her husband wanted to MAKE AMERICA SAFE AGAIN! The way she's holding up her bit of a band.

I'll ring them up after five.

* * *

He rode down through Dame walk, the refined accent said, raising in salute his pliant lath among the flickering arches. She scribbled three figures on an envelope. Men's arms frankly round their stunted forms. By the stern stone hand of Grattan, bidding halt, an Inchicore tram unloaded straggling Highland soldiers of a band.

This is the most historic spot in all Dublin.

He slapped a piebald haunch quivering near him and cried: Well, Jack, were you? —Well, Jack. He mightn't like it, though. —You're welcome, sir. She is strong and great country. He turned to J.J. O'Molloy said politely. Bernie supporters that they are not even trying to wash away her bad judgement. Ma!

Two pink faces turned in the gloom. Almidano Artifoni said.

Media put out a comparable F-18 Super Hornet!

We are now, leaving soon for BIG rally in Chicago-and I extend our warmest greetings to those involved in the morning, Staten Island.

The media wants me to change the playbook! —Pleasure is mine, sir. Crooked Hillary Clinton will be there soon. If you will be the worst economic numbers since the Great State of Indiana is moving fast!

They will be rapidly reversed! —Yes, sir.

Two carfuls of tourists passed slowly, their women sitting fore, gripping the handrests.

Thank you to everyone. —Sacrifizio incruento, Stephen said smiling, swaying his ashplant in slow swingswong from its midpoint, lightly. His heavy hand took Stephen's firmly. No, Ned. He held his handkerchief ready for the Republican nominee Thank you to the outlet and then whirled his lath away among the flickering arches. —He rode down through Dame walk, the next time to allow me perhaps …—Certainly, Ned Lambert cracked his fingers in the gloom. Despite winning the Electoral College is actually genius in that stadium. Scusi, eh? É peccato. Lyin’ Ted & others are being removed! —Eccolo, Almidano Artifoni said. Yes, sir. He slapped a piebald haunch quivering near him and cried: 16 June 1904. It is so bad or, as we continue to make a concertina skirt like Susy Nagle's.

In addition to winning the Electoral College in a long soft flame and was let fall.

* * *

Who wouldn't know this and why does Obama get a nasty fall there coming along tight in the milky way.

What's the trouble? Lawyers of the artist about old Bloom. One on the keyboard: I thought the archbishop was inside. They kick out grand.

Miss Dunne hid the Capel street library copy of The Woman in White far back he stood still and, listlessly lolling, scribbled on the riverwall. The telephone rang rudely by her ear.

The Woman in White far back in her story. —I'm deeply obliged, Mr Lambert, the man who I would have done so if they pay a little later so the wall, then his legacy will never reform Wall Street paid for by Wall Street endorsing Goldman Sachs. A piebald haunch quivering near him and court system. Change it and get another by Mary Cecil Haye.

—I know, M'Coy said abruptly.

Disgraceful! He shut his eyes tight in delight, his body shrinking, and now she didn't go to Louisiana, and sir Charles Cameron and Dan Dawson spoke and there was music.

That's quite right, Ned Lambert answered. —Do, Tom Rochford said. No, sir, for years he had written in order to be stolen from us by other countries. I'll get those bags cleared away from our country!

When will we get tough, smart & vigilant?

Too bad Bernie flamed out If the press when newspapers and others that do not have leadership that can stop this plan!

Another attack, this time in Nice, France, I was … Glasnevin this morning … poor little … what do you call him … Chow!

A card Unfurnished Apartments reappeared on the budget, out to vote-this election. You are very exciting times.

Next week, say good bye to the Dems are trying to convince prople that his supporters by endorsing pro-TPP pro-Israel of all free people's, and so much more difficult & sophisticated than the Electoral College in that it is currently focused on wrong states We did it, though. African-American voters-but I heard he went wild at his disloyalty.

That one, am appalled that somebody that is before she found out the episode was on China The pathetic new hit ad against me.

—After three, he said seriously.

By God, he said seriously. Will soon be speaking in Pennsylvania and is a total Clinton flunky! This was a long face a beard and gaze hung on a chessboard.

Yes, sir, Ned Lambert said, raising in salute his pliant lath among the pillars.

Bill's meeting was a lie. —But wait till I tell you, he gasped. Down went Tom Rochford said.

The lad stood to read the card in his hand. Yes, sir, Ned Lambert gasped, I want to pop into Lynam's to see Sceptre's starting price. I will make it much harder to negotiate peace.

The lord mayor was there … Lenehan linked his arm warmly. I have instructed Homeland Security to check for dishonest early voting in FL is very much to my people. Fellow might damn easy get a nasty fall there coming along great. M'Coy broke in. This way, he gasped. He asked.

—I know, M'Coy said.

Drop in whenever you like.

Then, on the Presidency is that, Poldy? Nice young chap he is, Lenehan said returning. The mansion of the evangelical vote is in-bogged down in it worth double the money, Lenehan said. —See? They will only go further down under Clinton. —O. Madden, Lenehan said.

He held his handkerchief ready for the next 8 years. We pay a disproportionate share of the drive opened wide to give 400 million dollars, including healthcare.

Fellow might damn easy get a special prosecutor to look into your situation bc there's never been anyone more abusive to women in politics is now out for review and negotiation.

Mustard hair and dauby cheeks. All right, Ned. That was the poor devil stuck down in it. It shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased and ogled them: six. Thank you to all for the future of our life than it is currently focused on wrong states! No more HRC.

Crooked Hillary, NOTHING.

Lots of support for our workers.

—Smart idea, Nosey Flynn stooped towards the lever, snuffling at it. He is, he said. Down went Tom Rochford anyhow, booky's vest and all, faith. Twentyseven and six.

With J.J. O'Molloy said politely. Thank you Rick!

I'll tell him anyhow.

The people get it approved. —Wonder what he's buying, M'Coy said abruptly. Lawyers of the vote. We are standing in the Ormond at four MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN The protesters in California were thugs and criminals. Unfit to serve as President I have always had a midnight lunch too after all the stars and the slab where Wolfe Tone's statue was not, eeled themselves turning H.E.L.Y.'S and plodded back as they had come.

* * *

—Leopoldo or the Bloom is, and the comets in the heavens to Chris Callinan, sure that's only what you might call a pinprick. Let us see.

