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vigilantetendencies · 3 years

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Snippet/random writing

My best boy Uriah and his unfortunate partner Xander and a little summary/snippet thing I did for them.

Heavily based in the world of Danny Phantom.

He shook with anger, eyes hard as his fists clenched at his sides. He had done nothing wrong! He never had. He had only ever existed and somehow that was enough for everyone around to pin him as the villain.

"You want a bad guy?" He asked, voice cracking as his eyes glowed. "I'll give you a bad guy!" He felt his body pulse with his emotions, years of beatings and descrimination against his genetic coding having built up into a horrifying display of power. He never wanted to be the monster- he had never asked for the honor of being feared and avoided. But if these spirits wanted a monster then they would have one; and he would do his damnedest not to disappoint.

He lunged forward, symbols glowing on his palms as he connected with one of the guards, throwing him away as his hands sucked the ectoplasm from his body. Uriah hardly paid attention, eyes hard as the ghosts that were moments ago cowering were now coming at him desperately.

It wasn’t long before there were bodies scattered across the room, Uriah panting in the middle of them while lowering the last attacker to the ground. He tried to wipe ectoplasm from his cheek and only succeeded in smearing it, standing tall and frowning down at the body at his feet.

“This didn’t have to happen,” He told it, knowing none of them could hear him.

He suddenly saw movement out of the corner of his eye, remembering where he was. He spun around, finding a man leaning up against the doorway to the room. He had an unreadable expression, and Uriah tensed in anticipation of another battle.

“My entire army,” the man rumbled, golden eyes roaming over Uriah’s body. “You took down my entire army in a matter of minutes.” There was no clear indication of what the man was feeling. It didn’t sound like anger or disappointment. Rather, it might have been intrigue. The man pushed away from the wall and started toward Uriah, the smaller male getting ready for anything. "I'm not looking for a fight, so you can relax. Or…” He grinned. “Did you want my help with that?” It came out as a purr and Uriah’s mind stalled for a moment, shoulders slumping as he heard the rumble of the man’s voice.

Was he- Was he hitting on Uriah after he’d just mopped the floor with his army?

The man walked around him, very obviously looking him over and sizing him up.

“And what important business brings a hunter into my castle? I doubt you came here to let me make you my play thing.”

“-Play thing-? What, no-” Uri felt his face warm up, trying to step away from the other man. He succeeded in putting distance between them, again tensing up. “I’m here to stop you from threatening the people of Aesop’s pyramids.” He puffed out his chest, eyes hard.

“Aesop couldn’t be bothered to come here himself? Shame.” He paused. “Even if you’re scrawny at least you’re easy on the eyes. More so than that winged brute.” The man suddenly looked disinterested, looking at the back of his hand before starting to walk away. “If that’s all then you can tell him his message was received but I still expect payment.”

“I’m not your messenger,” Uriah stated with finality. “I’m here for Aesop and Aesop alone. Unlike you, Aesop has better things to do than to send threats and hire prejudiced men to work for him.” He stuck his nose in the air, eyes glowing harshly.

“Is that it? You throw little tantrums when people don’t like you?” No, he wasn’t going to play into this man’s stupidity- “You think it’s fair because you were ridiculed and made to be the bad guy but what you’ve done here hardly looks like the work of an upstanding citizen.”

“Everyone is always going to condemn everything I do.” Uriah became less tense, looking away. “I won’t take judgement from any of you. Let alone a bully.” Uriah met his eyes once more before spinning to the door, beginning to walk out. He could feel Xander’s mood drop briefly before he called out to him.

“If you ever want a good time come back, little hunter.”

He frowned; what an appalling man.

“I’m surprised,” Aesop told Uriah, looking at the man sitting on the column next to his throne. He looked miserable, wearing one of the loincloths that everyone in the pyramids wore. He wasn’t often found shirtless out of human pride of some sort, but the heat had gotten the best of him. He was a sweating, dull mess so Aesop tried to make him feel at least a bit better. “Xander hasn’t so much as sent a threatening letter. Whatever you did must have worked.”

Uriah looked over, blinking.

“I only talked to him.”

“And wiped out his entire army, I hear. You’re not one to attack unless provoked, I was surprised.” He could see Uriah slump.

“I really didn’t like it.” He could hear someone approaching the room from down the hall but paid no attention. “When I use my powers I think it takes away energy from people. I always feel so jacked up after and I never know what to do with all the energy.”

“I could think of a few things,” a voice called over the room. Both Aesop and Uriah looked at the doorway at the front of the room, none other than Xander standing there.

“It’s awfully bold of you to come right into my castle,” Aesop frowned, upset that he had spoken too soon.

“You say it like anything is going to happen to me.”

Uriah looked at Aesop.

“Can I hit him!? I want to hit him-”

“Uriah, stand down.”

“I’m not here to fight,” Xander stood a few feet in front of them, smirking. “I’ve actually come here to inform you that I won’t be making a nuisance of myself anymore.”

“Really.” Aesop smiled a bit. “Me and my people appreciate it.”

“What’s it going to cost?” Uriah stood, crossing his arms.

“Mm, the get up is enough.” It took him a second, but Uriah realized the statement was directed at him. He gave a small squeak as he tried to somehow hide his exposed skin, hearing Aesop try and hide a laugh.

“Hey!”

“Apologies, little one. Why don’t you go and see how Anu is doing in the kitchen while we discuss these events?” Uriah happily took the escape, practically sprinting when he heard Xander whistle at his back side.

The brunette was not happy when it was later revealed that Xander was staying longer than just a conversation. He made a point to avoid him, trying to focus on helping out Aesop’s people.

It was like this for around a week, Uriah avoiding Xander and giving snarky retorts to his flirtatious remarks, but in the midst of the night Uriah came sprinting into the main hall, pulling his own clothes on again.

“Master Rakov-” Anu tried to stop him, setting down a pot on a table near the throne. "We talked about you dashing off like this!"

“No, Anu, I have to go-” He stumbled, buttoning his pants and pulling his shirt off of his shoulder to pull it on next, dropping his shoes and hoodie on accident. “Shit-”

“Uriah?” Aesop came into the hall, robe draped around his toned body. “Are you leaving us?”

“I-I had-” He groaned as he fell on his rear, pulling his shirt on as Xander entered the hall next. “I have to go- They need me-”

Aesop sighed, nodding.

“I understand.” That was it; Uriah pulled the rest of his clothes on and was suddenly gone.

Xander stared with confusion clear on his features, looking at Aesop for an answer. “Hunters are born with the ability to have foresight related to their abilities, like a premonition. Most hunters are moulded to become killers of all ghosts, but Uriah’s upbringing allows him to see when people need help rather than point him in the direction to kill.”

Xander nodded, watching the empty spot where Uriah had just been.

Peculiar.

The next meeting was a rather odd one.

Aesop had let Uriah come back around a few times, and in those times he saw Uriah mature more and more into an adult.

Xander was around some of these visits, but often times Uriah was so busy with Aesop’s people and other tasks that he couldn’t hardly give Xander a sarcastic comment. And- damn, did he want to do that so bad.

As Uriah got older he got more muscular, but not terribly so. He became more bold and much more interesting to listen to.

Finally it seemed like Uriah was not so busy that he couldn’t talk; It had been...What, two years? He was settled outside Aesop’s castle, floating in the water of the pool. He only had on a pair of shorts, his scarred up body sprawled out for Xander to oggle at shamelessly.

Had he always been so pockmarked? Not that Xander minded, he was a firm believer in scars being beautiful and showing one’s bravery. But he just...hadn’t recalled anything adorning his tanned skin when they’d last really talked all that time ago.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Uriah called from the pool, not even opening his eyes. Xander came closer, sitting on an intricately carved bench and grinning.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you do something other than run around like a maniac,” he commented. “And it looks like you’ve been busy, did you get mauled?” He watched as Uriah opened his eyes, glancing over. Shit- Touchy subject. “It’s hot, so don’t look so offended. You were pretty to look at before, but now I might find myself thinking of you at night when I-”

He was suddenly hit with a wave of water and this brought him to laughter.

“You’re not even qualified to kiss my big toe let alone jack off to me.” Uriah was standing in the pool now, arms crossed. “Don’t you have something better to do than to irritate me? Oh, there are some new guys in Aesop’s harem, maybe you should go fuck with them.”

Ooh, spicy- How exciting this man always was!

“Mm, I prefer my merchandise new, not secondhand.” Uriah made a face at the implication, cheeks reddening in confirmation. “Wait- I was right?” Truth be told, that was a little surprising. Humans and ghosts weren’t so different in that they enjoyed pleasure and affection, but he guessed Uriah’s life didn’t allow much freedom to explore and indulge.

Xander laughed, holding his stomach in glee.

“Sorry not all of us are sexual deviants who rely on one night stands to make us feel better about ourselves.”

“Oh, I can promise you, I’d like for you to be so much more than a one night stand.” That snapped Uriah back into embarrassment, though he didn’t leave. “You’re not running off, that’s a surprise. Have you decided that I might be worth a chance?”

Uriah’s demeanor changed, eyes lowered and shoulders slumped.

“I’ve spent two years fighting in the slums.” That explained the innuendos and language as of late. “After what I’ve seen I realized that there were plenty of worse things out there than you.” There was silence, Uriah’s gaze on the bottom of the pool. He hadn’t even heard Xander climb into the pool before he was splashed.

“Lighten up kid,” Uriah choked on water, blinking at Xander. “You wanna get your mind off of it? I know a good way to-”

Uriah splashed the water back at Xander, the older ghost laughing and diving at him.

“Why don’t you get lost-” Uriah hissed, just before he was tackled into the water.

He couldn’t help but smile a little.

Xander had to leave the pyramids shortly after their conversation.

Of course, they were both mildly a nuisance to one another, but it made Xander a happy man to talk to Uriah.

He prayed they’d see each other soon enough.

And, lo and behold, they did.

Suddenly Uriah was in his kingdom- His very own kingdom once more- and it didn’t look like he was on any sort of killing spree.

But Xander had also made a point to educate his men and women on Uriah’s endeavors as a hunter. So, no one was attacking him.

Uriah was in the center of town, poking his nose into the market and seeming to be on the lookout for something specific.

“If you’re looking for my bedroom it’s in the castle,” He commented, leaning over Uriah’s shoulder as he looked at journals on a stand. The smaller man jumped, spinning around and jamming a hand to Xander’s chest before seeing it was him.

“Ooh, save that for later, that might be kind of kinky-”

“I could have killed you!” Uriah shoved him away.

“I doubt it,” Xander shrugged. “What brings you to my corner of the ghost zone? Had enough of Aesop’s harems and sun?”

Uriah rubbed his sunburnt arm absently.

Right. Xander always forgot that Uriah was still among the living.

“Maybe a little,” He confessed. “But I really need a new journal. I heard the best book makers reside here, so.” He smiled a little.

“What do you need a journal for? Don’t your hands just…” Xander made a gesture with his hands as if to ask if the books wound up flames.

“I can control the fire, Xander, Uriah deadpanned. “And I write in them. That’s what they’re for.” He picked one up, running his hand over the cover with adoration.

“Will you be here a while? There are plenty of other places in the kingdom that don’t get enough attention, I can show you around.” Pause. “As long as you don’t light them on fire or try and kill everyone there--” Uriah spun to Xander and the two began to bicker again, smacking him with the journal before looking at the vendor.

“I’m buying this,” He clarified before hitting Xander again.

Uriah was surprised when Xander actually stayed by his side and showed him around the kingdom of Erimell. They bickered quite a bit, but eventually they fell into a less back and forth rhetoric and into a more calm and even friendly atmosphere, much like how they had left things at the Pyramids.

Xander couldn’t help but let his eyes wander to the boy; Though, that isn’t what he was anymore. Uriah certainly had his boyish charm but he was growing into less of an amusing nuisance. Now Uriah looked like an adult; A little hardened to the world’s evils yet still maintaining his typical excitement and...purity. Something about Uriah was just different than most people and ghosts Xander dealt with. He wasn’t here for political gain or power in any sense, he was just...a guy, buying a journal, spending the day looking around a dead kingdom because he found it fascinating.

“What is it?” Uriah snapped him out of his thoughts, looking at him as he leaned over an intricately carved wooden railing that surrounded the gothic castle they were looking at. “Pretty sure I told you last time I saw you that pictures last way longer than staring like a creep.”

Xander smirked.

“I don’t think you’d supply me with the kind of pictures I’d like.” He watched Uriah’s face contort in embarrassment, red spreading across his cheeks.

“If you’re trying to flirt you’re doing a really bad job at it,” The brunette informed him.

“I’m doing just fine,” Xander retorted. “You’re just not into it. Now, what could a runt like you be into…” Xander licked his lips, catching Uriah’s gaze flicking to his tongue briefly.

“I have things to do,” Uriah huffed, pushing off of the railing. “If you’re that thirsty then I suggest you get a drink- And no, not from me.” Uriah glared at Xander, pulling his bag in front of himself to dig through it in search of his map of the ghost zone.

“Aw, cold.” Xander remained unaffected, looking at Uriah’s map. “You could just ask for directions, what are you looking for?”

“A place to stay.” Uriah looked a little...darker as he said that. “Some..stuff...happened back home and…” He was quiet and Xander almost didn’t catch it when he reached up to wipe at his eyes. “Anyways, there aren’t exactly a lot of hotels in the ghost zone.”

“It’s almost like there’s an entire castle at my disposal,” Xander sarcastically commented, watching Uriah give him a look.

“Oh, and I’m sure your men are going to welcome me in with open arms after last time.”

“No one remembers. You killed them all. Now come on.” Xander began walking, glancing back at a hesitant Uriah and sighing. “You have to make everything difficult.” He came back over and snatched up Uriah’s things, the brunette giving a surprised “Hey!” as he picked him up and threw him over his shoulder.

“Look, kid, the ghost zone is a huge place full of bad people. Bad people who seek power and have nothing better to do than to pick fights. The rumor that there’s a hunter running around freely is spreading like wildfire and while I know you can handle yourself I’d hate to see you get upset if something happened. So shut up and take the free room.” Uriah did just that, hanging limply on Xander’s shoulder- Until one of Xander’s hands grabbed his ass.

“Put me down!”

“Definitely not happening.”

#hero #villain #hero x villain #superhero #oc #prompts #writing #supervillain #villain x hero #villains #origial character #danny phantom

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bluejaytaco · 4 years

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Jay plays DND. Again.

(Back in the room with the statues, we’re trying to figure out how they all fit into one another. Each statue is missing a piece and there are pieces of rubble on the ground.)

Wreybar: (Sees the pieces glowing) The stones are glowing

The rest of the party: (sees no glowing)

Hector: (Starts to wake up from his little fear coma)

Wreybar: I wanna throw Hector at one of the statues!

DM: Okay. Anyone have any objections?

Art: (Just shrugs and looks at Alabaster)

Alabaster: Well... if you believe it will help.

(After a quick near misstep of Wreybar nearly throwing Hector while Boblin was still attached, Hector gets thrown at a statue of Mrs. Red where it looks like she’s stepping on somehting. His head ends up under her boot. Then her eyes start to glow green and she starts to step down.)

Art: Uhhh, we probably shouldn’t let this happen!

Alabaster: (Quickly pulls Hector out from under the statue before he’s comepletely crushed)

Wreybar: (Crushed that we didn’t let Hector die (For Context: she’s slightly insane right now.))

Art:.... Letting that happen could interfere in the way the statues work. If we let the statue finish, we could end up trapped in here.

Wreybar:... Guess you gotta point.

(Stand around figuring out the rocks and such for a while. Most are too heavy for a good amount of us to move. Wreybar’s able to kick one accross the room, but then Boblin tries to move one and goes “yeah, that ain’t moving.”)

Ticket Master: Mmmph! Hrm! (Art undoes the cloth again) Blech, please don’t put that back on... Anyway, hello!

Art: Hey, what’s up?

Ticket Master: It seems like you’re having trouble with a puzzle! Stones and statues and such. I would like to assist.

Art: How do you know that if you can’t see?

Ticket Master: Oh, I can see through your eyes!

Alabaster: (with all the sarcasm in his body) Oh good!

Ticket Master: Why yes it is! Now, go and place me on that stone over there.

Art: Uh... okay? (Does so)

Stone: (Starts to glow green)

Ticket Master: Mhm, just as I thought. Remove me. (Art pulls him back) you’re not very smart, are you?

Art: I mean... how long have you known me?

Ticket Master: The stones are of a specific type of magic that center off different abilities. You just have to match them to their statue.

Art: Ah ha... simple enough. (As Art pulls away, he gets a vision of Ticket Master in a prison cell.) ... you’re in jail?

Ticket Master:.... yes, but we’ll get to that soon.

---

(We get through one of the statues that’s focus is on Charisma. Art’s able to convince it with a double disadvantage as he was the last one allowed to speak for the simple face that he was the one holding the stone to power it.(Bards and charisma, so it makes sense.) We move onto a stone for intelligence, where Hennessy is guiding it.)

Statue(Turns to Alabaster:) Tell me the name of the general currently in power at Avandra’s gulch.

Alabaster: Oh... well... ehm... hmm...

(DM:No one help.)

Art: (wants so badly to help.) C’mon... you got this. (filled with frustration.)

Alabaster:... um....(takes a random shot in the dark) Billy.

Art: (facepalm)

Statue: Incorrect. His name is Zerg. (Turns to Art as the tiefling is looking at Alabaster in annoyance.) You. What is the name of the bartender you bedded?

Art:....fuck....

Alabaster: Oh, you shame me and yet you cannot recall the woman with whom you copulated?

Art: I remember the woman I copulated with, Alabaster. I just didn’t want to recall the act. Her name is Shia.

Statue: Incorrect. Her name is Shia. (just pronounced differently.)

Art: No the fuck it isn’t!

Statue: (Turns to Hennessy) You, wizard. (Art, in the background: I call bullshit!) What is the name of your lover?

Hennessy: Vincent. (Undeniably, the right answer)

Statue: Incorrect. (The statue then starts to go into the ground and spazes out.)

(This is the statue Wreybar threw Hector into so.... clearly we broke something.)

(Before we can figure out what to do, a tornado drops down in the room. Art and Wreybar are able to dive out of the way while Alabaster and Hennessy get sucked up. From his spot on the ground, Art recognizes it as a god’s ability. Shawn, the god of Winds. The one who guides them to the rooms with the other gods. He shouts this over to Wreybar and then dives in with her.)

Shawn, looking horribly tired: Alright. Wreybar, Alabaster, Art... your gods are ready to speak with you.

Art: You look like you could use a break... you okay?

Shawn, brushes him off: yeah, fine whatever. (Leads them to Art’s god) This is you, Art. You can bring someone in with you. Or everyone. I don’t fucking care.

Art:.... (turns to Alabaster) you wanna come in with me?

Alabaster:... why yes! Yes, that would be lovely.

(Both head into the God room)

---

DM: Art, Alabaster. You walk into the room and see a man lounging in a throne. He looks exhausted. Art, from your hand, you can hear Ticket Master getting excited.

Art:... uh, a little enthusiastic there, sweets?

Ticket Master: Oh, he’s just an old friend. It’s good to see him again!

God: (Looks up at them)

Art: ...hey there.

Alabaster: Hail and Well met!

God: (stands up. He towers over Art) Do you fear me?

Art: ...No. Should I?

God: No, of course not. But do you trust me? (When Art doesn’t answer, he puts out a hand) If you trust me, shake my hand.

(DM: which hand is Art gonna shake with?

Me: That all depends on which hand he put out. (We spent a little too long on whether or not it would be the Ticket Master hand or his normal hand. Makes me wonder if I should have gone with the Ticket Master hand.))

As Art put his hand into the god’s, he was pulled in closer so the god could whisper in his ear.

God: I cannot be your god as Ticket Master has already claimed you for himself. However, I can help you as he is a good friend of mine. (Let’s go and hands Art a coin with his symbol on it.) If you ever find yourself in a situation where you need to speak with me, crush that coin.

Art:...This sounds like it’s a one-time thing.

God: it is. Now, there’s more I must say, but I can’t with those bracelets in place so give me your wrists.

Art: (readily gives the god his wrist and watches with glee as Task Master’s bracelet is shattered)

God: (turns to Alabaster) You as well.

Alabaster: (very hesitant)

Art: Look! No more Task Master! (Happily showing his wrist)

Alabaster:....(Gives the god his hand)

DM: He takes the bracelet off your wrist, but he’s not really all that gentle with you. It falls to the ground with Art’s and he looks at both of you.

God: No one wearing those bracelets can know what I’m about to tell you. Can I trust you to keep this secret?

Art:.... I mean, I’ve been keeping plenty of secrets. What’s one more?

God: There is a war you have yet to see. A war between the gods. Many of those on the side of light wish to rid the world of everything and start with a clean slate. Others believe this would be unnecessary. Myself and Ticket Master are on the side of the latter. The god you serve, Alabaster, will work to rid the world of it all.

Alabaster:... And how can I be sure to trust you?

God: Honestly, you can’t. That decision is up to you. But know this; the other symbol on your coin was mine. If you denounce Pelor, you can still find solace under me.

Alabaster: Yes. Yes... (turns to Art a little too enthusiastically) Would you like to go speak to Pelor now???

Art: Uh, sure... (Turns to the God) before we go.... what’s your name?

(Koejin’s player: (tuned in at this point) yeah, gods don’t like when we don’t ask for names.)

God: (Slightly exasperated) My name is Cerephim.

Art: Right, Cerephim.... Thank you... (Walks out with Alabaster)

Shawn, very tired looking: Okay, this is you, Alabaster. Bring someone in if you want. Or don’t; I don’t care.

Alabaster: (stares at the door with Pelor’s symbol on it) Hmm... (Turns to Art) Would you like to come in with me?

Art:... I mean, do you think that’s a good idea?

Alabaster: (Smiling) I haven’t the slightest clue.

Art:.... yeah, okay.

(Art and Alabaster walk into the room which is basically Pelor’s hall of light. Art is doing his best to hide behind Alabaster so he’s not noticed. Unfortunately, I would have needed to roll a 21 in stealth to not be spotted, so Pelor sees him.)

Pelor: (Looking at Art, immediately judgmental and suspicious) You there. Are you a believer in the light as well? And ready to rid this world of darkness?

Art: (pretty intimidated) Uhhhhh, well, you know.... I’m actually.... more of a moral grey guy myself. You know, trying to figure it out and such.... Maybe work towards... becoming part of the light? (Jay’s Fun fact: if you’re standing in front of a God of Light, say none of these things!)

Pelor: Get out.

Art: You got it! (turns on a heel and heads for the door)

(Alabaster’s Player, The DM, and I spent a full minute laughing at this. Somewhere, in a different plane of existence, Ticket Master is ramming his head against the wall at the sight.)

DM: You could of lied to him, you know.

Me: I have literal darkness as my right hand. Last thing I need is Pelor seeing through my lies, grabbing my hand, and having Ticket Master going “Helloooo~!”

Pelor:(Talks to Alabaster about following the light and not being so indecisive with his calling) Enough of the “Well, maybe”s. You have to be forceful, my boy! You must fight to destroy the darkness!

Alabaster: Yes, I understand.... I’ve also heard rumors.... of a war happening between gods... possibly a disagreement?

Pelor: (laughs) There’s no such war, my boy! We gods work together. The people who says otherwise fill your head with lies!

Alabaster: (Relieved) Yes, quite. That is what I wished to hear. Well, I guess I must be off then. (Heads for the door)

Pelor: One last thing before you go. A quest you must fill. If you wish to continue to serve in the light... you must kill your daughter.

Alabaster: (Stops)..... (Turns with a smile) You see, I felt as though that might become a situation...

Pelor: And you must see why. She was born of the darkness! A child like that cannot be allowed to continue on.

Alabaster: But, I must ask... Would it simply be possible to guide her over to the light? Surely she can be saved.

Pelor: (clearly not pleased) ....well, if you must try.

Alabaster: You are most wise. (Leaves)

---

(Meanwhile)

(Theodora, Koejin, and Oskar are walking through tunnels looking for Mrs. Red. Instead, they find a passed out Eltbalm, a passed out Shia, and a half digested dead body. Shia and Eltbalm wake up around the same time.)

Shia: (Incoherent and insane from Ticket Master’s power supplied through Art’s dick, apparently)

Eltbalm: (Uses Remove Curse on her)

Shia:....ugh... what happened?

Theodora: You went insane thanks to the God of Death and Deceit.

Shia: ..... Art’s the God of Death and Deceit??

Theodora: What? No.

Koejin: But he did fuck the God of Death and Deceit.

Shia:...guess it’s true. You fuck a bard and you’re fucking every girl that bard’s been with.

Koejin and Theodora:....

Shia:... the God of Death and Deceit is a woman...right?

Theodora:...Honestly, it would be fitting.

Koejin: but no, Ticket Master’s a guy... we think.

Shia: wait. So Art slept with a man?! ugh....

(Me: Art slept with a homophobe??

DM: I had to make her terrible in some way.)

Koejin: I suddenly regret saving you.

(Shia might not make it back home at this rate. Pretty sure if Koejin doesn’t kill her, Hennessy will.)

---

(Eltbalm ends up carrying Shia out of the tunnel they were in and leaves Koejin and Theodora to continue their search for Purple, who they find shortly after.

Koejin then has a secret meeting with her god. When she comes back, she tells General Purple to shift into something that would then read her mind. Upon doing this, Purple sees Bahamut, gets scared, and becomes the purple gem. Theodora is very confused as Bahamut is her god.)

Theodora:... You saw Bahamut?

Koejin: As a kid. I didn’t think it was him but it turns out...

Theodora: This... doesn’t make any sense. How? Why?

Koejin: I could tell you. But you’re wearing something that prevents me from doing that.

Theodora: (looks down at Task Master’s bracelet.)

(Task Master is summoned shortly after this. He ends up controlling Skelly and that’s where this particular session ends. A lot of shit has happened since this, but mental issues kept me from typing this out sooo yeah. More will probably come very soon!)

#adventures of art the bard #tiefling #dnd bard #dnd wizard #dnd cleric #dnd ranger #dnd barbarian #dnd paladin #homebrew characters #homebrew gods #things get really fucked up really fast #and if things keep going down this road art might die #I donno if I'm prepared for that #shut up jay #dnd

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whatspastisprologue-blr · 5 years

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Writing Advice, the Completed Version

This is a follow up to this post: https://whatspastisprologue-blr.tumblr.com/post/184968470815/writing-advice. I’d written that on my phone, I think, and goofed somehow, so I didn’t post the entire thing.

Now, to start, I love reading what you guys have to say, and I consider you guys basically geniuses. You spend hours, or what seems like hours, analyzing SPN (and also other works as well, but mainly SPN), and you’re willing to put up with horrible backlash from people too dumb to realize they’re wrong.

And I keep thinking how I would love to write something, be it a novel or a TV show, that people love so much that that they’re willing to write meta for it. Contrary to what I’ve seen around about some creators being upset when their audience figures out what’s going on, I’d be delighted to know that people care so much that they pay close enough attention to figure it out. As for things like subtext, I see myself jumping up and down like, “You’ve got it! I thought you would! I put that in there to see if you’d notice and you did! Yay!” To me, meta has become a high form of praise just by its existence, but from the standpoint of literary criticism and how art both reflects and transforms society, also absolutely necessary. Please, critique art!

Which leads me to part two: how do I actually put stuff into the work for people to write meta about? Like, I’ve seen mini-essays ranging from fictional parallels/references/shout-outs to alchemical practices to entire discussions about, for instance, specific shirts (”x character is wearing x shirt again!”) to various pieces of decor to the meaning of various types of food (bacon, cake versus pie, burgers) and how food is used (Sam and food, or Cas and food). I’ve seen posts written analyzing songs used in episodes and how they inform the episodes or a character’s arc, etc. I’ve watched fascinating yet trippy videos about narrative spiral that make me wish I was approximately 400% smarter so I could properly appreciate and understand what I was watching. I’ve seen meta about colors and symbols, and the symbolism of different types of beer, which means that someone must have thought of it.

Someone, at some point, decided, “let’s have a beer that symbolizes family, a family beer”. And others agreed. And someone else, or perhaps that same person, decided, “let’s have a beer that shows up whenever things aren’t as they seem”, and again, others agreed, so now we have a running list of El Sol appearances.

I’ve seen some truly mind-blowing, fantastic meta that’s been written, but obviously, that analysis works because there’s something to analyze. It wasn’t pulled from nothing, as some mistakenly believe. We can talk about the Red Shirt of Bad Decisions because there’s evidence for it in the text. Someone put it there. Someone made sure to include El Sol enough times in episodes with a similar theme (things being not what they seem/alternate realities/djinn hallucinations) that we can talk about its significance and know, in upcoming episodes, that when we see that beer, it’s a sign that there’s incorrect assumptions being made by characters, that what we see isn’t necessarily real, etc.

So, how do I put content into a work so that people can pick up on it and then write about its meaning and significance?

I guess, relevant to this, is a third question, that could possibly help me figure all this out as well: what makes “Supernatural” worth writing all this meta about? That might not be phrased right to get my meaning across. While, granted, I have fandom lanes that I stay in, so I could just be unaware of meta being written for that work, but I don’t hear of people analyzing, say, “Psych”, or “Bones”, or “NCIS”. I don’t hear of long, in depth-articles about how food is used on “Glee” to give insight into a character’s mental/emotional state or closeted bisexuality. Is that just because there’s nothing to write meta about for those shows, or is it because, even if there is something to write meta about for those shows, “Supernatural” lends itself to that analysis and criticism in a way those other television shows don’t?

On a related note, people have been publishing books and YouTube videos and even teaching college classes at least partially about “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” and its spin-off, “Angel”, for 20-odd years. Is all of the meta surrounding “Supernatural” the progression of that phenomenon, with SPN at least partially reaping the benefits of what BtVS helped establish? Does it have something to do with being a paranormal genre show?

Don’t get me wrong, I truly and wholeheartedly believe that SPN is a show worth writing meta about, and I’m always excited to see more of it. So it’s not whether or not the show is worth it that I’m questioning, but what specific qualities contribute to the show’s worthiness that so many other television shows don’t seem, to my knowledge, to have?

As a budding literary critic, meta is fascinating; as a creator, it’s kind of overwhelming, because that’s a lot of analysis of a work, a lot of studying with a magnifying glass. But, as someone who’s starting to see the willingness of people to write meta as a benchmark or grade of how good that work is (because people, I would assume, wouldn’t spend several hours writing an analysis of a show that sucked), it means that I want to do a good job of putting things in there for people to pick at, and I want to do what I can to make sure that what’s being analyzed is something good (as in, the messages are positive and/or useful, no harmful lessons or unfortunate implications).

I’ve been working on the backstory for my series for at least a year now, and I still feel like I’m less than halfway done. I don’t want to start writing without a clear plan of where I’m going, at least for a little while (my idea is to have a few “little endings”, thinking for if this is going to be a TV show one day, and if the show gets cancelled before the “Big Ending”, I still want there to be an ending that’s satisfying, even if it’s not the Big Ending that I hoped to get to, so I suppose I could plan to the first little ending). Sometimes, I feel like I’m behind, drastically behind, that I should have at least one book (or season) planned by now, but then I think about how I’m still in my early twenties, and how I want to write something worth writing meta about (and thus, the work needs to contain something to write meta about) and part of me wants to freeze and is grateful that the going has been slow so far.

But, with “Supernatural” ending, and given my love for the sandbox that it’s helped define and re-define, with episodes that push the bounds of storytelling in so many fascinating and delightful ways, given my appreciation for shows such as SPN, BtVS/Angel, and Wynonna Earp (and also Stranger Things and Lucifer), I’m inspired to write. Part of it is to honor SPN’s legacy by re-defining the sandbox even further, by taking what it’s done so wonderfully and, sort of like a relay race, doing my part to carry the baton a little farther--because that show has been so amazing that, since I truly love and appreciate it, how do I not pay it forward? Pay tribute? How could I just drop the baton? And part of it is because the general sandbox that those shows play in is just one that I love, one that I want to play in and expand on, and help continue to demonstrate that genre shows are (or can be) awesome, transformative pieces of art, not just some semi-obscure show about fighting monsters.