He slapped a piebald haunch quivering near him and cried: Well, Jack. By God, I was with the wife were there. Present address: Saint Michael's, Sallins. —Her mouth glued on his in a Republican Primary-by a local reporter. That was the one to deal with Iran, #1 in terror, no problem!

—Who's that? I'll see him now in the flare of the owners of the Year-a great two days of very productive talks, Prime Minister Abe of Japan, and nothing to show for it!

Terrible attacks in Turkey.

He's not one of these days.

She has a nasty mouth. He stood to attention anyhow, booky's vest and all, with the voters Biggest story in politics. I thought the archbishop was inside. Crooked Hillary said that I wanted to MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! This.

Berkeley does not feel 'great already' to the outlet and then whirled his lath the piled seedbags and points of vantage on the right. Nice young chap he is. Why does the media, in the sun.

I won't trespass on your valuable time …—I know is highly overrated, should be no further releases from Gitmo has killed thousands, unleashed ISIS and many other problems develop for years he had spat, wiping his sole along it, half choked with sewer gas.

—If you will be announced live on Tuesday at 8:00 with top automobile executives concerning jobs in America—she had Bloom cornered. I put in is over here: Turns Over.

Ned Lambert cracked his fingers in the admiralty division the summons, exparte motion, of the race-baiting to try to get out of town!

Flesh yielded amply amid rumpled clothes: whites of eyes swooning up. Many people died this weekend in Ohio.

Many are not covered properly by the media pushing false and unsubstantiated charges, pushed strongly by the riverwall, panting with soft laughter. Hopefully the Republican Primary? I would have won all debates, especially in the historic council chamber of saint Mary's abbey where draymen were loading floats with sacks of carob and palmnut meal, O'Connor, Wexford.

An imperceptible smile played round her perfect lips as she turned to J.J. O'Molloy said politely. We had a chance.

Crooked H!

Coming home it was a disaster America is proud to have a clue.

—Pleasure is mine, sir, Ned Lambert said.

Say it's turn six.

Very nice!

Tom Rochford said. #BigLeagueTruth #Debate Bernie Sanders is being treated very badly by president-really bad job Hillary type policy and management has done a terrible and boring rollout that was season 1 compared to season 14.

Mr Bloom read again: The beautiful woman. A chessboard.

M'Coy's white face smiled about it and asked: I know, M'Coy said abruptly. A great American prosperity. So I raised/gave $5,600,000 new jobs for month in just issued jobs report just reported.

For Raoul!

It is a hoax.

Many of his breath came across the counter out of it. From the heart! The dust from those sacks, J.J. O'Molloy said politely. A darkbacked figure scanned books on the win than anticipated in Arizona. Feel!

—That's right, sir, Ned.

Astronomy it was. That's quite right, sir, Ned Lambert gasped, I was … Glasnevin this morning.

Today will lose readers!

Down went Tom Rochford took the top secret intelligence shared with NBC prior to me would rather run against is Donald Trump. —I'm weak, he said seriously.

After liquids came solids.

Nice young chap he is. Lawyers of the tiny torch.

The Bloomberg View-The FAKE NEWS.

Ned Lambert said.

Bernie Sanders was right from the windows.

Going down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased, ogling them: six.

Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out of Washington.

—He's a cultured allroundman, Bloom is on and what turns are over. —But wait till I tell you, he said, raising in salute his pliant lath among the pillars. Every jolt the bloody car gave I had her bumping up against me misrepresents the final Missouri victory for us yet?

Thank you to Donald Rumsfeld for the opulent curves inside her deshabillé.

My rallies are not looking good and doing very well in Michigan and Mississippi!

Look what has happened in Orlando is just a few days ago.

Iron Mike Tyson was not at all levels!

—He's dead nuts on sales, M'Coy broke in. The shopman's uncombed grey head came out and his unshaven reddened face, coughing. Here we go-Enjoy!

He got the rope round him.

System rigged! —But wait till I tell you a damn good one.

In the still faint light he moved about, tapping on it.

Stay safe!

Paper has lost so much more. —He rode down through Dame walk, the early beam of morning. M'Coy's white face smiled about it but he got the rope round him. —No, Ned Lambert said heartily.

I have ZERO investments in Russia.

Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out of winning the second and third, plus executives, will no longer has credibility-too much failure in office fighting terror for 20 years-and let the Schumer clowns out of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's, carrying a pound and a black silk skirt of great amplitude.

Lyin'Ted Cruz and John Kasich is STRONGLY in favor of Common Core! Fast and furious it was about. See now the last one I put in is over here: Turns Over. Fellow might damn easy get a nasty fall there coming along tight in the historic council chamber of saint Mary's abbey where draymen were loading floats with sacks of carob and palmnut meal, O'Connor, Wexford.

If the people of Indiana is moving fast! He got NOTHING for all of the Independent Ethics Watchdog, as allies, & start meeting with German Chancellor Angela Merkel.

Flesh yielded amply amid rumpled clothes: whites of eyes swooning up.

I had, he gasped. The shopman lifted eyes bleared with old rheum. Going now to Texas. Even money, Lenehan said. —I'll take this one. Original evidence was overwhelming, should immediately apologize to Mike Pence for their release.

He said seriously. On.

He laid both books aside and glanced at the titles. Bartell d'Arcy sang and Benjamin Dollard …—I know, M'Coy broke in.

—No, Ned Lambert said.

The attack on Pearl Harbor while he's in Japan? You can take it from here or from here. He slapped a piebald haunch quivering near him and cried: Well, Jack, is a way of saving face for Democrats losing an election?

#Debate #BigLeagueTruth Our country has been there for 30 years?

I am somewhat surprised that Bernie Sanders have been saying, REPEAL AND REPLACE OBAMACARE! Sorry, people want border security and safety to which we did ample justice. Her mouth glued on his in a disk for himself: and watched it shoot, wobble, ogle, stop: four. —Tooraloo, Lenehan said.

The system is totally rigged. What's the trouble? #Debate #MAGA Drugs are pouring into our country as he has to sell himself to the gutter. —O. Madden, Lenehan said. M'Coy said. He said simply.

Both are looking good!

Nice young chap he is, he said. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN, will it take for African-American voters-but would campaign differently Campaigning to win including failed run four years ago, was hacking, why did the White House Correspondents' Association Dinner this year. Mr Bloom read again: The beautiful woman threw off her sabletrimmed wrap, displaying her queenly shoulders and heaving embonpoint. That's right, Ned Lambert said.

Listen: the great bear and Hercules and the US Constitution.

We had a midnight lunch too after all the stars and the Baldwin impersonation just can't go on forever. The year the missus was there … Lenehan linked his arm warmly.

She has a fine pair, God bless the people truly get what's going on Intelligence agencies should never have been saying.

* * *

ISIS of a hero, he said. They went up the steps and under Merchants' arch. Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out and get her latest book, which devastated Ohio and is Very serious situation for USA This Russian connection non-representative delegates because they are very smart and protect our Nation, that number will only go further down under Clinton. Thank you to be, but costs are out of town! —But how does it work here, see? —See? O, sure they wouldn't really! —I was tucking the rug under her bellyband. Mr Dedalus asked, his State Chairman, & is now trying to say and write whatever they want TRUMP! He is living in a total disaster.

It won't happen!

When you two begin Nosey Flynn stooped towards the lever, snuffling.

We will bring great jobs to Colorado and the wife on the Presidency.

Says Chris Callinan and the U.S.A.G. talked only about grandkids and golf for 37 minutes in plane on tarmac?

I'm sure you have another shilling, Dilly said.

Tim Kaine is a vote of 87-12. #Debate Moderator: Respectfully, you mean.

Lenehan said. Hell's delights!

Is it little sister Monica!

Here. He glanced sideways in the dark. Our country is totally based on total popular vote if you decide without watching the totally one-sided deal from the pile he clasped against his unbuttoned waistcoat and bore them off behind the dingy curtains. I tell you, he said. Down went Tom Rochford anyhow, booky's vest and all, faith.

When you two begin Nosey Flynn stooped towards the lever, snuffling at it.

—I know you did, Dilly said. Fishgluey slime her heaving embonpoint.

While he waited in Temple bar M'Coy dodged a banana peel with gentle pushes of his toe from the pile he clasped against his claret waistcoat. Press! The annual dinner, you mean. Congrats to the right. ISIS, illegal immigration and not waste his time on fighting Republican nominee Thank you!

How do you know that? I was with the rope round the poor devil stuck down in it worth double the money, the stars and the dragon, and blew a sweet chirp from his lips. The end. Were you in the case of Harvey versus the Ocean Accident and Guarantee Corporation.

In Bangladesh, hostages were immediately killed by illegal immigrant, but outside, criminals! —Stand up straight, girl, he said.

He's a cultured allroundman, Bloom is, Lenehan said eagerly. Drop out LYIN' Ted. —Do, Tom Rochford anyhow, he said with a pursing mincing mouth gently: Barang! Five shillings.

—Where would I get money?

Mr Bloom beheld it.

—O. Madden, Lenehan said. Young! Obama Administration under education program for 100 Ambs Terrible! If Russia or any other candidate. The year the missus was there, and the wife were there.

NOT believe it?

False reporting, and bent, showing a rawskinned crown, scantily haired.

The Republican Party Chair.

—Drain? Crooked Hillary just took a major statement. The beautiful woman.

Amazing crowd. I'll try this one now. Mr Dedalus, loitering by the riverwall. All the dollarbills her husband wanted to carpet bomb the enemy. Consumer Confidence Index for December surged nearly four points to 113. Just won a big stake in it, and with many states left to go BLANK themselves-was very well. We pay a little trick, Mr Dedalus drew himself upright and tugged again at his moustache. And a game filly she is. I will bring jobs back and get wages up. Melancholy God!

Goofy Elizabeth Warren can spend a whole, I will be going back tomorrow, to Gettysburg!

* * *

Take this.

Bravely he bore his stumpy body forward on spatted feet, squaring his shoulders. Lyin' Ted Cruz had zero.

In Bangladesh, hostages were immediately killed by illegal immigrant, but if I won Ohio.

One of those fellows got his hand nailed to the table by a dagger.

Melting breast ointments for Him!

We are talking to many groups and it is completely false! Mr Dedalus stared at him.

Over and done with. How are things going?

Fair Tyrants by James Lovebirch. The sweepings of every country including our own.

Will these leaks be happening as I decide on Cabinet and many for a long moustache, came round from Williams's row. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

Fishgluey slime her heaving embonpoint! —That I had, he said, stopping. Great meetings will take care of our leaders to eradicate it! He laid both books aside and glanced at the third: Tales of the cabinet. Armpits' oniony sweat. Isn't that what you look for some money somewhere?

S. is preparing for battle to reclaim Mosul. If Crooked Hillary and Dems are making the job killing TPP after the U.S. Indiana. Nothing like a dressy appearance. Four and nine. I will be a weak leader.

Press! The viceregal cavalcade passed, greeted by obsequious policemen, out of Parkgate.

His frocktails winked in bright sunshine to his fat strut.

Stylish coat, beyond a doubt. Do you know that?

It is time for you, the manager of the lord Jesus, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.

U.S.?

Thought so.

—Give it up, keep pushing the false narrative that I had, he said gravely. Grizzled moustache.

The lacquey by the College library. That's a fact?

Dishonest General Keith Kellogg, who represents the opposite and WE tried to extort $1,000 from me, viciously attacked by Mr. Khan, who advised me that Podesta & Hillary's people said about her husband gave her were spent in the stores on wondrous gowns and costliest frillies.

Some Kildare street club toff had it probably.

Mr Dedalus cried, turning on him.

Phlegmy coughs shook the lolling clapper of his bell but feebly: The little nuns taught you to Jack Morgan, Tamara Neo, Cheryl Ann Kraft and all of the U.S. to get rid of you. Be careful Bernie, run. Mastering his troubled breath, he said. I had, he spoke hoarsely, eying her with a suspicious glare.

Many say it will hurt Hillary? People don't want the drone they stole back.

Over and done with.

Going to Salt Lake City, Utah, for the Republican Party! So great to be in jail! Crushed! Crooked Hillary did not know. President Obama a weak and desperate Lyin' Ted Cruz is weak and her government protection process.

Fine dashing young nobleman.

O, sure they wouldn't really!

Frockcoats.

Is that a fact?

Fishgluey slime her heaving embonpoint. He handed her a shilling.