To do all that, however, I’d really appreciate your advice, and if you think of others who should weigh in, I’d be thrilled to hear from them as well.

Thanks!

@mittensmorgul @occamshipper @tinkdw @dimples-of-discontent @drsilverfish

P.S: I saw this GIF, or a picture of it, before I knew it was from SPN. When I saw it in an episode, I was just like, “?!”. (Oh, the things I’d seen from SPN before realizing it, or all the scenes I could recognize/quote that I’d maybe seen clips of at most, because I’d seen GIFs and screencaps so many times--that show took over my life before I ever started watching it). Anyway, as much as I truly love storytelling and I want to do it for my life because I love it and because I want to inspire hope in people through art, I’ll leave with this:

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cdyssey · 5 years

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Hadestown (7/14/19), Act II

The second half of my thoughts and incoherent rambling from Hadestown! Act I is here.

“Our Lady of the Underground” —

A.K.A. Again, and I cannot stress this enough, but Amber Gray is the love of my life.

She comes out with a flask in her hand, which she surreptitiously sticks into her bra, so she can dance, lololol.

Her energy and vitality are just so infectious. When she smiles, you can't help but smile. When she start giving shout-outs to the musicians, the rumble of pride in her voice echoes throughout Walter Kerr.

Hermes escorts her at the beginning of the song and then stands off to the side as she sings. He eventually gives her her bouquet of flowers, and she gives him her flask.

“There’s a crack in the WALLLLLLLLLLLLL.” She lifts her flowers into the air as bright [sun]light shines down upon her. It’s an amazing, joyous moment.

“She’s right here waiting in my pay-per-view.” Smirking, Persephone taps her noggin.

“What the boss don’t know, the boss won’t mind.” Having retrieved her flask again, she takes a sip. I got major Prohibition vibes from this line, which is to say that as far as Persephone’s character development goes, you get the sense that she’s ready to rebel against her husband to help our heroes. It’s a big leap from Orpheus’s line about how Persephone is drowning in wine and oblivion.

“Way Down Hadestown (Reprise)” —

OH, this song. THIS SONG MADE ME WEEPY.

So in this one, Eurydice comes out of Hades’s office dressed in worker clothes. She watches in horror as the company workers toil around her, repeating the refrain, “Keep your head low.”

The dichotomy between Persephone looking up at the “crack in the wall,” and the workers keeping their heads low in order to avoid trouble is incredible. Their spirits have been entirely broken, and Eurydice is up next.

She tries to get the workers to acknowledge her, but the Fates mock her for the futility of the action. They’re obviously taking glee at Eurydice’s situation.

Another incredible dichotomy: the jauntiness of “Way Down Hadestown,” which Eurydice once smiled at, and the sinister spin the reprise puts on the chorus. Hermes and Persephone did try to warn her after all.

“Hades laid his hands on you and gave you everlasting life.” HOO BOY—this subversion of religious language was INCREDIBLE.

“Flowers” —

;-;

In “Flowers,” all of the workers except for Eurydice are collapsed on the ground, exhausted and dead to the world. She’s on floor as well, the lone figure lit by light.

“I remember someone / Someone by my side / Turned his face to mine / And then I turned away.” Okay, after I stopped tearing up over these lines, I immediately started tearing up again when I realized that Eurydice doesn’t remember Orpheus’s name.

She doesn’t even know her own.

“Papers” / “Nothing Changes” / “If It’s True”

“Papers” is Hades confronting Orpheus about sneaking into Hadestown.

When Persephone tries to vouch for Orpheus and Hades tell her, “You stay out of this,” Patrick doesn’t say it as softly as he does on the OBC—he practically yells it at her, and she flinches into silence.

ALSO, GOD, Patrick’s EVIL ENERGY is wiiiiiiild in this one. I love him????

In the “Papers (Instrumental), Hades directs the workers to attack Orpheus, and they, like, beat him up. This is the scene where Timothy lifts him!!

At the end of “Papers,” Orpheus is collapsed on the ground holding his side. He stays like this through “Nothing Changes.”

“Nothing Changes” reminds me of how much the Fates sound like a choir. I love them.

Plot wise, it’s them sowing the first seeds of doubt and defeat into Orpheus’s head. While he initially overcomes their temptations, I think he’s never fully able to shake them away after this, a struggle which carries into “If It’s True.”

Ugh, another song I wish I had the OBC track to listen to for reference, but this one is largely Orpheus’s doubt and idealism warring against each other. If it’s true what the Fates and Hades are saying, he wants to leave, but he’s also not entirely ready to give up. I think this is also the one where he and Eurydice start to rouse the workers’ spirits, showing them that there is hope.

“How Long” —

I love “How Long” so, so much. It might be a contender for my favorite.

Incredible and moving and vulnerable and tragic. Hades is. Persephone is. They are.

For large parts of the song, they stand on opposite sides of the elevator, which has been lowered so it looks like a pit, a chasm—obviously symbolic of the breach that divides them.

Again, for almost the entire song, Hades never takes his eyes off Persephone, while Persephone turns her head away from him after she’s done singing her verses. I’m so tender for them.

When Hades sings, the lighting changes into a fiery amber, while when Persephone sings, the lighting dulls to a cool blue. It’s an interesting dichotomy. Hades’s makes sense because of his anger and general association with the color red, but I took the blue to symbolize Persephone’s deep sadness. It seeps from her; it pervades the stage.

Lively and joyful she may be most of the time, but deep down on the inside, Persephone is sad.

At one point, they both make it to front stage and stand side by side. Watch their shadows on the floor at this point. It’s a marvelous effect. (Also, watch the shadows on the walls and floor in general! The workers circling the platform in “Chant” especially comes to mind. The lighting in this show is INSANE.)

When they share their final verse, half of the stage is orange, and the other half is blue.

I was emo, y’all.

“Chant” (Reprise) —

In “Chant II,” Hades realizes that Orpheus is rallying his workers. He pulls a lever or something, which signals that they should get back to work, and they do for a couple of “Keep your head lows” until they go into the new refrain of asking why people turn their backs on each other.

GOD, what a joyous change. Orpheus and Eurydice’s light has given them the courage to question the system for themselves. “Why do we build a wall and then call it freedom?”

Hades grows increasingly angry throughout the reprise. You get the feeling that he’s losing control of his kingdom, and he not only knows it but fears it. He’s frantically trying to grasp onto whatever some semblance of authority he has left.

The thesis of this song is just powerful. If we raise our voices and raise our heads, we can effect change.

“I CONDUCT THE ELECTRIC CITY.” First of all, I LOVE PATRICK PAGE, AND HE ABSOLUTELY DID NOT HAVE TO GO THIS HARD, BUT HE DID BECAUSE HE’S AMAZING, AND DID I MENTION THAT I LOVE HIM??? Secondly, when he sings this line, the lights flash bright before flickering out for a couple of seconds.

While he’s counting down (1... 2... 3...), he angrily stomps down the staircase and crosses over to the side of the stage where Hermes gives him a barstool. He takes it and slams it on the ground to wait for “Epic III.”

“Epic III” —

Not 2 belabor the point, but this entire damn musical made me an emotional wreck, and “Epic III” was no exception. It was a religious experience, at once both simple and sublime.

Right before it starts, Hades slowly snaps his fingers twice in expectation.

Hades doesn't really react to the song until the moment Orpheus sings his first “la, la, las.” At those, he immediately gets up and crosses over to Orpheus, shocked and enraged, fully intending to interrupt him: “Where did you get(?) that melody?” Persephone stops him before he can do anything and implores him to let Orpheus finish.

Of course, he recognizes the melody because it used to be his and Persephone’s once upon a time.

(Hgjkahgjkskjnksjfkjhkashfkj—I was tender.)

Orpheus falters after the interruption, but Hermes, placing a hand on his shoulder, encourages him to keep going.

Anyway, REEVE CARNEY DESERVED A DAMN TONY, PART TWO.

If Hades was spellbound, then the entire theater was, too. A boy and a lyre and a song—it doesn’t seem like much, but it was quite literally everything.

Right before Hades echoes Orpheus, there’s a poignant pause in which Persephone turns to fully face him—she hadn’t quite been looking at him before.

Very softly, very gently, she extends her hands to him... and as soon as they touch, Hades finds his song again: “La la la la la la la.”

My God, I cried.

At the end of Epic III, the carnation “appears” in Hades’s hand. (Holy hell—I don’t know how he did it; it was really quite like it magically appeared.)

Persephone wipes tears from her eyes as she holds on to her husband, as they hold on to each other.

Also, this isn’t on the soundtrack, but there’s a brief instrumental between “Epic III” and “Promises” where Hades and Persephone dance. They hold each other so tenderly. Their eyes never leave each other’s faces. The flower is in Hades’s lapel.

It honest to God made me believe in love again.

“Promises” / “Word to the Wise” / “His Kiss, The Riot” —

This is awful, but unfortunately, I don’t remember that much of how “Promises” was staged. ;-; I was still being emo over Hades and Persephone because “Epic III” ruined me.

While Eurydice and Orpheus sing, they stand still on the corner of the stage holding each other, her head buried in his shoulder, and his head tucked against her neck. They don’t move. They never let each other go.

Towards the end of “Promises,” Orpheus or Eurydice one convince the other that the king will let them go now that he’s rediscovered his love again, which takes us into “Word to the Wise.”

As soon as Hades admits that he doesn’t know whether he’ll let them go, Persephone violently parts from him, repulsed that he still hasn’t made up his mind in the right direction.

Just as the Fates had teased and mocked Eurydice during “When the Chips Are Down,” they do the same to Hades here. Their impartial wickedness is so good.

“Give him a rope, and he’ll hang himself.” This advice is definitely the seed for the compromise Hades ends up giving Orpheus. Also, ooooh, fun fact: in Greek mythology, death by hanging has metaphoric resonances of extinguishing one’s voice, which, of course, is a tragedy for a poet, a singer, an artist.

And in the end, he does just as the Fates predicted, doesn’t he?

Ugh, the dark orchestration for “His Kiss, The Riot” is chilling. That accordion??? Incredible.

After the brief instrumental section, he addresses Hermes and conveys his plan to him. This is why Hermes is the one who tells Orpheus, Eurydice, and the workers what’s up in “Wait For Me (Reprise)”.

“Nothing makes a man so bold as a woman’s smile and a hand to hold.” He glances over Persephone as he sings this.

For the most part, Hades sits on his barstool for this one; it really reminded me of a Shakespearean soliloquy!

“Wait For Me (Reprise)” / “Doubt Comes In” —

The intro to the reprise is so heavy. Hermes is just weary. He knows what Hades is up to. “Divide and conquer is what it’s called.”

“It’s a trap.” / “It’s a trial.” Orpheus’s newfound skepticism really makes itself apparent in this one. He thinks the world’s out to get him, he doesn’t particularly trust himself or Eurydice anymore. The writing’s on the wall, and Hermes knows it better than anyone: “The dog you really gotta dread is the one that howls inside your head.”

Eurydice and Orpheus singing the “Wait For Me” chorus together is so unbelievably powerful. God, I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house through these last few songs.

“Show the way so we can see. Show the way the world could be.” The company repeats this refrain because they’re literally following Orpheus and Eurydice, too. ;-; I didn’t realize this until I saw it staged.

“Wait for me.” / “I will.” Hades and Persephone stare at each other and grasp hands. He gives her the carnation, and for the rest of the reprise, she holds it up—a small beacon of hope, a vivid pop of color against a woman clothed in black. Bye. I’m crying again.

And then, when Eurydice ends “Wait For Me”—JESSIE SLAYED THESE VERSES—you can see the hope and belief in her face as she begins to follow Orpheus. She has no doubt that he’ll lead her home.

The light shines bright on Eurydice one last time before the entire stage is plunged into darkness for “Doubt Comes In.”

The staging for “Doubt Comes In” is absolutely incredible. Wow. So there are rings on the stage that rotate—various characters utilize them for walking during songs, and they’re used to brilliant effect here.

Orpheus walks along the outer ring in the darkness; it’s so dark that you can’t see Eurydice and the workers behind him, which adds to the notion that he’s alone, entirely alone. When Eurydice or the workers sing, they’re briefly illuminated only to be plunged into the darkness once again.

Orpheus tries to comfort himself by singing his song, but the doubt and the darkness are too much, too overwhelming. He makes it to the final staircase, and the light signifying the outside is the most vivid location onstage.

When the final note rings out, he turns around, and there Eurydice is. She was there all along.

The elevator takes her back to Hadestown as Orpheus collapses to his knees.

“Road to Hell (Reprise)” / Ovation / “We Raise Our Cups” —

You know how I mentioned that Hermes’s footsteps were the only sounds audible at the beginning of “Road to Hell”? The same holds true here as he walks back onto stage, slowly and wearily. He’s sung this song before, but by the gods, as this song tells us, he’ll sing it again and again.

I never realized that they did this until I saw it live, but as the music ascends into a more hopeful mood, the cast members reset the stage, so that it’s almost exactly as it was at the beginning of the musical. They even go through the same scene of Eurydice entering from the cold and lighting her candle. (OH, and I meant to mention this in my Act I write up, but right after Eurydice descends to Hadestown in “Gone, I’m Gone,” Hermes blows her candle out. 😭)

When the cast lined up on the stage for the bows, the whole theater stood up and clapped for at least ten minutes. I was so overwhelmed with pride and love for every single performer on that stage, that I couldn’t help but tear up.

And then, Persephone and Eurydice sing “We Raise Our Cups.” Orpheus is the only one who doesn’t join in, watching silently as the entirety of Hadestown raises their cups to him.

To the world we dream about and the world we live in... this musical was a life-changing experience, and I’m so thankful that I could inhabit Orpheus’s world, even if just for a brief fraction of this eternity.

Stagedoor: —

This was my first stagedoor, and it was so much fun!! The cast was so lovely and nice and obliging.

My friend and I got a picture with Reeve; he’s really good at stagedoor. He took his time with everyone and made sure everyone who wanted a signature or a picture got one!

I didn’t quite know what to say to anyone because I was just so in awe of them, but I had an amazing interaction with Kay! I told her that it was really important to me to see Asian representation on Broadway, and her face lit up! I love her.

#hadestown #persephone #eurydice #orpheus #hades #broadway #reginianwrites #p: hadestown

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buffy-cyrus · 6 years

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Friendom Gift Exchange!

For @cam-cat-writer, from your secret santa! It’s a Hogwarts AU about how Cyrus met the ghc and TJ! This is the first time I’ve written in years so I’m sorry if its a little rough, but I had so much fun writing it!

“Uhh, Earth to Cyrus? Hellooo?”

“Huh?” Cyrus started, jolting out of his daydream.

“I said are you excited about this year?” Andi grinned, not even attempting to mask her glee. Then again, why should she? They were on the train headed to the one and only Hogwarts for the third time, and Andi was already loving the new sense of responsibility.

“Can you believe it’s been two years since we started here?” asked Buffy “It’s gone by so quickly!” She paused. “But it also feels like I’ve known you two for a lifetime.”

Cyrus smiled. “I know exactly what you mean. I can’t even remember not being friends with you guys.” It was true. These two girls had changed his life in every way, and he couldn’t even bare to think about how he would’ve handled Hogwarts without them...

*two years earlier*

I can’t do this! Cyrus thought to himself, as he watched yet another young wizard step up to the sorting hat. He felt his palms begin to sweat as he glanced over at all the people in the room - people who would all be staring at him once his name was called. What if he tripped? What if everyone laughed at him? What if his house didn’t like him? What if-

“Psst, what’s up with you?” An unfamiliar voice interrupted his thoughts as he felt a hand rest on his shoulder. He turned his head to see a curly-haired girl looking at him in confusion, although once their eyes met it quickly became concern. “Are you okay?” She whispered.

“I’m fine. More than fine! Well, unless you count being terrified as being not fine, in which case I am definitely not fine.” He felt the words tumble out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he soon became very aware of his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

The girl, however, didn’t seem annoyed by his word vomit. In fact, he saw a smile spread across her face. “So you’re scared, huh? So is every other first year in this room. And every other first year in the history of first years. It’s no big deal-” she was cut off by a nudge and a glare from the boy next to her, warning her to lower her voice. The girl just rolled her eyes and smiled at Cyrus. “See. I bet he’s pooping his pants right now.”