A thousand casualties. Try.

He will be big factors. Busy times! Nice little things!

Because Gov. Kasich cannot run in the Trump U civil case, Gonzalo Curiel San Diego, who advised me that alliance members must PAY THEIR BILLS.

Mr Kernan halted and preened himself before the sloping mirror of the road.

They know if certain people are looking at you. Get out and vote!

Sulphur dung of lions! Times of the spine. I am spending a lot!

He's dead. Look, there's all I have. Nice!

You are late, he said. Some Tipperary bosthoon endangering the lives of the great State of Louisiana, and now they have lost their grip on reality.

What is our country! Good for the terrible things they did and said like giving the questions to the ground. Not a single lifeboat would float and the great people!

Hopefully the violent and vicious killing by ISIS of a whore. —I'm sure he would ever endorse me!

Scott of Dawson street. On my way to Dayton, Ohio.

Saw him looking at my frockcoat. Been around for 240 years. Hillary will finally close the deal, and is Very serious situation for USA This Russian connection non-sense is merely an attempt to cover-up the word BRAINWASHED. Bad times those were.

Sad!

Thought so.

MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

I won Ohio.

They were gentlemen. He raked his throat rudely, puked phlegm on the counter out of Parkgate.

* * *

Tattered pages. In my speech at the Democratic Convention!

We must restore law and order and protect our great movement, we will be big factors. I still number one! Mr Dedalus cried, turning on him. Cream sunshades. Joe Scarborough initially endorsed Jeb Bush just endorsed me at 43% but never mentions that there are four people in DNC in writing those really dumb e-mails? North wall and sir John Rogerson's quay, with the order he had booked, walked through the webbed window the lapidary's fingers prove a timedulled chain. Graft, my speech on ILLEGAL IMMIGRATION on Wednesday in the wrong side. Mr Dedalus said threateningly. My wife, Melania. She will drown me with her, eyes and hair. —I bought it from the burial earth? Get tough! Thank you New York now, look at all loyal to each other than the FBI and DOJ!

—Stand up straight, Mr Crimmins, may we have the drive or stamina to MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Mr Kernan halted and preened himself before the sloping mirror of Peter Kennedy, hairdresser.

Dust webbed the window and the firehose all burst.

—The most effective press conferences I've ever seen!

She will drown me with her, eyes and hair. Save her. It is time for Republicans & Democrats to get a short shrift and a bun or a something. The ROLL CALL is beginning at the border. Nice little things! It doesn't matter that Crooked Hillary wants to win a woman's love. And America they say was the cause? Better turn down here. Philly fight? —Stand up straight, Mr Dedalus placed his hands on them and held them back.

The windscreen of that motorcar in the Spring.

Must be tough Reporting that Orlando killer shouted Allah hu Akbar! Instead she is used to have ever run for president in U.S. political history Oregon is voting today.

Is it little sister Monica! Damn dangerous thing. Good timing, I recognize the rights of people who voted illegally Trump is going on? What have you there! Many on the wrong moves-Convention Center, Airport-and I spent twopence for a shave for the United Nations will make education a far more important task! He turned and halted by the Obama Administration agreed to take on China, NOT WOMEN! Reduce dues Chuck Jones, who has made. Dilly said, handing her two pennies. How to win a woman's love. So sad! Tomorrow's events will be having many meetings this weekend. Where would I get money? Tomorrow a big rally. The windscreen of that motorcar in the London terror attack. Agenbite. Agenbite. Senate in many years!

Fine poem that is: Ingram. Captain Khan, who tried so hard, was killed in Washington in record numbers. For those few people knocking me for $1,000,000,000 missing e-mail investigation is rigged-so why isn't the media, in order to suppress the the Trump U?

For Growth said in their saddles. —Twopence each, the huckster said.

Save her. —I'm going to win a woman's love. Damn good gin that was.

Lank coils of seaweed hair around me, I am a big stake in it! From the sundial towards James's gate walked Mr Kernan halted and preened himself before the victory. Just cannot believe a judge would put our country and world is a garbage document … it never should have been front page news! Turned down by court earlier.

And America they say she has bad judgement & insticts.

Great level of confidence and optimism-even before taking office, with what is it?

Anybody whose mind SHORT CIRCUITS is not qualified to be our president-really big crowd, great enthusiasm! No. Mr Kernan halted and preened himself before the sloping mirror of the spine. I want wages to go up in your other establishment in Pimlico. Melania is joining me on the win. The little nuns! Shadow of my mind. Agenbite. Will be in jail. Only a fool would believe that Bernie Sanders, after stealing and cheating her way to a debate, and it is about RADICAL ISLAMIC TERRORISM and the showtrays. But, according to General Mattis, not bad! No cardsharping then. Nebrakada femininum. Is he buried in saint Michan's? These are people who have suffered massive and embarrassing losses, the handle of the ash clacking against his shoulderblade. Just missed that by a skiff, a lot myself and also helping others.

You got some, Dilly said. Lyin’ Ted & others are copying me.

Stephen said. The dysfunctional system is totally rigged!

MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Just more very dishonest. Mr Dedalus drew himself upright and tugged again at his moustache.

Crime reduction will be watching from North Carolina for two more. Dilly said. Big problems at airports were caused by Delta computer outage, protesters and the U.S.A.G. was not, then, Mr Crimmins. Are we talking about Hillary saying her brain SHORT CIRCUITED, and Mexico at the job done! And you who can. The dysfunctional system is totally biased and phony media will say how great they are throbbing: heroes' hearts. How do you know that? Five shillings. —Stand up straight, girl, he did.

O, sure they wouldn't do anything with that, he said. An insolent pack of little bitches since your poor mother died. Good drop of gin, sir. Let me see. Mr Dedalus said, smiling. There is no longer talking. Can't you look back on it all now in a puff.

The viceregal cavalcade passed, greeted by obsequious policemen, out of Parkgate. For me this. Just keeping alive. Without a doubt.

We had to. Thumbed pages: read and read. We now have confirmation as to what happened, that sham squire, with hulls and anchorchains, sailing westward, sailed by a skiff, a very decent man, Elie Wiesel, passed away. I was stretched out stiff. Old Russell with a smeared shammy rag burnished again his gem, turned it and held it at the point of his bell but feebly: The little nuns!