Now it was Cyrus’ turn to smile. “Thanks… that actually helped” he whispered. “I’m Cyrus, by the way.” He offered her his hand to shake.

“Nice to meet you, Cyrus, I’m-”

“Buffy Driscoll!” a voice from the front called out.

“That’s my cue! Wish me luck!” the girl grinned before striding up to the front.

“Slytherin!” the hat called out, quickly followed by loud cheering from her new house as she confidently approached their table. She glanced up at Cyrus and gave him a reassuring nod, just as another name was called.

Nice to meet you too, Buffy.

*present day*

“You know, as much as I am loyal to my house, I wish we all could’ve been put together.” Buffy sighed, twisting the green bracelet Andi had made for her as a symbol of their friendship. Cyrus glanced down at the yellow one wrapped around his wrist and smiled. “It would be nice to have you guys cheer me on in quidditch, you know?”

“As if we don’t already deafen everyone by shouting your name.” Cyrus noted, earning a smirk from both girls.

“I know, I know. But you also cheer when your houses win.”

“Uh, Buffy? Cyrus cheers when anyone wins. I don’t think he understands the game very well.” Andi giggled.

“Hey! I’m just trying to be encouraging!” Cyrus snapped playfully, “but you know I’ll always cheer the loudest for you, Buffy.”

“I know who you’d cheer for the second loudest.” Andi teased, smirking at Buffy as they shared a knowing glance. “And, funnily enough, he’s also in Slytherin.”

Cyrus felt his heart skip. Andi and Buffy had known about his crush on TJ Kippen since last year, and they had been wonderfully supportive - even throughout all of TJs antics. To them it was a simple unrequited crush. He had yet to tell them the whole truth...

*one year earlier*

“GO BUFFY! GO BUFFY!” Cyrus and Andi screamed as they watched their friend zoom past them. It was her first game and she was already amazing. At least, Cyrus thought so, although his quidditch knowledge was rather limited. Nevertheless he was incredibly proud of his best friend for making the team.

He watched in awe as Buffy effortlessly weaved past two Gryffindors and a bludger, keeping the quaffle safely in her grip. She was going to make it! She was going to-

The crowd gasped as another Slytherin knocked into Buffy. “What’s he doing? They’re on the same team, aren’t they?” Cyrus cried as he watched Buffy struggle with the other boy. Buffy had seemed to regain her balance by this point, and the other boy had backed off following the crowds displeasure. She scored and the crowd erupted into cheers, seemingly forgetting what they’d just witnessed.

“That was ridiculous,” Andi muttered, “That idiot nearly lost his own team 10 points!”

“Ridiculous…” Cyrus agreed half-heartedly, as his attention had been diverted to the culprit, who was now sulking while the rest of his team continued the game. Cyrus felt a pang in his stomach as he recognized the boys face. It was none other than his potions classmate, TJ Kippen…

***

“TJ!” Cyrus called upon seeing the chaser. The game had just finished after the Gryffindor seeker - Marty - had caught the snitch, and Cyrus had left his friends after quickly congratulating Buffy on a great game despite their loss.

It wasn’t like he was looking for TJ - more like aimlessly wandering with the hope of casually bumping into the boy who’d sabotaged his best friend. There was nothing wrong with that, right?

“TJ wait!” he tried again, this time earning a pause from the taller boy, allowing him to catch up.

“What do you want, Cyrus? Shouldn’t you be with Buffy?” TJ murmured. His distant attitude unfortunately didn’t surprise Cyrus, as he’d observed that TJ was one to push away those who were kindest to him. He made a mental note to ask the boy about it later.

“What happened out there? You looked like you were trying to intercept your own teammate.” He paused, wary of sounding too standoffish. “Is everything okay?”

“Why do you care?” TJ retorted, clearly not sharing the same concern as the Hufflepuff.

Cyrus paused. The truth was, he didn’t know why he cared. While TJ and him got on during potions, it wasn’t as though they were friends. Although, that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world…

His reverie was cut short by a short ‘ahem’ from the Slytherin, who was apparently interested in Cyrus’s answer. “Well?”

“Because you’re a good player, and I doubt you’d sabotage your own team without good reason.”

“What good reason is there to sabotage my own team?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

TJ rolled his eyes, and for a moment Cyrus thought he was going to push him away. Then, much to the shorter boy’s surprise, he let out a defeated sigh. “It’s her first game and she’s already better than me. How is that fair?”

Cyrus watched as TJ’s eyes fell to the floor. He was ashamed, he could tell, and Cyrus felt for him. “So that’s why you tried to stop her? Because you were jealous?”

“I’m not proud of it Cyrus. I just heard everyone cheering for her - even the other houses! - and in the heat of the moment I snapped. I wish I could take it back but I can’t, so there’s really no need to dwell on it.”

“You’re right,” Cyrus smiled, “you can’t take it back. But you know what you can do?”

TJ glanced up at him, finally taking his eyes off the floor.

“You can apologize, TJ. To Buffy and to your team.”

Cyrus prepared himself for an argument, but there wasn’t one. TJ simply sighed, and under his breath muttered “I know.”

“Come on, TJ, rip the band aid. I’ll come with you to see Buffy right now if you want.”

TJ shook his head. “I should do it alone. She’ll probably think you orchestrated the whole thing if you come with me… which I suppose you kinda did, but she doesn’t need to know that.” He grinned, to which Cyrus couldn’t help but giggle at. There was something about the taller boys smile that made his heart flutter, but he couldn’t quite place why.

“Well, no time like the present,” TJ nodded, turning to walk away from him. He paused, and before Cyrus could process what was happening, he felt TJ quickly hug him. “Thanks Cyrus. I owe you” he muttered, before jogging out of the Hufflepuff’s sight.

TJ Kippen had hugged him. Did this mean they were friends? Relax Cyrus, it’s no big deal. You’re friends with TJ Kippen. It’s cool. It’s chill. But Cyrus was far from chill, as his heart seemed desperate to escape as it pounded in his chest. Baboom, baboom, baboom.

Oh. Oh.

*present day*

“So are you going to ask him out this year?” asked wildly, a smirk spreading across her face.

“Uh, Buffy, I don’t think TJ is gay” Andi cut in. “Doesn’t he have a girlfriend?”

Now it was Cyrus’s turn to smirk, although he remained silent.

“What? No he doesn’t.”

“But he’s always with that girl. You know, the pretty blonde one in Slytherin?”

“You mean Amber…? Amber Kippen? She’s his sister, Andi!” Buffy chortled.

“Oh! So she’s single then?” Andi joked, as the three of them erupted into laughter. Andi had had her fair share of relationship drama last year when she dated Gryffindor’s Jonah Beck for a while. Cyrus also kinda maybe had a little thing for Jonah in his first year, but his crush had since faded as he now viewed him as a friend.

Besides, now TJ was in the picture…

*one year ago*

Detention. Cyrus winced as he repeated the word once again in his mind, recalling the sinking feeling he felt when he realized just how much trouble he was in.

Cyrus didn’t get detentions - he’d always given his work 100 percent and never misbehaved - so why now was he sat next to TJ Kippen in complete silence, trying desperately to ignore Snape’s glare?

It wasn’t his fault - not really. He’d so been listening to TJ gush about quidditch that he stopped paying attention to the potion they were supposed to be brewing. Perhaps somewhere along the line he’d added too much moondew or not enough dragon’s blood. How was he supposed to know the potion he’d made would explode?

Yes. This was TJ’s fault. Stupid, adorable, distractive TJ.

“Mr Goodman.Would you take a look around my classroom? What do you see?”

Cyrus gulped.

“It’s a complete mess, professor.” TJ chimed in, seemingly sensing the smaller boys nerves.

“That is correct, Mr Kippen, though it would do to remain silent when you aren’t being spoken to.” He paused. “You are to clean this up, and aren’t to leave until this room is spotless. Understood?”

“Yes professor,” the boys said in unison.

“Good. Now, I have pressing matters to attend to.” Snape made his way towards the door. “Do not attempt to leave before you’ve completed your job, or there will be serious consequences…”

The boys remained silent until they were sure the footsteps had faded, then breathed a sigh of relief.

“You can relax, Cyrus. Snape’s all bark and no bite,” TJ smirked, sitting up on the desk.

“I’m not so sure about that…” Cyrus uttered. “I’ve never been in trouble before, TJ! What if this is the gateway to a life of crime and darkness and-”

“Woah, easy there! There’s a big jump between accidentally making the wrong potion and being a criminal.” TJ was laughing, but Cyrus didn’t feel mocked. In fact, the taller boy’s chuckle calmed his nerves.

“Wait, so you don’t think I could be a criminal?” Cyrus joked, hopping up onto the desk next to TJ. “Because I could be a master criminal if I wanted to. You’re lucky I chose the path of goodness in life.”

“Of course you could,” TJ giggled, “Why do you think we’re friends? It’s because I want to keep you on my good side.”

“Geez, I thought you were my friend because of my amazing brewing skills” he teased, glancing around the apocalypse of a classroom. “How on earth are we supposed to clean up this mess?”

“Easy. We use magic.”

“Snape specifically told us not to use magic, TJ.”

“Well he doesn’t have to know.”

“TJ.”

“Cyrus.”

They both paused, and Cyrus took this opportunity to flash TJ his cutest puppy eyes. “Pleeease don’t get us into anymore trouble.”

“Fiiiine. But only because you’re so cu-” Hm. Weird. He cut himself off.

“I’m so?”

“Annoying,” TJ teased, hopping of the desk. “Come on then, let’s do this your way.”

***

The boys had been tidying for all of five minutes before getting distracted. Again - totally TJ’s fault for being so adorable that Cyrus just had to throw a crumpled piece of paper at him. How could he have possibly predicted it would turn into a full on paper ball war?

“Alright, alright, you win!” Cyrus shrieked in defeat as TJ hurled what seemed like thousands towards him. He fell to the floor laughing as TJ plopped down next to him.

“You..have...paper,” TJ wheezed between giggles, “In your hair!” Cyrus felt his heart flutter as TJ’s hand swept the piece of paper out of his hair. He wanted nothing more than to grab his hand and just hold it in his own, but he knew TJ could never feel the same…

Or could he? Cyrus thought back to just a few moments prior, when TJ cut himself off before he could finish his sentence. What was he going to call him?

“You weren’t really going to say annoying, were you?” Cyrus asked, desperately trying to mask the shakiness of his voice and come across of nonchalant.

TJ inhaled sharply. “So he’s a master criminal and a detective…”

“Don’t expose all my secrets!” he grinned.

Exhale. “Do you want the truth?”

The truth? Truth about what? Cyrus nodded, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“I like you Cyrus.”

Well duh. “I like you too, isn’t that why we’re friends?”

“No, Cyrus…” he sighed, “I… I have a crush on you.”

Cyrus swore his heart stopped in that moment. TJ Kippen had a crush on him?

“I- I don’t want this to make things weird between us,” TJ spluttered, “I’m still grateful to be your friend and I-”

Before he could stop himself, Cyrus leaned in and pressed his lips against TJ’s. It was a quick peck, but it was enough to simultaneously silence the taller boy and make Cyrus’s heart beat out of his chest.

“Oh” TJ whispered, his cheeks flushing red as a smirk crept out.

“Oh.” Cyrus grinned, reaching over and gently grabbing TJ’s hand.

“The word was cute, by the way,” TJ beamed as he traced his thumb along Cyrus’ hand. “And I hate to break it to you, but a master criminal can’t be cute.”

They both chuckled as Cyrus rested his head on TJ’s shoulder. Maybe detention wasn’t so bad after all…

*present day*

“Cyrus! You’re daydreaming again!”

“Are you planning how you’re going to ask out a certain Slytherin?” Buffy teased, wiggling her eyebrows.

Cyrus rolled his eyes. He knew he was going to have to tell Andi and Buffy about TJ sooner or later, but part of him adored the secrecy of their relationship. A few more weeks couldn’t hurt…

He glanced down at the yellow bracelet Andi had made him, and recalled how excited she was about these tokens of their friendship and trust. Sigh. He had to tell them.

“TJ is my boyfriend.” he blurted out before he could stop himself. He didn’t realize just how good it would feel to say those words aloud.

“WHAT?” they both exclaimed in disbelief.

“Since when?”

“How did it happen?”

“Who asked who?”

Cyrus closed his eyes and smiled. This was going to be a long journey...

#friendom gift exchange #friendom secret santa #andi mack #tyrus #hogwarts au

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semicolonthefifth · 5 years

Text

CROSS Ch6 - Call On Me (& I’ll Be There)

“You’ve had yourself a good rest there, Mr. Cross?” The Mayor asks, moving a bit to the side to allow Jason out from the doorway.

Jason tiredly replied, chuckling a bit, “Yeah. Had a good rest, I guess.”

“Wonderful!” The mayor laughed, “See, I was right to leave you under Ms. Collier’s expert hands. One of the best people we’ve had the privilege of living here, and a helpful hand in just about every circumstance. That woman is a miracle worker - a great addition to our lovely town! Oh, and what a town it is, Mr. Cross!”

He waves his hands, in such an exaggerated way that it was like a show performance. Rasmussen, with a confident smile and a pump of his hands, stepped back as he continued on, “Now I know you’ve had an unfortunate impression, but let me assure you that you’re under some good care. Few ever get a chance to be tagged along by yours truly, so consider yourself lucky! I know every good man and woman that lives in this here great town, and I’ve been with Blondie ever since it’s creation - and I’ve long held the title of mayor, because I’ve done and made it so great! So let me tell you, Mr. Cross, that despite what misfortune you’ve had, you’ll be coming into a much brighter, and greater place that’ll - guaranteed - see to that your needs are tended to. Now don’t that sound like a great deal?”

“The best deal I’ve ever had.” Lies Jason, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“Excellent!” The mayor excitedly replies, “Then how about a quick tour? Shall we?”

With that the mayor starts proudly marching out.

Jason Cross follows along out of Ms. Collier’s home and onto the open dirt road that crosses through Blondie. Upon exiting, he discovered that the building he was leaving was a two storey tall hotel made of wood and metal sheets, with Collier’s home being at the very end of a long row. He gazed up, not only seeing a porch where several townsfolk stood, but also the Aurora sun shining down on him. Jason turned back to the surface, and gazed out to the rest of Blondie. There in the late morning, Jason could see the town much livelier than last night. He looked around the area - taking in the sights and personality of this Aurora town.

Blondie’s people had a certain fashion to them. Many of the men wore old minder’s jumpsuits, either cut, tucked, or modified to their own personal style. Sometimes he could see someone having shorter cut sleeves, or with top zipped down to let their skin breath more. Some of them had additions such as belts vests, desert coats or reinforced work pants. The women were much similar, with few sporting around a dress. There were some girls that wore a head-scarf or a hat to keep themselves covered from the sun, and others had on a poncho made from the same cloth material as the jumpsuits. For a lot of them though, there was that western aesthetic creeping into their attire, something that dug into Jason a certain way. He watched them all, either going about their own business or making some leave out from the town for an errand.

The town of Blondie itself was laid out like a T, with stamped down road cutting through two lines of buildings of varying heights, and the Saloon at the very end accompanied by two other structures. At the other end of the town was the storage-house, keeping safe all the food for the town behind 4 stone walls and a set of locked doors. Towards the West was a single guard tower, aimed right where the Black Road was, and was high enough to overlook the whole town and then some. Surrounding the town were various tents and small wooden houses - providing homes to those who can’t fit in the hotel. Of the buildings that lined the road, Jason could spot a good variety of shops and services.

As he scanned the town, Jason was then brought out of his thoughts by a loud smack on his shoulder, followed by the much louder talks of the mayor. Rasmussen grinned from ear to ear, and his glasses reflected a harsh light at Jason as he spoke up towards the man,

“Ain’t a town like Blondie! It’s a grand celebration of a colorful time in Earth history. A damn beaut’, don’t you agree?”

Jason shrugged, trying his best to bury an annoyed grimace that was about to come out. “She sure is.” He plainly commented.