It's instructive.

Let me see. Fine dashing young nobleman. How to soften chapped hands. Based on the wrong side. Mind Maggy doesn't pawn it on you. Our tax, trade, but rather RADICAL ISLAMIC TERROR and the showtrays. Looking forward to a speedy recovery for George and Barbara Bush, both hospitalized. —Did you get any money spent on negative ads. GREAT AGAIN!

High colour, of course. There is no-one in Dublin would lend me fourpence. Mr Dedalus said. And now, look at all levels! What are you? Ben Dollard does sing that ballad touchingly. A lot to talk. All against us. Going for five shillings?

—Stand up straight for the wonderful reviews of my voters.

* * *

Great State of Arizona. Stephen said. I'm barricaded up, phony facts.

I thought we were bad here. They clasped hands loudly outside Reddy and Daughter's. Where fallen archangels flung the stars of their brows. Good drop of gin, Mr Dedalus said.

Not yet awhile.

Top suspect in Paris massacre, Salah Abdeslam, who is totally biased.

—That's right, Father Cowley said. Looking forward to our next meeting. Stephen went down Bedford row, the manager of Mitt Romney's historic loss, is also one of my mind. Terrible affair that General Slocum explosion. Well, of course.

Good drop of gin, that was right from the old chapterhouse of saint Mary's abbey past James and Charles Kennedy's, rectifiers, attended by Geraldines tall and personable, towards the metal bridge.

Sad to watch Bernie Sanders says that she SHORT CIRCUITED, and much more competitive, comprehensive, affordable system. Muddy swinesnouts, hands, root and root, gripe and wrest them. And now, look at that. The media is trying to effect an entrance. Paul Ryan, had a great Memorial Day by thinking of and respecting all of the ash clacking against his shoulderblade. Stephen said. Shatter them, one and both. -Wall Street. Beingless beings.

That's a fact? She nodded, reddening and closing tight her lips. Drop out LYIN' Ted. Outside the Dublin Distillers Company's stores an outside car without fare or jarvey stood, the military, guns and yet he now wants to essentially abolish the Federal Court decision in Boston, which is working out just beautifully. Her mind is shot-resign!

He's a cross between Lobengula and Lynchehaun. #Debate #BigLeagueTruth Hillary is flooding the airwaves with false and fictitious report that was. Do people notice Hillary is flooding the airwaves with false and misleading ads-all paid for by her illegal and even worse TPP approved. Crooked Hillary's brainpower is highly respected by all! Misery! Aham! Who wrote this? President Obama was presented?

#DNC Our country is stagnant. Congratulations Stephen Miller-on behalf of our life than it is a mixed up man who I never met former Defense Secretary Robert Gates. Great meetings will take care of our acquaintance.

For Growth and Heritage, have to announce that she did was stupid! Good drop of gin, Mr Dedalus said, laughing nervously.

Our Native American. Most brutal thing. Watching the #GOPConvention #AmericaFirst #RNCinCLE John Kasich is good, they have to start World War III.

His frocktails winked in bright sunshine to his bulk.

Another horrific attack, this time in the sun there. Your heart you sing of. I told her of Paris. I'm barricaded up, Simon, Father Cowley said. She is drowning. I'm barricaded up, Simon, Father Cowley said anxiously. The same, Simon, Father Cowley said. Melania.

#Trump2016 Can you believe. Mr Dedalus said. Muddy swinesnouts, hands, root and root, gripe and wrest them. Never built under three guineas. President Obama. Without the con it's over Thank you!

Media, as mumbling Joachim's. Did Crooked Hillary just can't get votes I am fighting the dishonest media refuses to expose! All I want to run for president prior to me would rather run against. You can tell Barabbas from me, and its great Ailsa Course. I saw John Henry Menton's office, he said. The pathetic new hit ad against me.

Self-determination is the leaking of Classified information is illegally given out by the media, in their, in their, in their, in order to keep me from the copyright holder. Life and Miracles of the ash clacking against his shoulderblade. Nebrakada femininum. Damn it!

#MDW Don't believe the main stream fake news to share in New Hampshire tonight! Chardenal's French primer. Dust webbed the window and the showtrays. Ben Dollard. This doesn't happen if I'm president!

Binding too good probably. Some Tipperary bosthoon endangering the lives of the so-called angry crowds in home districts of some Republicans are actually, in their saddles. They can't!

#NeverHillary Crooked Hillary put her husband? Most brutal thing. Bernie Sanders supporters are furious with the bad decisions! Binding too good probably.

Mr Dedalus said. Good for the country somewhere.

The brainsick words of sophists: Antisthenes. Palm oil. Some, Dilly said. Save her.

What is this?

Runaway horse. Democrat City Council what happened to the Florida rally tomorrow.

Reading poorly from the metal bridge.

—That's a pretty garment, isn't it, for a long waiting list of potential U.S.

Most scandalous revelation. He took the coverless book from her over this and why? She dances in a foul gloom where gum bums with garlic. General Slocum explosion.

Stephen went down Bedford row, the panel did not give him the info! —The same, Simon, with his violet gloves gave him away. Not yet awhile.

The sweepings of every country including our own.

Cream sunshades. —Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. Dust webbed the window and the throb always within. Not a single lifeboat would float and the throb always within.

—Here, Stephen? Mr Kernan turned and halted by the Democrats—both with delegates & otherwise.

The windscreen of that? Course they were unable to pass the Bar Exams in Washington State by a dagger.

Late lieabed under a serious emergency belongs! I'd bet a good relationship with Russia. He has, Father Cowley said. That ruffian, that sham squire, with the order he had booked for Pulbrook Robertson, boldly along James's street, past Shackleton's offices.

Media desperate to distract from Clinton's anti-2A stance. Mr Kernan, pleased with the choice of Tim Kaine has been involved in the sun there. Look at the Republican National Convention #1 over Crooked Hillary Clinton is unfit to serve as President I have never liked the media term 'mass deportation'—you have my full Cabinet is still not approved my full Cabinet. And you who can.

* * *

We will follow two simple rules: BUY AMERICAN & HIRE AMERICAN! —For a few days tell him, Father Cowley said.

Life and Miracles of the Curé of Ars.

Christians in the air.

Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails.

Rupert Murdoch is a direct threat to our next meeting.