“Ab-sol-utely!” The mayor exclaimed with sheer pride in his voice, “She is my pride and joy, almost like a daughter of my own. Built her up many years back with the help of some mighty fine folk. We bought off several shipments of wood and stone from Moresatta - sunk in a lot of money and left ourselves damn near broke, but it was worth it when we worked the nearby mines. Made a fortune three times over what we spent, and that was in the first year alone!”

“I’m familiar with the history.” Jason states, continuing as he dryly adds, “Didn’t the mines go empty though?”

“Psh! They ain’t empty!” The Mayor shoots, doing his best to keep a grin as he starts walking - with Jason following suit. Rasmussen continues, with hands brought up to grip the folds of his coat in a showy fashion. His tone was like a snake-oil salesman making his deal, but that almost seemed unintended. “Despite those nasty rumors, Blondie ain’t out of the mining business just yet! We’ve taken some missteps, sure, but with difficulty comes a chance to learn. We’ve slowly transformed this town and made it something that if possible - though unlikely - can last beyond the mines. We’ve invested into trade, and into establishing ourselves as one of the key stopping points from here to the big city. Like a lot of the best towns on the Black Road, we can adapt to face all odds that this planet throws at us!”

“Take, for instance, our many shops!” He declares, waving towards the businesses that line the road. Jason takes a moment to look them over, seeing a decent variety - which Rasmussen is all too happy to point out. “We’ve got your much important trade shop for all your many needs! Everything and anything is brought here, so much so I’ve had to grant Mr. Creedy extra room in the back just to store it all!” He laughs, almost forced but Jason was unsure if the guy was putting on a show or was that convinced of his ‘material’. Jason glances at the shop, with dusty windows with various scavenged or bought items being showcased. He could almost see an elderly couple doing inventory inside. Then Rasmussen continues,

“That right there is the Church of the Old Faiths. Wonderful place it is, to be personally honest with ya. Rented out to some good folk preserving the scriptures, and they hold a weekly group study and mass for the town. I’ve been there twice in the time they’ve been part of Blondie, and each time I come out happy to have let them here!”

The church was just a regular wooden shop lot, but in place of advertisements were signs informing passerbys the schedule of weekly mass, prayer groups, and teachings. At the door was an engraving of the Earth, and orbiting around it were all sorts of symbols: crosses; crescent moons; stars of varying pointed ends; and other such strange figures Jason couldn’t understand. As he and the mayor walked by, Jason could see an old hooded man in white, brown and black cloth robe walk out - with a hat dangling a ridiculous amount of metallic trinkets hanging off the brim. Jason walked a bit faster upon seeing that.

“Finally, for this little tour!” Rasmussen states with the highest of glees. “Our very own butcher’s shop! I can tell you, Mr. Cross, that Blondie’s lizard meats are freshly cut and expertly served for the best taste you can get! So that when you and your friends come to Blondie, the first three things that’ll come to mind will be: mines, drinks, and meat! You’ll be sure to have a taste, right?”

Jason comments, smiling truthfully, “Already had sir, and I got to admit it was certainly a welcome treat”, which prompted a glorious ‘excellent’ from the mayor. Jason then gave a quick glance at the butcher’s shop as they continued walking up the road. At the moment the place was closed, with a sign on the door telling it so. Looking through the windows he could see a selection of wrapped meats, all showcased before any passerbys.

Eventually the two men stopped, just a short walk away from the Saloon where a small crowd is gathered. Jason could make out a sea of concern among all the faces there, with every man and woman talking amongst themselves - about the fight, the deaths, and the man who was there. Past the crowd he could see the bartender inside, sweeping away all the mess while he’s accompanied by Frankie and Charlie - who each give a glance at Jason, but are unable to meet him without going past all the townsfolk.

His attention is pulled away when Mayor Rasmussen lets out a sigh of frustration, “Ah dang it. I thought I told those folk to let it be. Didn’t mean to let you see this...”

Jason looks down at the Mayor, cocking his brow a bit as he talks plainly once more, “You thought we weren’t gonna talk about last night or something?”

“Nah, that ain’t it.” Rasmussen states, his excitement lost in place of some genuine concern, “Folks here ain’t had much experience with the uh… nastiness of the Black Road. Our wonderful town here has had the great fortune to be far enough aways from the banditry and violence spread out across the Road. I’ve seen to that and, might I add, have done a good job of it. Unfortunately that has left our people scared and confused of what to do in light of last night’s events.”

In a bit of honest sympathy, Jason says out calmly, “Sorry about that, by the way. I didn’t mean to bring any trouble here - really.”

“Oh, no need to apologize. Just a fact of life here.” Rasmussen replies, sighing greatly out of displeasure this time around. “Still, it’s a problem our town ain’t prepared to face. I’ve been trying to settle things down and calm everybody, but they’re all caught up and afraid of what’s going to happen. We got some folks saying they’ll be another attack, and that kinda talk gets in the way of the peace we got here.”

Jason is silent for a moment, thinking over the situation. He takes another peek at the crowd, feeling responsible for what he has brought to them. It wasn’t like he didn’t feel terrible about last night’s event before, but the sight of the people worrying about some bandits bothered him. Blondie was quiet - too quiet. Everyone here had gotten soft, and it didn’t seem like they were in the right attitude to deal with the more serious threats from the Road. To Jason though, this wasn’t a serious threat. A couple of gun-toting bandits? It’s not so different from what he’s faced before in his work. It would only be fair, for what these people did for him, to make sure they’re not threatened by this gang.

After some thinking, Jason says out to Rasmussen, “Tell ya what.”

Rasmussen looks up at Jason, as the young man continues.

“You guys did well enough to help me - I should do right on you all the same. I’ll handle your bandit problem.”

The Mayor’s lips curl and stretch into a grin, as he asks aloud, “You serious?”

“Serious as can be.”

Immediately, and with utter excitement, Rasmussen pumps his fists and starts to dance, all while he bellows out a tremendous, high pitched, “YEEEE-HAW! Now that right there is what I’m talkin’ about! YEEEAH-HOOOO!”

Jason began to scrunch up his face with the feeling of cringe building up. Seeing this short, pudgy, brightly-dressed man dance and scream brought memories up to Jason of his more youthful days: when he and his brother once bagged a difficult bounty that got them running across the road for three days straight. When they eventually caught the bastard, he and Fred decided for once to let out a “yee haw” like in the old videos. The roped up crook stared at them like they were a bunch of freaks off an asylum and right then began to laugh. Fred stared daggers at the man, while Jason gave him a punch to knock him out.

His attention returned back to the present when he saw Blondie’s mayor dancing still, with his knees bent and spread wide as he hops in place. Eventually he calms down just enough to stop dancing, but he’s still talking in full volume,

“Now son, normally I don’t get to Yee-Haw’, but damnit is this not the perfect opportunity for a Yee-Haw! I’m just loving what I’m hearing, and it’s such a pleasure to have you do this for us! This town is blessed to have someone of the Crimson Cross here, and we’ll be eternally grateful for you coming forward the way you did.” He calms further, no longer shouting but instead now enraptured with what he’s imagining, “I can see it now: you and your crew… riding from the hill-top to take the fight to those bandits! Revolvers and rifles shooting out every which way - had I the chance, I’d love to come with you for such a spectacular sight!”

Right then Jason urgently interrupts and covers his ass, saying, “Better I just handle this on my own, sir. A gang like this doesn’t need every member of the Cross coming in to deal with it.”

“Right right…” Replies Rasmussen, calmer now but still delighted. “Well, thanks nonetheless. You be safe now, alright? Oh, and better you explain this all to the folk over by the bar… better to hear it from a hero like yourself than their mayor. That ought to calm them down.”

“Sure…”

With that, Mayor Rasmussen leaves off to his post - trotting down the dirt road with an excited skip in his step. Jason watched, feeling absolutely relieved to no longer have that guy at his side. Then, with a quick turn, he heads off towards the crowd.

The crowd were still chatting amongst each other, with few and growing taking notice of Jason as he started to get close to them. One by one, then five and ten, began to turn their heads towards the tall, muscular man that was standing before them and the bar. Charlie and Frankie looked on too but were unable to do much with the crowd still between them and Jason. For a moment everyone had quieted down, and Jason could get a good look of their faces once again. The fear was present, among other expressions of concern and frustration. This kind of violence is far too uncommon for this place, and they’re all demanding something be done with it - especially when it’s hit about the only source of entertainment for miles.

Right before Jason could get a word in, a women among the crowd speaks out, “M-Mr. Frederick, Sir?”

The name felt like a sharp pinch at Jason’s side - a reminder of last night’s events, and of a whole lot more. He is unable to say anything before more people begin to speak aloud.

“Frederick!”

“Frederick Cross, Sir!”

“Frederick, what can you do about these bandits?”

“The children can’t sleep when we’ve got dangerous men coming over!”

“My farm’s vulnerable, Mr. Cross! Can you help?”

Eventually it turned into a ringing sound, and Jason’s eyes twitched as he was starting to get overloaded with all the questions and noise. He stretches his arms out, trying to signal everybody to calm down for just a moment. Still they squabble and chattered, trying to out-speak each other in a frenzy of concern and fright. Jason sighed, took a deep and yelled out, “Alright ya’ll, listen!”

The chattering stopped, and so did the ringing.

He gives them another moment to dwell in the silence, making sure nobody tried to let out another word. Satisfied, he thinks for a second on how to proceed before finally speaking in a calm yet confident manner.

“Ok, now that I got your attention, I’m here to tell you all what you need to know. The name’s Frederick Cross, and I’m currently on the job of fixing all this. You guys don’t have anything to worry about, because you guys have a professional on duty here. Now the two guys that came here: they’re done and dealt with as of last night. As for their gang, they ain’t gonna be a problem.”

“How’re you sure about that?!” Cries an old lady from the back. Many mutter the same, either on their own or with their loved ones alongside.

Jason answers, “Because I know these guys, ok? I know how a lot of these gangs operate, and what signs to be worried of - and what I saw here wasn’t worth worrying about. This is just some small, up-and-coming gang that is trying to make it big. They probably have about 10 to 15 members at the most, and not a lot of experience in between the lot of them.”

“But sir! How do you know that?” A man calls out, wondering.

“Simple.” Jason starts, explaining, “If they were big then they’d have come here already. I have a lifetime of experience with these gangs, or raider bands as they’re sometimes called. I’ve faced against a lot of the bigger ones - going around with crazy names like REDS or Jozies. Those gangs mean business, and they’re not one to just send a couple guys to do their businesses when they can send a whole lot to get it done right. Of course, I know they ain’t big because they don’t at all look the part. These small gangs are very common, and they like to stir up trouble just to make a name for themselves. They like to come to towns like this, especially in the middle of the night while everyone is asleep - because they know they can’t deal with everyone here, in the likelihood that they’ll be armed and ready. Not to mention they only had one gun between the two that came last night, so they probably don’t have much to arm themselves. So from how I see it… these guys aren’t a problem. Not for you, and certainly not for me, because I will be dealing with these guys for what they’ve done.

The crowd murmur among themselves, many a lot calmer than when they arrived. Right then Jason closes his statement, “Now I promise you folks: I won’t stop until I dealt with this gang and made sure you’re all safe. You can trust in my word as a Crimson Cross that I can finish this job.”

Some smile, feeling safer now. They take his words as a great relief, with many beginning to move away - all while giving their thanks and best wishes to Jason as they pass him by. While some are still a little unsure, their nerves have surely lost their stress. However, an elderly man walks to Jason and asks of him,

“Frederick Cross, is it?”

Jason looks to the man, is silent for a moment, and answers not long after, “Just as I said.”

The man nods slowly, looking up to the young Cross before he says out, “Many know of you and your brother’s adventures, sir. You done a lot of us settlements plenty of good, more than the government even. We don’t doubt your skills one bit. They call you a master gunslinger, a tracker and a man of good wisdom. I think I can speak for a lot of us here that… we’re honored to have you here in Blondie. We hope you’ll do us well in protecting this town.”

Jason gasps a bit though hides it well. His smile perks up, and he says with a slight chuckle and righteous tone, “Well sir, it’s just as much an honor to help. I’m sure if we had my brother here, we’d do even greater at it.”

Then the man frowns a bit, replying with a shrug, “Perhaps.”

Before long he leaves, and so does everybody else. Not much else is said.

Jason’s smile drops slowly, and a tiredness comes to his eyes. He can feel something trying to come out, but he shoves it down. Squashes it. Buries it, and pats the dirt for good measure. He resumes his walk towards the bar, feeling almost the same way he did that night when coming in.

As he steps up to the bar, he’s greeted by both Frankie and Charlie, the former of whom gives a happy shout of, “Hey hey friend!” before meeting Jason halfway with a great, big hug. Jason’s smile returns a bit as he does the same to his friend, as Charlie directs a look of happiness and relief at the man. They hold on for a moment before letting go, with Jason giving a pat onto Jason’s uninjured shoulder. He laughs aloud,

“Finally awake from the dead, eh?! You been out of it for some time, thought for a moment you’d be sitting this one out.”

Jason tsk’d, a slight cocky smile on his face, “I ain’t letting a fight like that put me out of the job just yet. Shoulder will have some issues for a while, but some more rest and I’ll be good as new. Now what’re you two still doing here? Should you be off onto the road or something?”

Frankie laughs some more, pulling Charlie close and pointing him over, “Well me and this fella weren’t in the mind to be leaving soon. We still got the road to Moresatta left, but in the meantime we figured it was better to see you off first and maybe help around a tad. Charlie here was quite insistent to see what other trouble you’ll be getting into.”

“That true?” Jason asks, half surprised, other half… delighted?

Charlie nods, still looking uncomfortable from being held so closely. “I came here to see the stories and history of this planet - and what’s better than actually seeing it in motion? If you don’t mind, of course. I’d be honored to capture it all for my collection.”

Jason’s features soften as he seems to smile more genuinely this time around. He brings his hand forward to offer a shake to Charlie, who almost excitedly takes it though tries his best to be polite in the end. Meanwhile Frankie lets Charlie go, standing back to give the two guys some room. Jason states, “Well, happy to have you along Mr. Wills.”

They soon let go, with Jason saying out, “Now that’s all settled, how about we give the bar a look? I’ve got a feeling we could get something out of it before I make the drive out.”

Frankie and Charlie agree, following Jason into the bar as they approach with slow steps. Jason takes the lead in entering the building as he confidently strides and retraces the steps he took after the fight. Frankie is more lax, keeping close to the walls to overlook everything while Charlie does his best to stick close to Jason.

When they enter, the group is given a sight not much different than what they left behind. Some of the blood had been mopped up, and the two bodies taken away. Tables and chairs all over had been stacked or moved to allow more freedom to clean the mess. The music-player from before was still running, back on the sort of music that best fit this place. Currently it was playing “Call on Me (& I’ll Be There” by Floyd Tillman - or so Jason remembers. Meanwhile, much of the knick knacks and antiques have been moved away, either to be scrubbed off of blood or to allow more space to better wash the walls. The bartender from last night is in the middle of the main floor, moving another chair away by the time the group entered. He takes a moment to notice Jason, letting out a gruff exhale before putting the chair down onto the ground.

Jason looked back at him, a bit wide-eyed at the moment. Charlie was a bit more nervous coming back, as memories of last night come back to both of them and the not-so-thrilled owner. It was at that moment that Jason was able to really look at the man, seeing as he was no longer just a face in the background.

The bartender’s face spoke of hardship: a thick, angular jaw and cheeks, wrinkled from years of harsh sunlight and with a bushy, dark grey beard that went every which way but up. The same coarse hair was seen in his brows, that covered up an intense, almost ever-constant glare. Covering up what little hair he had on his head was a white cap, looking a bit brown from age and dirt.

His body was built with strength, but some of it had been lost. His arms were bare and muscular, but sagging in areas. His bartending apron hung proudly from his shoulders, and underneath was a miner’s jumpsuit, with sleeves rolled up. Near the collar was an interesting sight: a set of military patches from the UROE, neatly stitched for personal flair.

The two men stared at each other for a long while, with a heavy silence building between them both. Eventually Jason, with a strong sigh, broke the silence with a comment, “Just want to start off by saying…. That I’m really sorry for what had happened to your bar. I promise to pay back the moment I can. If it’s any consolation, I don’t think I’d have dealt with those so well if it hadn’t been for your collection there.”

For a moment the bartender simply stared back in silence before replying back in an old, strong voice, “Well, if anything, I’m glad that you dealt with those men… Jason.”

Jason coughs a bit before speaking out, “Oh… look, I was a tad drunk and--”

“And nothing.” Interrupted the bartender, his voice commanding discipline yet was done so calmly. “Now I appreciate you stopping those two strangers and saving the lives for your friends and I. However, I don’t like you lying to the town on your name, especially when it holds so much weight for a lot of folk. These people have a lot of love for the Crosses - we ain’t seen ‘em in many long years. So you best understand how serious this whole matter is.”

Jason felt guilty right there. It was like he was back in the farm, being scolded by his own father. It felt all too familiar, and hurt much the same. Once the man was done talking, Jason asked softly, “Are you going to tell them?”

The bartender shakes his head, “Nope.”

“No?”

“You are gonna tell them.” The bartender states. “If you know what’s good for you and this town, you ought to come clean and tell them the truth. It’s the best choice you can make.”

Jason tsk’s, wincing a bit from a light but sudden head-ache. He sighs, settling on saying to the man, “That’ll come when it comes. Right now I’m set on helping however I can, Mr…”

“Duke. Just Duke.” The bartender says, shrugging as his calm behavior is left unchanged. “If that’ll be, then that’ll be. So is there anything you are looking for?”

“It already looks like you cleaned up a lot so far. I was hoping to find any signs of whatever gang these guys belonged to - maybe how they’re dressed would give an idea.”

“Well, you’re going to have some problems with that”, Duke explains. “Couple of our men here came around and dumped the bodies far off. No clue where though, but the wild must’ve taken them away soon after, as they were gone by morning. Now I did get the chance to grab something off of them - a patch and their knives. I have no idea what it means, but you’re welcome to check them out on the table corner over there.”

Duke points over towards a far off corner of the bar, and sure enough on the surface lay two knives that belonged to the gangers, and a patch torn from a jacket.

Jason gives a nod to the man and heads over, with Charlie and Frankie following suit.

With careful hands, Jason held one knife up to inspect it:

It was similar to the other in many ways. The blade was serrated, short and thin, with an indent of some poker cars and a snake on one side. The smooth wrapped leather handle had a red tint, with metal pieces colored with copper. Aside from the blade there was nothing of interest in the handle.

As for the patch itself, there was plenty of details to read: it was shaped in an oval with the image of a white wooden coffin wrapped by two snakes against a black background. The snakes were colored with stripes of green and red, and the coffin was marked with the red initials of “C.C.”. Then, circling around the image was the name of the band, written in a sharp font: “Stone Groove Aces”.

Jason put the knife down, sighing a bit as he tried to collect his thoughts. He thinks aloud towards his friends, “Don’t remember anybody called the ‘Stone Groove Aces’, so very much likely a brand new gang. The initials on the coffin in this here patch don’t leave me a lot to work with, though I’m inclined to believe it means ‘Crimson Crosses’ - maybe a personal grudge. It doesn’t really give me an idea on where or how to find them.”

Frankie chimes in, “I can count better the number of gangs that don’t outright hate you better than the ones that do, Jason. Hell, I’m surprised there isn’t a gang simply called the ‘Crimson Cross Haters’.” He chuckles a bit, while Jason smirks a little at the thought.

Charlie meanwhile takes the second knife carefully into his own hands, examining it himself. He slides his fingers at the knife’s blade, looking very closely at it. Before long he gives his own theory, as he then feels the grip. “This has more the look of a cooking knife than any proper weapon.”

Jason shrugs, “So? Gangs here often use stuff like that when they’re short on supply.”

“Ok, but why both?” Charlie ponders, “Obviously they’ve been customized, so why would they settle on a style of knife like this? There might actually be a purpose to it, maybe in connection to their origins or some mentality. This handle material is also pig leather. Soft and rich, but not suitable for tools compared to other forms of leather.”

Jason and Frankie side eye’d one another, as Jason then directs his look back at Charlie and asks, “Now how would you know all that?”

Charlie looks at them both, a little nervous now that he’s under the spotlight. He then explains, as he puts the knife down. “Told you, I’m from Tyrell. Plenty of good colleges over there. I personally did some studying on agriculture and goods - alongside general logistics and trade. I’ve never put the actual work on account of the environment there, but I learned a great amount thanks to their libraries. They’re very informative, by the way. You can find a whole lot of different subjects and material, in fact they had a whole wing dedicated to crops and field wor--”

“Settle down there, friend. We got the picture.” Jason interrupts, chuckling some. He grins, remarking, “Well thank God… we’ve got a college man here. Ain’t we lucky.”

Frankie shows a more toothy smile, “And a chatterbox to match. Keep him close, Jason - with any luck, maybe you’ll come out of this with more an actual brain than you were given.”

“Shut up.” Jason says softly, smiling.

Charlie chuckles a bit as well. “Oh please. I was just excited to learn something that connected with this place and all. It’s always been a fascination.”

“Well now you’re living it.” Jason comments, taking the knives and patch before walking away. Charlie takes it in, smiling ever more before he excitedly follows after.

Jason gives a wave towards Duke as he walks, saying aloud. “We’ll be heading out! I think we might have something on this.”

“Alright! Now you two best be careful out there!” Duke calls out. “No telling what that gang will do once they find out about this.”

“Won’t be much trouble. You got something to defend yourself with, right?”

Duke nods, reaching over to the bar and grabbing from behind it: the shotgun from last night, now cleaned up of any blood or grime it once had. Jason turned back for a moment to see it, surprised to see it again. He almost wanted to ask for it back, but knew it was better that someone like Duke ought to keep it just in case. With that, Jason waves and so to do Charlie and Frankie. The group exit out from the bar and walk around to the back where both Jason’s car and Frankie’s truck are parked.

Frankie’s truck was a large vehicle, with an armored front and a space back covered by a thick tarp. With 6 wheels and some modifications, the thing is able to shoot straight through the Black Road and onto Moresatta and back much faster than most cars. It was the perfect machine for Frankie, whose job was to taxi people across the whole desert. However right next to the truck were two luggages - Charlie’s luggages.

Charlie rushes over to collect them, all while Jason stops to talk with Frankie.

“Can’t come along, Frankie?”

Frankie is a bit more serious now, speaking with less of a smile. “Got the call from the company awhile back. They want me on the road A.S.A.P., no excuses. I asked to stay long enough to see you off, but that’s as long as I could go. You can take our friend’s luggage along, meanwhile I’ll be busy on the road for some time.”

“Sure you can’t come back any time?” Jason asks, a bit saddened.

“I can, but you’re going to have to call it in later - and on when I can come back, that’s a tad beyond me. I’m sure you can settle things on ya’ll own just fine though. Don’t knock yourself down too much Jason. You’ve faced off worse before this, and I know this won’t be much a challenge for you.”

“Thanks for coming along anyways, friend.” Jason holds his hand out, but Frankie instead goes in for another hug. He grips tight, giving a couple friendly pats to the back, before moving back to give Jason some air. All the while Jason smiles, happy to have had Frankie along for what time he could get.

Frankie walks to his truck, whistling a tune as he does so.

Turning to his car, Jason sees Charlie trying to carry his luggage over to the car. He takes a glance at the hood, seeing something before calling out, “Hey uh… is this blood I’m seeing?”

To which Jason shouts back, “Don’t mind it! Just… press the release on the underside, you won’t miss it.”

He almost starts to make way for the car, but is approached from behind by a soft cough and a familiar, feminine voice, “Mr. Frederick.”

Jason turns, seeing Samantha Collier - back with a wicker basket containing some wrapped goods: meats, bread, and bottles of water. She holds it over to Jason, giving him a gentle smile that develops a pleasant feeling inside of him. He takes a moment to register the kind act before slowly accepting it, all the while Samantha speaks to him with a soft tone of voice,

“Thought I’d leave you with a gift. A little something for the road.”

“Well that’s very nice of you, Ms. Collier.” Jason chuckled dumbly, before collecting his senses back and saying more politely, “Thank you for helping me. Still, much appreciated.”

“Don’t mention it.” She replies, “It’s not everyday you help save a hero.”

“Yeah…” Jason almost breaks his seriousness for a moment there, keeping his smile.

“Though I hope to someday meet your brother. From what I hear of those stories everyone talks about, he sounds like quite the exciting man. If you ever come across him, tell him that Samantha would like a meeting. If he’s up for it.”

She leaves with a bow, waving the men away as she turns towards the town. “Stay safe, and thank you for helping us here.”

Jason Cross stands there, hands held tight onto the basket - feeling his heart skip a bit, and a warmth building in his cheeks. He feels proud and happy for a moment, and for the first time in a long while, that he was Jason Cross.

Before long he joins Charlie in the car, and at that time Frankie had already driven off for the Black Road. He gently places the basket in the back seat before driving himself to the Road as well, and away from the town of Blondie.

Jason leaves the town, feeling much happier than when he came in.

#CROSS #KRONOS #original story #science fiction #western #original work #original writing #EyeOfSemicolon #the5thsemicolon #semicolonthefifth

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jflashandclash · 7 years

Text

Attrition of Peace

Twelve: Frank

Thank the Gods My Dad is Roman

Frank was determined to act like everything was normal today. He wanted to pretend he hadn’t spent the first half of yesterday avoiding his girlfriend and the latter half of the day chasing down weasels. No matter what animal he had turned into, he’d discovered weasels were difficult to catch.

Normally, he found his praetor house unbearably lonely. Jason had helped him take all of Jason’s stuff out, and put Frank’s stuff in. Members of the Fifth Cohort had snuck in for sleepovers a few times, but it was huge compared to the barracks. It made him think of his family’s burned mansion in North Vancouver.

At least he hadn’t blown up Camp Jupiter and Reyna could go on her date in peace. Despite all his heroics the past summer, he was still scared of disappointing her.

And he was scared of telling anyone that his stick was missing.

He must have misplaced it. That’s what he kept telling himself, but he kept imagining someone thinking it was a piece of kindling and throwing it in the fire. He’d furtively had the members of the Fifth Cohort go through their guests clothing when they went to the baths last night—just in case. He had known they were going to leave to catch a flight this morning, one earlier than morning inspection, and he didn’t want his stick to do some cross country traveling without him.

But nothing. He’d retraced all of his steps as a bloodhound to see if he could pick up the smell. The scent dead-ended at the Principia, intermixed with the various scents of their new guests. It was like someone had poofed with it. He didn’t know how it could disappear without him knowing. Normally, that thing weighed on him heavier than Sisyphus’s boulder.

This alone time at the praetor house gave him the quiet he needed to panic as he shaved his patchy chin growth and prepared to suit up for the day.

Then a shimmery image of Annabeth appeared in his mirror. Well, not in his mirror. Where the sunlight caught the steam in front of his mirror.

Frank yelped, stumbled backwards, and almost tripped over the toilet.

“Oh gods, it actually got through!” Annabeth cheered. “Frank!”

“Hey Annabeth,” he said, trying to pull his shirt and pants on as quickly and casually as he could. Knowing Annabeth, she wouldn’t even notice, but he could still feel his cheeks burn with embarrassment. “I thought Iris Messaging hasn’t been working.”

“It hasn’t!” Percy’s voice came from somewhere behind her. “And Iris hasn’t been giving me any drachma refunds!”

“Percy!” he cried. Just hearing their voices was calming. Maybe they’d have some ideas on how to find his kindling. “It’s good to hear from you two.”

“Unfortunately, we don’t have time to digress,” Annabeth said. She turned her face towards Percy and Frank could imagine the chastising look she was giving Percy. She looked back towards Frank, having given him—possibly strategically—time to change. “We’re looking for some demigods. They’re lead by a guy called Axel Pax—”

“He’s here. Why?” Frank said. He felt something squishy on his shirt. He reached down and found shaving cream smeared all over his clothing. He sighed, realizing he’d have to get changed again.

Percy snorted, “Because one of the girls with him went a little Poison Ivy and killed a bunch of mortals.”

“Percy! We’re not sure exactly what happened yet!”

Frank stared at Annabeth’s image. “What?”

Her expression was grim. “It’s not pretty. She’s carrying Backbiter, Kronos’s old scythe, though it could be in xiphos form. We don’t know what’s going on, but they have definitely proven to be dangerous.”

Frank was starting to feel nauseous, like he’d eaten some ice cream. “We just sent them your way on an airplane. Well, most of them. One of them is here, Axel Pax. Their escorts reported that one of them went missing on the way to the airport, maybe thirty minutes ago. A kid named Pax.” Reyna was supposed to be interrogating Axel about his brother’s disappearance right now.

“Be careful of that kid,” Percy warned. “The Stolls said there are rumors he can change into other people.”

Frank’s nausea solidified into a knot in his stomach. He thought about how Hazel hadn’t quite acted like herself when he saw her yesterday morning on their walk to the battlegrounds and on their… detour. And how Hazel left to grab something, only to show up moments later from a slightly different direction. She’d made him so flustered, he hadn’t thought twice about it.

And he hadn’t noticed his kindling was gone during the rest of practice because he was so focused on what to say to Hazel, and so upset she was acting like nothing had happened.

Frank balled his fists. His face felt like it was on fire and he couldn’t decide if it was from embarrassment or rage. “He has my stick. He stole it from me,” Frank realized.

“What?!” Annabeth asked, her face going pale.

“How?!” Percy asked. “You watch that thing like it’s your… well, your life force.”

“It went missing yesterday morning,” Frank growled. He was going to find that Pax kid, turn into a grizzly bear, and smack him around until Pax gave him his stick back and an apology. How dare he impersonate Hazel like… like that.

“Oh gods,” Annabeth said. “Frank, we’ll find them and your stick. When do the others land in New York?”

Frank shook his head. With trying to round up the weasels, run the camp, avoid Hazel, and look for his stick, he hadn’t paid as much attention to their guests’ itinerary. “I’m not sure, but I can find out from Reyna—but I’m not sure how to get in contact with you after. Iris Messaging hasn’t been working and every time we’ve tried to call you—”

Annabeth frowned. “My cell phone malfunctioned after I took some pictures of an Egyptian journal that we’re pretty sure was cursed.”

Frank probably should have asked, but his anger was too distracting.

“We’re pretty sure they used to be part of Kronos’ army, so the Pax brothers will be trained and—”

“You knew they were part of Kronos’ army and you let them into your camp?” Frank demanded.

Annabeth sighed, like she’d had this conversation before. “That’s not important right now. Just know that they could be very dangerous—”

“—same with that Ana girl—”

“—Euna,” Annabeth corrected. “And, Frank…” Annabeth’s expression changed. “Leo is—”

The image shuddered. Annabeth’s image disappeared as something moved in front of his window, blocking the sunlight’s path to the steam.

Frank almost hoped it was Pax, so he could throttle the kid. But he would have way rather heard the end of that sentence. Leo is… what?

“Those punks are dangerous,” the person said behind him. “But nothing you can’t handle.”

Frank was pretty sure he recognized that voice, though it sounded much smugger than usual. Frank turned, wishing people would stop crashing his bathroom.

He just wanted to finish shaving.

The man behind him wore a pair of dark cargo pants, a dark camo shirt, and a bulletproof vest lined with grenades. His combat boots were caked with mud, adding some unneeded decorations on Frank’s white floor. He wore red-tinted night vision goggles and a black bandana with a skull symbol. He was huge, and shouldered an enormous assault rifle, like a HKG36 on steroids. He stared past Frank, at the mirror. With his other hand, he shaved some scruff off his neck with a hunting knife.

Frank decided he didn’t want to use his dinky razor while this guy was shaving with a hunting knife. Frank could go get a knife from his room to try the same, but—with his luck—that would end this conversation faster than getting Hannibal the elephant to storm the praetor house.

“Mars?” Frank asked. Normally, his father looked like an honorable soldier. This guy looked more like an eager mercenary.

The guy must have been satisfied with his shave job, stowing away his hunting knife. “Eh, close enough kid. Ares. I don’t usually come here like this, especially with all you Romans expecting my other side, but this is personal. To both me and my stiffer side, I guess. And to Rome. But Roman aspect won’t handle this as tactfully as I will.”