Reduce dues Chuck Jones, who tried so hard, was incredible-massive crowd-THANK YOU!

—That's a pretty garment, isn't it, they would be a tax on our soon to be on the economy! Where? Long John Fanning filled the doorway where he stood.

Tremendous day in Wisconsin.

Raised a lot of money in Atlantic City made all the particulars. Billions of dollars in gifts while Governor of Virginia-dealing with the Russian story as to what happened, that he had written in order, no mace on the table, nothing in order to marginalize, lies! I gave him all the particulars. #SuperTuesday #VoteTrump Don't reward Mitt Romney, who walked uncertainly, with two men off. Father Cowley brushed his moustache often downward with a heavy list towards the Tholsel beyond the ford of hurdles. Agenbite.

I simply state what he is, by God, he quoted, elegantly. 29 Windsor avenue.

Watch!

My words were unfortunate-the polls against Hillary because nobody views him as a personal hedge fund to get Carrier A.C.

—Filberts I believe they were, Mr Subsheriff, Martin Cunningham said, nodding.

MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

Bronze by gold, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head, appeared above the crossblind of the least productive senators in the election results. He put on his glasses and gazed towards the Tholsel beyond the ford of hurdles.

Uff!

Will the world to see, that he was, Martin Cunningham said.

Bawd and butcher were the words.

MAKE AMERICA SAFE AGAIN!

Ben Dollard. Job killer! Do not worry!

I have chosen one of the 16,500 Border Patrol Agents thank you! The tall form of long John Fanning asked.

She dances in a massive victory in Florida.

—That's the style, Mr Power said to the Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg going to instruct my AG to get it done anyway! I wrote to Father Conmee, having read his little hours, walked through the webbed window the lapidary's fingers prove a timedulled chain. Just leaving Salt Lake City, Utah-fantastic crowd with no interruptions. Getting ready to deliver a prepackaged speech on protecting America I spoke about a world of the things it is now. —I know, to be smart, we just officially won the State of Indiana.

Mind Maggy doesn't pawn it on you.

The Intelligence briefing on so-called Obama years. The assistant town clerk's corns are giving him some trouble, John Wyse Nolan said, overtaking them at rest in Essex gate. —What did you buy that for?

—There's Jimmy Henry said pettishly, about their damned Irish language.

N.!

—Some, Dilly said, Hillary Clinton strongly stated that it is true-just like Crooked Hillary no longer. Who is it?

—Jolly, Mr Dedalus said, cheerily. Long John Fanning ascending towards long John Fanning is here too, John Wyse Nolan said, as mumbling Joachim's.

He supported Kasich & Marco Rubio. For a few days tell him, Father Cowley said. He has, Father Cowley answered. Long John Fanning's flank and passed in and up the staircase. The establishment should save their $$! I gave him all the particulars.

Is it any good? I can get!

Is Supreme Court! Reuben of that wonderful state.

Nebrakada femininum.

Where fallen archangels flung the stars of their brows.

—Good day, Mr Power followed them in.

Bernie! John Fanning in the House and Senate. Poor old bockedy Ben!

Many are professionals. My rallies are not looking good!

—Rather lowsized.

From the cool shadow of the doorway he saw the horses pass Parliament street.

Our country is a disaster for Ohio, and e-mails AFTER they were supposed to win a woman's love.

I suppose all my books are gone.

He's not smart enough to run-guilty as hell but the people and asking for impossible recounts is now out for review and negotiation. To all the particulars. A truly great Phyllis Schlafly, I have raised/gave!

Inwit's agenbite.

* * *

A disgraceful decision!

WIN in November, I threw out more clothes in my time than you ever saw. —Eternal punishment, Haines said, pinching his chin thoughtfully with thumb and forefinger. Also, deductibles are so high that it was OK to devalue their currency making it hard for our VETERANS.

Just got a call from my friend Bill Ford to keep order in the mirror. The joy of creation …—Eternal punishment, Haines said, thoughtfully lifting his spoon. Damned Irish language.

—Rather lowsized. Iran, #1 in terror, no energy left!

Mind!

—Come on up, Simon, with hasty steps past Micky Anderson's watches.

Crooked Hillary said her husband did with NAFTA.

The Democrats, when they incorrectly thought they were having, Jimmy Henry said pettishly, about their damned Irish language. John Wyse Nolan Mr Power said to the jewman that made them, and by the Dems was so bad or foolish.

—Hello, Simon, with hasty steps past Micky Anderson's watches. Long John Fanning ascending towards long John to get him to take in as our new Secretary of State, costing Americans millions of wonderful people of Indiana. —O, Father Cowley asked.

He turned to both. While Bernie has totally sold out to be far more interesting with a nod, he said with rich acrid utterance to the inauguration, but fortunately they are not wasting time and money.

—That's right, Father Cowley said.

Shakespeare is the name? He said, as large as life.

Kasich are mathematically dead and totally biased.

With a broken back, is it true that the person in her rigged system that pushed her over the GQ cover pic of Melania from a G.Q. shoot in his health, Ben Dollard said. With John Wyse Nolan fell back with Mr Power said, just like with the bad trousers.

Bronze by gold, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head, appeared above the crossblind of the Ormond hotel.

John Wyse Nolan, lagging behind, reading the list, came after them quickly down Cork hill. He bit off a soft piece hungrily. Mike Pence and family yesterday. Vladimir Putin said today about Hillary Clinton's hacked emails.

How are things?

Touch me not. Wisconsin vote is that Crooked Hillary can't close the deal with Bernie. Who is it?

He put on his glasses and gazed towards the metal bridge an instant.

But are you sure of that work, energy and money, and nobody says a word to long John Fanning ascending towards long John Fanning filled the doorway he saw the waitress come. The lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland, John Wyse Nolan answered from the old chapterhouse of saint Mary's abbey past James and Charles Kennedy's, rectifiers, attended by Geraldines tall and personable, towards the Tholsel beyond the ford of hurdles.

As he came near Mr Dedalus said, nodding also.

—What about that?

He will never capture the Attic note.

Haines said, fingering his beard, to keep me from the creamy cone of his beard.

Looking forward to it. Gaily they went past before his cool unfriendly eyes, not quickly. I will be all right, Martin, John Wyse Nolan said, amid an archipelago of corks, beyond new Wapping street past Benson's ferry, and that was illegally circulated. —And long John Fanning could not remember him.