Ares set his assault rifle down so he could crack his knuckles.

Frank didn’t understand why he was getting so mad at Ares for tracking dirt into his bathroom. He guessed it was Ares’ aggressive atmosphere, but he still felt like going for a loving father-son smack down. Were the Greek aspects of gods more… influential than the Roman?

“Is this about my stick?” Frank asked. He was mad at himself for asking. He didn’t want to talk about it, but the words just slipped out.

Ares bellowed out a laugh. “Oh no. That’s your problem. This is about those two punks, though mostly about the one that can turn part monster. I gotta hand it to him. If I didn’t hate him, I’d say he has a lot of spunk. Waltzing around Camp Jupiter—like he hadn’t killed two praetors.”

Frank dropped his razor. It clattered on the ground. “He what?!”

Ares shrugged, like this shouldn’t have been shocking. “The legion had to lose two praetors for Reyna and Jason to come to office. I’m not sure how he took out the first one, the one that Reyna replaced, but that monster killed the second in an ambush during the Second Titan War. He wore their medals on his military cloak as battle trophies.”

Wooziness hit Frank. Yesterday, he’d practiced fighting with Axel. He could envision the seemingly genuine glee Axel exuded when battling Reyna. Frank remembered feeling stupidly excited when Axel patted him on the back, complimenting one of his strikes. Axel gave off the confident cool of a leader, one that needed impressing.

But he had smelled weird. Frank couldn’t describe it, other than not-human.

“He killed two praetors. And you’re saying he can turn into a monster?” Frank asked.

“Something like that. I don’t really get it. The Leonis Caput is one of Hecate’s weird magic-science experiments. I’m not sure how much of it comes from being a savage freak, but he has a helmet that can turn him part monster now. But he doesn’t have it on him, so you should be able to take him pretty easily. I kinda wish he did, it would be a better fight.” Ares seemed disappointed.

“Gee, sorry,” Frank muttered.

The Leonis Caput. Frank had heard older legionnaires talk about that creature, one of Krios’s lieutenants.

“It’s a shame. Now, if I remember properly, you Romans are all about quests, right?” Ares scratched under his chin. “You got a pen on you?”

“Uh, no.”

“Augh, why do I feel like Romans never have pens?”

Frank scowled. “We’re in my bathroom.”

“Whatever,” Ares growled. He withdrew a grenade that morphed into a pen and went to scribble on Frank’s wall. Frank wanted to yell at him to stop. He’d have to clean that and the dirt on his floor. He wasn’t sure what the regulations were on yelling at your godly parent, but he assumed it would result in more than being grounded.

“So, you’re supposed to be a good tactician and whatever. If you were this guy, what do you think you’d be up to?”

Frank’s mind whirled. His jaw dropped. The Pax brothers had his stick. And Axel was currently with—

“Reyna,” Frank gasped. “Do you think he’s trying to collect more praetor medals?”

“I don’t know. I just hate the guy. It’s why I cursed him,” Ares said and stepped back from the wall.

“Why do you—”

Ares vanished, leaving Frank with a quest scribbled on his bathroom wall:

Bring the Leonis Caput before the council of the gods for divine judgment. Or at least kick his ass. Have fun kid.

Frank stared at the message for a second, deciding something for sure: the Greek version of his dad was a jerk.

Then he realized he was staring when he should have been scrambling for his armor and weapons. Reyna should be strong enough to hold off the Leonis Caput, right? Especially if he didn’t have his helm?

Good ol’ Ares.... such a great dad!

Sorry I’m running late on updates! It’s been a crazy week. Regardless, I hope you enjoy! I’m super excited for next week’s chapter: Axel’s Handicap of Emotional Heartache. Ready for this book to earn its title! XD

#The Attrition of Peace #Traitors of Olympus #Percy Jackson and the Olympians #Heroes of Olympus #PJO #HOO #fanfiction #I just finished writing the first major character death in this book AHHHHH!!!#there was a lot less muahahahaing than I had hoped and a lot more feeling like a jerk #but--for the sake of villainy--MUAHHHAHAHHA!

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citizentruth-blog · 6 years

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Don't Trust Your Lying Eyes, Say the Liars

What's the matter, Nick? Don't feel like wearing your MAGA hat now? What about that smirk? Stop it before I throw up. (Image Credit: Savannah Guthrie/Twitter) A while back, I attended a Saturday morning meeting for a group of Democratic Party supporters in northern New Jersey. Former FOX News personality and Democratic strategist Julie Roginsky was the special guest. She talked about, among other things, having conversations with people who hold different political views, and at one point, fielded questions from those in attendance. Anna Wong, a tireless activist and someone I know from her work with Indivisible NJ-5, stepped up to the mic, and with a sense of due frustration, asked how we're supposed to reach across the aisle when we can't even agree on a set of facts, let alone whether facts matter. Anna's question and how she delivered it prompted laughter from the audience—myself included—but she was very earnest in her query. Thinking back to this scene, as I frequently do, I too wonder how having a dialog with people of opposing ideologies is possible when both can't agree to the same qualitative or quantitative data—right down to what we see. The episode which jumps to mind, especially as a tone-setter for the Trump administration, is the whole business about whose inauguration crowd was bigger: Donald Trump's or Barack Obama's. It seems like eons ago when Sean Spicer—remember him?—was trying to persuade us to believe that the president's detractors were manipulating camera angles of aerial views to diminish Trump and his achievements. Meanwhile, in the real world, objective visual analysis showed Obama's numbers clearly bested Trump's. Like, it wasn't even close. If Washington, D.C. transit numbers are any indication, Obama walloped Trump in attendance, managing 513,000 trips on the Metro by 11 A.M. in 2009 to his successor's 193,000 by the same time. The numbers, at least in this case, don't lie. And yet, Trump et al. held to their erroneous claim. As Groucho Marx would say or is thus attributed, who are you going to believe: me or your lying eyes? Like some errant, erratic philosopher, President Trump seemed to be arguing against the very existence of verifiable truth. To borrow a phrase from Kellyanne Conway, there were no lies—only "alternative facts." Seeing is believing? No, no—believing is believing. If you're not on the side of the president, you're not on the side of America. How are we supposed to make the country great again if you don't buy in? We're in 2019 now, but the same tactics are being used by conservative commentators and, in turn, centrist media outlets to make us question what we see and know. Back in November, there was an uproar from the right after CNN reporter Jim Acosta was alleged to have manhandled a female aide who tried (unsuccessfully) to grab his microphone during a Trump press conference. Abuser, they cried! Assault, they railed! Of course, there was a proportionate uproar from the other direction when the Trump administration moved to revoke Acosta's credentials (and deservedly so), but with various critics calling for his ouster at CNN, one might've been concerned the network would give in to the calls for Acosta's head. What was truly disturbing about the whole episode was not Acosta's conduct—the CNN correspondent may have been a bit defensive about giving up the mic but he did excuse himself as the young woman grasped for it—but rather the attempts to discredit him. Instrumental in the effort to get Acosta canned was a video shared on social media by InfoWars editor-at-large Paul Joseph Watson and later passed along by Sarah Sanders that showed the interaction between Acosta and the aide. The clip appeared to show Acosta arresting the woman's arm with a "karate chop" of sorts. Casually omitted from proliferation of this video segment, however, was the knowledge that the action had been slowed or sped up at points to make Acosta's movement seem harsher than it actually was. The audio of Acosta excusing himself also was removed. The footage from the press conference was, in a word, doctored. By the time the clarifications could be assigned a day later, the right was already off and running with its narrative. To this day, conservative trolls maintain that Acosta should've been fired for his "attack" on the aide. In doing so, they have chosen a very convenient point at which to come to the defense of a young woman when members of the Republican Party are generally so intent on circumscribing women's power and freedom. But I digress. These cases are a little bit different in their presentation. With the aerial shots that proved Obama's crowds were bigger beyond the shadow of a doubt, there was little Donald Trump and his cronies could do outside of arguing for the relativity of truth in the abstract. Re Jim Acosta vs. the female White House aide, there was intentional manipulation at work(Watson denies it, but it's not like he and InfoWars have built a strong sense of credibility), though there were other versions of the clip from more trustworthy sources available. Either way, you were made to doubt what you saw or thought you saw. The eyes, they play tricks. And as we know, tricks are for kids. You're not a kid, are you? It is within this context that we can view the much-talked-about interaction between Covington Catholic High School (KY) students in Washington for a March for Life and Nathan Phillips, a Native American and veteran present for the Indigenous Peoples March. The iconic moment, if you will, happened when Nick Sandmann, one of the students and one of a number of them wearing a MAGA hat, stood face to face with Phillips while the latter beat a drum and sang. As Phillips has said in interviews, he was attempting to intercede between the students and members of the Black Hebrew Israelites, who shouted epithets at the high schoolers and preached about how they were "cursed Edomites." In the initial reaction to video from the interaction, most people regarded the Covington Catholic H.S. students fairly negatively. They were akin to a mob, standing in menacing opposition to Phillips, who was but one man. And that smirk. The enduring image of Sandmann staring motionless and speechless with a smirk on his face conveyed notions of racism and white privilege. Here were a bunch of white kids ganging up on an older person of color, a veteran and Native American no less. What better symbol of Trump's effect and how discriminatory values are inculcated in future generations? Not soon after, though, the narrative began to change. Additional videos were released that showed additional footage, including the students being egged on by the Black Hebrew Israelites. All of a sudden, these boys were the victim or were regarded with less contempt than before given the circumstances. Actually, now that I look closer, Phillips accosted them, not the other way around! We owe them an apology! We're so sorry, Covington Catholic High! Our mea culpas and retractions can't come fast enough! Thankfully, not everyone is buying the "both sides" arguments and self-flagellation many among the media, their associated outlets, and Hollywood's elite have begun to make. Laura Wagner, reporter at Deadspin, for one, advises us not to doubt what we saw with our own eyes. Recounting the predictable shift from immediate condemnation of the boys' conduct to downplaying if not outright denying any wrongdoing, Wagner addresses the notion that the kerfuffle on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial is nothing more than a Rorschach test for what you personally believe: One lesson of the past two days is that you will see what you want to see here, if you are determined to do so; that does not mean that there is anything to be seen but what is there. I see a frothing mass of MAGA youth—who, since we’re taking in all angles here, go to a school where students fairly recently wore blackface to a basketball game—frenzied and yelling and out of control. I see four black men who seem to belong to the Black Israelites—a threat to women in their orbit, but not to random white people they’re heckling—yelling insults at the students. Then I see Phillips, as he has stated from the beginning that he did, walk up to the teens, in what seems to be an attempt to diffuse the situation. I see them laughing and dancing, red MAGA hats bobbing up and down in glee. I see them yell in Phillips’ face, and I see that he doesn’t falter. I see the smugness of a group secure in its relative power over someone more vulnerable than they are. Nothing about the video showing the offensive language of Black Israelites changes how upsetting it was to see the Covington students, and Sandmann in particular, stare at Phillips with such contempt. I don’t see how you could watch this and think otherwise unless you’re willing to gaslight yourself, and others, in the service of granting undeserved sympathy to the privileged. And yet, that's exactly what happened. Various individuals backtracked, excused themselves, blamed their "reptile brains." They ignored their initial emotional responses and, without much else informing their decision-making, reversed their position. I apologize. I regret. I shouldn't have. I'm sorry. As far as Wagner is concerned, the reason for this is simple: it makes them seem more reasonable and trustworthy. They're not among the followers of the news who react impassionedly to it, betraying their better judgment for the sake of an outrage fix. Even if that means, as Wagner puts it, "siding with some shithead MAGA teens and saying that 2 + 2 = 5 in the face of every bit of evidence there is to be had." Whatever the reason, the final outcome still stands. These people failed to believe what they had seen with their own eyes. One criticism from people tracking this story is that these kids are being demonized by some, but what would you have them do instead? Unfortunately for promoters of this line of thinking, the answers are pretty easy. Walk away. Find a chaperone. Certainly, don't make mocking tomahawk chants. For those suggesting "boys will be boys" or pointing to the folly of youth, that shouldn't be an excuse. If Gillette can make an advertisement about toxic masculinity (which you may hate for being too preachy, but that's another story), these Catholic school kids can behave in a respectful manner. Blame the parents if you want, but let's have some responsibility assigned. Otherwise, some might point to the remarks made by Nick Sandmann and agree with his side of the story. But come the eff on. Why would this kid and his family need to hire a PR firm if, as the saying goes, the truth shall set you free? And that smirk. I know I'm harping on it, but it's pretty hard to get past. Sandmann says he was trying to diffuse the situation, but he could've taken any of the prescribed actions to do that rather than standing within feet of Nathan Phillips and smiling like an entitled little asshole. That Savannah Guthrie would encourage his defense of his "right" to stand on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and listen to Phillips as part of a softball interview is downright nauseating. The last objection to deliberation on this altercation may be perhaps the most valid: "Who cares?" That is, why are we spending so much time on whether some high schooler was smirking at an older Native American man when there's a crisis in Yemen, lead is still being found in drinking water, and other catastrophes abound? Relatively speaking, the events of this past weekend are a blip on the proverbial radar. Their symbolic value, meanwhile, carries more weight. It's about media portrayal of members of different ethnicities. It's about how pressure by conservative commentators and right-wing trolls—including threats of violence and release of personal information—can influence individuals and media outlets to spin the national conversation toward white victimhood. And it's about how people irrespective of gender or political ideology can be made to doubt what they see. It has nothing to do with "intelligence" either. When group dynamics are at work, the pressure to conform is a powerful force. We're all susceptible. Returning to the anecdote from the start of this piece, if it's hard to agree on what is factual or whether that matters, it's that much more difficult to have a meaningful conversation when something is right before our eyes and we can't come to a consensus on what we see. That's the most disturbing implication of the Covington Catholic/Nathan Phillips standoff and why people like Laura Wagner invoke 1984's dystopia. When you're made to question your own judgment, you're liable to believe anything. Should Nick Sandmann or anyone else involved herein be sent death threats? Of course not. But should he and his peers be absolved of all culpability? I submit no, and neither should the antagonists of the Black Hebrew Israelites. If you saw what I saw, you're not wrong—lying eyes and all. Read the full article

#BlackHebrewIsraelites #CovingtonCatholicHighSchool #NathanPhillips #NickSandmann #SavannahGuthrie

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notapaladin · 4 years

Text

all the rainbow’s heavy tones

okay. so. this is LONG AS SHIT and contains, in no particular order: fight scenes, concussions, blood loss, death magic, and a Very Good Dog. but i decided obsblood needed a modern au, and so i have provided! can also be read on AO3, as usual.

Acatl, chief of the Mictlan Division, hunts a beast of shadow on what was supposed to be his day off. Fortunately, he has help in the form of one (1) confident young undergraduate and his trusty dog. The dog is fine. Acatl...less so.

At least he manages to get Teomitl's number out of it.

Acatl was halfway through his morning routine (offer blood to the gods, brush teeth, wash face, feed the cat, grudgingly remember to feed himself while Little Skull twined around his shins and purred) when his phone rang.

When he realized the ringtone was the one he used only for work calls, he closed his eyes briefly. He’d been having a good morning, too; he’d slept well for once, without any nightmares of failure in his new post or wistful dreams of his old one. The sheets had been the perfect temperature when he’d woken, and he’d allowed himself five extra minutes to just lay there and enjoy it. Little Skull had been sleeping on his chest as a ghost’s butterfly investigated the potted plant Mihmatini had brought him to, in her words, “make it look less like Mictlan in here.” (He hadn’t bothered to point out that, as the new head of the Mictlan Division, he knew very well it was impossible to mistake Mexico City for the land of the dead no matter how small his apartment was.)

The phone was still ringing. Sighing, he picked it up. It looked like he wasn’t going to get to use his day off to catch up on any of his much-needed rest after all. “Yes?”

“You picked up so early even on your day off! Wonderful.” Acatl felt a muscle start to twitch in his cheek, but held his tongue as Ichtaca continued. “We need you here. There’s been a body found.”

There were always bodies being found in Mexico City, but if it was a work matter, that meant the death had underworld magic about it. Acatl hoped fervently that it hadn’t been found near the sewers. Ahuizotls could and did swim up the larger pipes, and they would require help from the Tlaloc Division to track down. A particularly bad infestation would even mean he’d have to work with Acamapichtli again.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thank you for informing me.”