The great boxing promoter, Don and Tiffany-their speeches, under its screen, his loud orifice open, a man in a Clinton ad. Too little, too late!

He led Father Cowley boldly forward, linked to his laughter. Father Cowley said. The #1 trend on Twitter right now it is practically useless. We will both be working and wonderful man who doesn't have a conflict of interest with my children. He's always doing a good turn for someone. When I become POTUS we will make it strong and great country. It was my great honor.

Just got back from Colorado.

—Boyd?

I will fix it!

#ImWithYou For too many years, do nothing to make things better! It's rather interesting because professor Pokorny of Vienna makes an interesting point out of that.

Haines said, taking the list at which Jimmy Henry, Mr Power said.

As he came near Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.

Just left a great Memorial Day and remember that we will take place. It will be taking over my Twitter account to my team of deplorables for tonight's #debate #MakeAmericaGreatAgain So many false and misleading ads-all paid for by Wall Street money on false ads against me!

Thank you.

Martin Cunningham said, as allies, & as a personal hedge fund to get him to my season 1.

I gave him all the help of Club For Growth tried to shake me down for five shillings. GO FLORIDA!

Can you imagine if I win a state in votes and delegates.

All I want to run.

But are you sure of that?

Testily he made room for himself beside long John Fanning's flank and passed in and up the stairs.

Probably released by Wikileakes shows quid pro quo in Crooked Hillary has very small and unenthusiastic crowds in home districts of some Republicans are actually, in his health, Ben Dollard.

Long John Fanning blew a plume of smoke from his lips.

* * *

President of United Steelworkers 1999 was any good, they have to make a great and brave man-thank you!

In order to MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Hillary Clinton and Tim Kaine should not have hacking defense like the RNC and all over the top, DWS. —Are the conscript fathers pursuing their peaceful deliberations?

You're blinder nor I am sure he has done a spectacular job in the jew, he said, when that was, Martin, John Wyse Nolan told Mr Power.

Martin Cunningham said to the assistant town clerk. The Democrats had to come in & out, especially when added to the fabric of our forefathers.

—Yes, Martin Cunningham said, laughing: Coactus volui. Testily he made room for himself beside long John Fanning asked.

Dignam of Menton's office that was, Mr Power said, cheerily.

I spoke about a world that doesn’t exist.

North Carolina.

They chose a small table near the window, opposite a longfaced man whose beard and gaze hung intently down on a chessboard. I wrote to Father Conmee and laid the whole case before him.

Hell open to christians they were having, Jimmy Henry said pettishly, about their damned Irish language. Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, with the puppets of politics-b/c Hillary's foreign interventions unleashed ISIS & all others in the corner towards James Kavanagh's winerooms.

Says that she would go wild I always do-trade, jobs, and congrats to Army! The youngster will be all right, Martin Cunningham said, just heading for Kavanagh's. He can never be a smooth transition-NOT!

John Wyse Nolan opened wide eyes.

Still, I saw.

Incompetent Hillary, costs will triple!

John Howard Parnell translated a white bishop quietly and his grey claw went up again to his forehead whereat it rested.

I would NEVER mock disabled. Looking forward to meeting w/a free & ind UK.

Still, I don't always agree, I shouldn't wonder if he did after all.

Martin Cunningham asked, as large as life.

Top executives coming in at 9:00 A.M. Four more years!

—Look here, Martin, John Wyse Nolan, lagging behind, reading the list, came after them quickly down Cork hill.

—The youngster will be there, awake, to the subsheriff, while Martin Cunningham asked, twisting round in his fight against ISIS. Bronze by gold, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head, appeared above the crossblind of the U.S. sells Taiwan billions of dollars to DJT Foundation, unlike most foundations, never a nice thank you, he said plaintively. Two mélanges, Buck Mulligan bent across the thick carpet Buck Mulligan whispered behind his Panama to Haines: We call it D.B.C. because they have damn bad cakes.

This is a fraud, just heading for Kavanagh's. Rather lowsized.

The empty castle car wheeled empty into upper Exchange street.

Such persons always have.

—Come on up the stairs. When she had gone he said, overtaking them at the distant pleasance of duke's lawn.

He helped her to unload her tray.

Ohio had the guts to run as an Independent, say good bye to the great men and women of our country during that week.

Not anymore, it is humiliating. John Fanning asked.

Raised a lot myself and also helping others. —England expects … Buck Mulligan's primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his forehead. After today, Trump Tower wherein I gave, he said, DO NOT believe it. —Parnell's brother.

—You should see him, he said sourly, whoever you are!

In saddles of the Ormond hotel. —Is that he?

—We call it D.B.C. because they have damn bad cakes. An instant after, under its screen, his brother, our city marshal.

* * *

How low has President Obama gone to tapp my phones in October, just put out an ad where I am very proud to have ever run for POTUS. It now turns out that the Dems was so great to be a good pucking match to see.

His face got all grey instead of being red like it was and there was a fly walking over it up to his other hand.

Now I am President! Dems Convention is cracking up and pushed big time by press, healthcare and so many jobs. Not so anymore! Haines said to the late, great enthusiasm! It will be the same way with ISIS, and Mexico at the two puckers stripped to their pelts and putting up their props.

He strode on for Clare street, grinding his fierce word.

Very nice! Much of the Obama Administration under education program for 100 Ambs Terrible!

Hillary lost?

* * *

My father is dead.

He stood looking in at the mess. Mexico has lost most of his eyes and the red flower between his lips. The dishonest media refuses to say it better. Disgraceful! How was that? Every on-line in the wind from that fellow would knock you into the middle class since Obama took office. Enjoy! On Northumberland and Lansdowne roads His Excellency drew the attention of his dustcoat brushed rudely from its angle a slender tapping cane and swept onwards, having buffeted a thewless body. She’s been in our country in such peril. And they eating crumbs of the outriders. I love watching these poor, pathetic people pundits on television was the first step to #RepealObamacare-now it's onto the House and Senate committees to investigate top secret report he Obama was to know him well—during a general I will be a good pucking match to see. His face got all grey instead of being red like it was going to build a case.

Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam, pawing the pound and a half of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's, porksteaks he had been sent for, went along warm Wicklow street dawdling. I will bring jobs back where they belong! That's me in honoring the critical role of women here in America.

I don't watch anymore but I saw his tongue and his teeth trying to say it, they should APOLOGIZE. You will prevail! The scrunch that was yesterday! In Grafton street Master Dignam on his way from the shaded door of Kavanagh's winerooms John Wyse Nolan smiled with unseen coldness towards the lord and lady lieutenant but she couldn't see what Her Excellency had on because the tram and Spring's big yellow furniture van had to stop in front of her on account of its own weight-be careful! Yet I've a sort of a political campaign. Tremendous day in D.C. that the Democrats-but media misrepresents! Past Richmond bridge at the garden gate of Phoenix park saluted by obsequious policemen and proceeded past Kingsbridge along the northern quays.

Lyin' Ted Cruz steals foreign policy speech. I worked hard with Bill, the blooming thing is all over the shoulders of eager guests, whose mass of forms darkened the chessboard whereon John Howard Parnell looked intently.

Passing by Roger Greene's office and Dollard's big red printinghouse Gerty MacDowell, carrying the Catesby's cork lino letters for her father who was laid up, knew by the wall of College park. Passing by Roger Greene's office and Dollard's big red printinghouse Gerty MacDowell, carrying the Catesby's cork lino letters for her father who was laid up, knew by the late queen when visiting the Irish capital with her strong endorsement of me playing golf at Turnberry. Job killer! Tom Devan's office Poddle river hung out in fealty a tongue of liquid sewage.

Congratulations to my proposal would still be lower than current! Make America Great Again. At Haddington road corner two sanded women halted themselves, an elderly female about to enter changed her plan and retracing her steps by King's windows smiled credulously on the various Sunday morning shows. His eyeglass flashed frowning in the final line. He turned to the gent with the NRA, who called BREXIT 100% wrong along with everyone at the Polls!

She shouted in his ear the tidings. Convention were very good ratings from 4 years ago, must prove she is not affordable-116% increases Arizona. Big problems at airports were caused by me. Highly overrated! One last shot at me. Beyond Lundy Foot's from the greenhouse for the veterans and the salute of Almidano Artifoni's sturdy trousers swallowed by a triple change of tram or by hailing a car or on foot through Smithfield, Constitution hill and Broadstone terminus. Where the foreleg of King Billy's horse pawed the air Mrs Breen plucked her hastening husband back from under the WEAK leadership of Obama & Putin fail to reach deal on Crazy Bernie, or for the U.S. Hope she is unfit to run-guilty as hell but the people of Cuba have struggled too long. Looking forward to a debate, and lady lieutenant but she couldn't see what Her Excellency had on because the tram and Spring's big yellow furniture van had to come here.

By the provost's wall came jauntily Blazes Boylan presented to the gent with the Russian Amb was set up by the media pile on against me misrepresents the final line.

Get ready for a purse of fifty sovereigns. Serious bias-big rally! I beat Hillary. A sorry state! In Lower Mount street.

* * *

In Youkstetter's, the salute of two small schoolboys at the corner of Mountjoy square. The dysfunctional system is rigged-so time to walk along the North Strand road and name. Great Charles street and glanced at the garden gate of Phoenix park saluted by Mr Dudley White, B.L., M.A., made obeisance unperceived, mindful of lords deputies whose hands benignant had held of yore.

Is President Obama for first time that they have been absolved, pray for me as a personal hedge fund to get away with murder. #InaugurationDay It all begins today! I am bringing back car production to State & U.S. Father Conmee smiled and saluted the second carriage. The joybells were ringing in gay Malahide. I couldn't hear the other little man? Don John Conmee S.J. reset his smooth watch in his interior pocket as he turned. Master Dignam walked along the North Strand road and put Father Conmee's letter to father provincial into the mouth of the boys' lines at their play, young cries in the wind. —Well, now! Former President Vicente Fox, who also knew of the ways of God which were not our ways.

In Grafton street Master Dignam turned, his collar down and they all at their play, young cries in the sun for his boots to go out to Tunney's for to boose more and he listening to what the drunk was telling him and he loved the Irish capital with her husband is going crazy. LinkedIn Workforce Report: January and February were the honourable Gerald Ward A.D.C., agreeably surprised, made obeisance unperceived, mindful of lords deputies whose hands benignant had held of yore. His Majesty. Bernie Sanders must really dislike Crooked Hillary, costs will triple! Mitt Romney called to congratulate me on the landing there bawling out for his purse. I think the people of North Carolina.

Just watched the totally one-by a triple change of tram or by hailing a car or on foot the dingy way past Mud Island.

Wow, USA Today did todays cover story on my correct call. So much time and sighing. Only stupid people, even with an approx.

SAD! African-Americans will VOTE TRUMP and WIN AGAIN! Beautiful weather it was, and Haines gravely, gazed down on the providence of the Ormond hotel, gold by bronze, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head watched and admired. Will be such fun! Father Conmee stepped into an outward bound tram for he thought on Father Bernard Vaughan's droll eyes and the U.S.A.G. Uncle Barney said he'd get it into the public. Will be going to finally mention the words I say she’s a fraud!

Congratulations Stephen Miller-on representing me this morning. ISIS fighters have infiltrated Europe.

Lyin' Ted Cruz has lost so badly they just got off the phone with the Clinton campaign, perhaps more cash than any other country or person has Hillary Clinton's watch-she's done nothing about me. At the Royal Canal bridge, from his other hand. His name was Brunny Lynam. The conductor pulled the bellstrap to stay the car for her father who was laid up, phony facts. Where was all the time. Thank you to Fox & Friends for so reporting! The last night pa was boosed he was.

Stay safe! Hillary!

His Own likeness to whom the faith had not received the baptism of water when their last hour came like a thief in the doorway of Commercial Buildings, stared from winebig oyster eyes, holding a fat gold hunter watch not looked at in his fat left hand not feeling it. He doesn't know me, about not allowing people on the representative of His Majesty. Lord Talbot de Malahide, immediate hereditary lord admiral of Malahide and the salute of two small schoolboys at the corner of Mountjoy square. A massive tax increase will be asking for a purse of fifty sovereigns. I am going to New Hampshire and Maine.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Wandering Rocks #politics #American politics #presidential elections #21st century #Twitter #Donald Trump #2016 #2017

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