As soon as he could meant he would have to ride his bike. It was the only way to get through the traffic near the Old City in any reasonable amount of time; he’d made the same trip a million times in his college days. Unfortunately, it made Ichtaca twitch in fury every time he saw him showing up to work on a battered gray bike; though Acatl’s second-in-command never said a word to him about it, he knew he thought it was unbecoming for the dignity of someone who was, for all intents and purposes, a modern-day priest of the dead. He could handle that; a priest was meant to serve their people, and there was no need to put on unnecessary airs. Besides, he liked the city, liked the noise and the chaos of it. It was home. It was—alive.

Of course, in another way, it was also quite dead.

The crowd on the sidewalks ebbed and flowed around little pockets of cold emptiness; as he turned his head at one stop sign, a translucent woman in an old-fashioned tunic and skirt bowed to him, and he nodded back. It always paid to be polite to ghosts. Cars in front of him stopped in the middle of the street to let a faded, barely visible man push a wheelbarrow across a road that no longer existed; despite the delay in their commutes, nobody honked their horns. Acatl quietly approved. In other places, he knew, people were much less calm about bits of the underworld leaking through to their everyday lives, but in Mexico—and especially in this city—the underworld very nearly was their everyday lives. Ghosts walked the streets they had loved in life, and when they passed on, they took the forms of butterflies that brightened the hearts of their loved ones. And if they made trouble...well, that was what people like him were there for.

He pedaled on, thinking of work. It wasn’t anything he was looking forward to; though he’d never been good with people, he’d truly enjoyed his post in Coyoacan where much of the job had lay in talking to bereaved families, following threads of magic, and occasional heartstopping moments of sheer terror as whatever had crawled out of the underworld decided to take a bite out of him instead. It had all been very straightforward. Meanwhile, being the Chief of the entire Mictlan Division meant any case he had to examine himself was going to involve politics, and he knew he was entirely out of his depth there. Fuck you, Ceyaxochitl, he thought grumpily—but not too loudly. He wouldn’t have put it past her to be able to read his mind from across the city.

He doubted the last High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli had had to deal with a Ceyaxochitl of his own. And if he had, at least she hadn’t had a cell phone.

Then again, I’m sure he had much more immediate problems to deal with. The Europeans showing up with steel and horses, for one thing. The history books all said that the Mexica had held out for a time, but when they faced total annihilation—their deaths, the destruction of their temples, the destruction of their gods—the last High Priest had joined together with his fellows, the last Guardian of the Duality (his little sister, the codices said, and Acatl thought of Mihmatini with a pang every time), and the last Revered Speaker of Tenochtitlan (the Guardian’s husband, and the High Priest’s...friend said the grammar school textbooks, and lover said the college ones on the strength of some very emotional surviving poetry) in a desperate ritual to...well, nobody, even now, could agree on what they had been trying to do. Kill all the Spaniards? Save their own lives? Strengthen the wards between all three realms, so that even if they died the world would live on? Whatever their goals had been, the result was this: a world where very few people rested quietly in death, where monsters sometimes walked the streets, and where the gods’ gift of magic was spread thin to keep the world intact.

Of course, the distance of the gods worked in their favor now. The sun rose without being fed by human hearts, and star demons were a thing of the distant past. (Election years were bad enough. He didn’t even want to imagine how bad they’d be with the threat of Coyolxauhqui hanging over everyone’s heads.) Only minor, more-easily-killable creatures still threatened them. Historians generally agreed it had also spared a larger part of his people and culture than might otherwise have been the case (he’d had nightmares as a child of what could have happened, of the Great Temple trampled into the dust and a church built atop it), so on the whole Acatl was inclined to look very favorably upon the spiritual predecessor whose knives allegedly were the ones sealed in a glass case in his office. And if he happened to have been intimate with Emperor Ahuizotl (whose namesakes had very explicitly eaten Hernan Cortez, described with glee by contemporary commentators), then good for him.

Eventually, after thirty minutes of weaving through traffic and an unpleasantly exciting near-collision with a car that was apparently immune to a Mictlan officer’s aura, he came to the Division headquarters. From a distance it looked just like any other office building, until you got close enough to notice the owl-and-spider motifs in the stone and the skull prominently displayed over the door. They might no longer officially be priests of Mictlantecuhtli, but the symbols remained. (Including the official regalia of the High Priests, which Acatl had to wear for the big rituals and feast days, and which he hated more than he thought he could hate a bit of fabric and feathers. The loincloth helped, but ritual sites never had air conditioning; adding a giant skull mask and heavy cloak only made it worse.) He attempted to smooth down the mess the trip had made of his hair and was about to lock his bike up when the doors slid open and Ichtaca strolled out.

Unlike Acatl—windblown, sweaty, sporting a black mark of uncertain provenance on his uniform pants—Ichtaca was immaculate. His standard-issue uncut hair was pulled back neatly, his shoes gleamed, and the prominently displayed owl badge on his chest proclaimed his status to anyone who cared to look. Even his short-sleeved uniform shirt had been pressed and ironed, and the spider trim shimmered. “Don’t bother, sir. The...deceased is in the Old City. We’ll be heading there straightaway.” Unspoken, but clear in his tone was I would have told you that but you hung up on me, you idiot.

Acatl grimaced. Trying to take bodies out of the Old City without at least some token prayers tended to end badly. “To the Old City, then. You’ll be walking?”

“...I also brought a bike.”

When the last High Priests and the last Emperor had snapped the boundaries like so many dry twigs, they had succeeded in preserving a single part of their city. In the middle of Mexico City, a mile-wide circle of Tenochtitlan remained as it had been in the last days of the Empire, a place of perfectly preserved adobe buildings and now-dry canals with the Sacred Precinct at its center. Between the ghosts and the fact that electronics tended to fail there, it had been abandoned for centuries—the province of religious rituals, heavily supervised archaeological expeditions, and rare tourist walks. These days, there were checkpoints with armed guards to make sure nobody snuck in and got themselves eaten; rumors that vagrants seeking a place to sleep had woken up covered in a protective blanket of butterflies were officially declared false. (Acatl believed them. The people that had laid the spell had loved their city.)

Acatl waited until they were within the borders, away from the noise of traffic, to say, “Tell me about the deceased. What do we know so far?”

Ichtaca set a hand to the hilt of one of his regulation knives (obsidian, six inches, fixed-blade, sanctified by three drops of human blood and sharp enough to slice a single hair). “Female, possibly Nahua, roughly in her late forties. The body was...mauled, and the area stinks of magic.” At Acatl’s look, he added, “More than the usual, anyway. It’s how we found her; we were exercising the xolos.”

He nodded. While humans could sense magic, dogs were better at it, and the best breeds for it were those that were native to the area. The three main divisions all had their K-9 units. “No identification on her?”

Ichtaca shook his head. “None. We think she must have been trying to sleep in one of the buildings...ah. Here.”

‘Here’ turned out to be a tiny adobe house by a canal, watched over by a young officer, her dog, and a wheelbarrow full of ice. Acatl could smell the blood from the street, and something else…

When he stood in the doorway, the howling emptiness of Mictlan hit him like a truck. For a moment he could barely see the woman’s corpse curled up on the floor, and then his gaze focused again. Ichtaca was right. She had been mauled. Her limbs were still attached, but something had raked its claws over her to the bone, and giant jaws had opened her chest. It was impossible to tell the original color of her tank top.

“We leave this earth,” he whispered. “This world of jade and flowers—the quetzal feathers, the silver. Down into the darkness we must go, leaving behind the marigolds and the ceder trees. Safe journeys, my friend. Safe journeys. All the way to the end.”

And then he pulled his rubber gloves on and knelt to examine her corpse, turning her over gently to inspect the wounds. He almost didn’t have to; the bottom of his stomach felt like it had dropped to hell and froze over there, which would have been a clear indicator of something from the underworld even if her heart and lungs hadn’t been torn from her chest cavity. A beast of shadows, he thought, and then, Damn it. They could only prowl in places where no light shone, making them the chief predators of anyone sleeping alone in the Old City and blessedly rare everywhere else, and only obsidian could kill them. He still had the scars where one had caught his arm before his comrades had saved him. At least they were solitary, unable to bear the presence of another even in the same city; he didn’t even want to think about dealing with a pack of the things. The problem was that he couldn’t tell where this one had gone. And if it managed to escape the Old City, the mayor would have his head.

The young officer—he hadn’t gotten her nametag—spoke up. “We couldn’t find a trail, sir. It’s like it was summoned here.”

He shook his head. “Impossible. There would be signs. It must have slipped in from somewhere. You couldn’t even track it with the dogs?” There had once been spells that would track things from the underworld—he’d seen the codices—but with the breaking of the boundaries they were weak and unreliable, prone to throwing up false positives.

“No, sir.”

He sighed. “Let’s take her to the morgue and see what comes up. If it’s necessary, I’ll get us the permits for a full search of the Old City.”

In the end, there wasn’t anything to find. The autopsy showed nothing suggesting the woman had been targeted by a sorcerer with a grudge, so Acatl returned to the Old City on his own; by the time he finally stopped for a rest—dusty, footsore, and exhausted—in the house that had once belonged to the last High Priest of the Dead, he’d checked every inch of it and wanted nothing more than to go home. A dead end. Wonderful.

He fiddled with his earrings, running his fingers over the thin scars at his earlobes. His gaze drifted over the worn frescoes of owls and spiders without really seeing them. Five hundred years ago, his spiritual predecessor had lived and grown old here; Acatl had seen reconstructions of the place before the museums had descended and knew that there had been a quetzal-feather fan there, that just over there had been a single well-worn reed sleeping mat. Judging by the childish paint smears at roughly knee height, he’d also played host to a number of the Emperor’s children and grandchildren. He’d probably shed blood from his own earlobes here every morning, just as Acatl did. He wondered how he’d feel to be summoned for advice; it was a seriously tempting prospect, but one he ultimately dismissed. One did not summon the Last Priest on a whim; he surely had enough to do with guiding the dead through Mictlan safely.

He checked his phone, mostly to have something to do with his hands. As expected, it was hovering at a dismal 30% battery life and no signal, but the picture on his lock screen—Neutemoc and his children, with Mihmatini holding Little Skull in her lap—was as clear as ever, and still made him smile.

Impatient footsteps—one set human, one set canine—made him look up just as a boy entered the doorway. Silhouetted by the setting sun, at first Acatl couldn’t make out his features; then he stepped inside, leading a truly impressive xoloitzcuintle, and Acatl felt his heart drop into his shoes. He knew the features of that face. He’d seen them in the news and in a dozen press releases, every time the mayor gave speeches with his family in tow. If he wasn’t a relative of some sort, Acatl would eat his own shoes.

The boy—a young man, really, around his sister’s age—had dressed for the weather, at least. Acatl took in the sight of sandals, cargo shorts, a camo-print tank top, a thermos clipped to his belt along with a stone knife. The high cheekbones and hawkish nose that were so familiar sat on a face that looked much more used to smiling than anything else; the military-style buzz cut was at odds with the gold studs in each ear and below his lip. “Excuse me. Are you Chief Acatl?” He was eyeing him like a tricky page in a codex.

Acatl studied him for a moment. He felt human, though the faint glitter of the light caught in the little hairs on his arms spoke of powerful magical protections on him. (He was also very handsome when he started to smile, but Acatl told himself firmly that now was not the time to be noticing that.) “I am. How can I help you?”

“Actually, I was hoping I could help you. Ceyaxochitl sent me; she said you’d need assistance.” Acatl’s heart wanted to sink, but it was somehow very hard to manage when the young man aimed that confident half-smile at him. “My name is Teomitl, and this—” he gestured to the dog “—is Yaotl." Acatl wondered if Ceyaxochitl knew the man's dog shared a name with her PA. "We were told there was underworld magic to track.”

“There is.” But Teomitl shouldn’t be doing it. This was a beast of shadows, a matter for the Mictlan Division, not a boy with a dog. On the other hand, Ceyaxochitl had sent him, and it was best not to anger her if he could avoid it. Sighing, he started to stand up and immediately dropped his phone in the dirt.

Teomitl bent and picked it up, only to stare at the lock screen. “How do you know Mihmatini?”

Acatl blinked at him. What a small world we live in. “She’s my younger sister. Why?” When Teomitl handed him his phone back, he made sure to slip it safely into his back pocket.

He grinned. “I’m in Advanced Solar Divinity and Warding Magic 201 with her. She’s amazing.”

Great. Mihm, you have another admirer. On one hand, Mihmatini deserved everything she could ever wish for. On the other hand, a possible relative of the mayor...he thought back to the aftermath of a few family dinners when she and Neutemoc had started discussing (arguing about) politics, and decided she could definitely do better. At least their shared university courses explained the glimmering magic around Teomitl; Mihm had once turned in a term paper in a similar class that had left flowers appearing in her steps for a week. They’d had to stop their nephew from putting them in his mouth. Teomitl was clearly skilled enough with Huitzilpochtli’s magic to protect himself. “Mm-hmm. How much were you told regarding this case?”

Teomitl fixed his gaze to a point over Acatl’s shoulder and rattled off, “An unknown woman was found dead eight hours ago—“

Has it really been eight hours? Gods.

“—with the clear marks of a Beast of Mictlan on her corpse, and no trail to follow. It’ll be easier to track now that the sun’s going down.” Now he made eye contact, and Acatl spared no thought to hiding the expression on his face.

Because the idea of tracking a beast of shadows at dusk—never mind at night—was certainly more effective, but it was also suicidally dangerous. It wasn’t something Acatl would dare attempt without backup. A thousand retorts flew through his mind—you’re insane, we’d both be torn apart, it’s slower but so much safer to just kill it while it sleeps—but, looking at Teomitl’s proud eyes, he found he couldn’t voice any of them. What came out instead was, “Are you telling me you can track it now?”

Teomitl patted Yaotl’s head. The dog whuffed quietly. “Yaotl can. He’s descended from the Emperor’s hounds and blessed by Mixcoatl. And I can fight it.”

Acatl rubbed his forehead. He could feel a headache coming on, and it wasn’t all due to the fizzing, hot-blood sensation of Mixcoatl’s magic he could sense on Yaotl when he focused. I owe Ceyaxochitl much. I can recognize that. But to put this young man at risk… It took no effort at all for him to remember his last junior partner. Payaxin had died in front of him. He couldn’t do it again. He wouldn’t.

Teomitl spoke again, voice low. “Please. Let me prove myself. Let me help. This is my city too, and my people’s heritage this thing is using for a hunting ground. I’ll be of use to you, I swear it.”

He closed his eyes and allowed himself a single aggrieved sigh. “Very well. Follow me.”

Back to the scene of the crime. It was too hot for anyone sensible to exert themselves, but this didn’t appear to stop Teomitl. He power-walked like he thought the sun couldn’t touch him. Acatl trailed behind, finding his gaze lingering for a moment longer than it should on broad shoulders and lean, strong back muscles; he was perversely grateful Teomitl wasn’t looking at him. Pathetic. I’m on the clock. I have to keep my mind on the job. (Also, if he went to school with Mihm, he was almost definitely too young for him even leaving aside the obvious admiration when he spoke of her; Acatl might have been lonely, but he had some standards.)

Teomitl turned the wrong way, and he cleared his throat. “We make a left here.”

The boy shook his head. “Yaotl really wants to go this way.”

He eyed the dog. Blessed or not, if you are chasing after a dead pigeon I will be very upset. “...Fine. But slow down, Teomitl. You’ll give yourself heatstroke.”

Teomitl unhooked his thermos; Acatl must have made a noise at that, because he looked over with worry in his eyes. “I’m fine, I have Gatorade. But you—you should drink something. Here, have some.”

He had dignity. He hated Gatorade. But the sloshing of the thermos had reminded him that he was desperately thirsty, and so he threw his head back and drank deep without even tasting it. Later, the aftertaste would no doubt remind him that this had been a stupid idea, but now all he felt was relief. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Teomitl watching him and belatedly flushed, remembering his manners. “Thank you.”

Teomitl turned his face away, but not before Acatl saw his dark skin tint a shade redder. “It’s nothing. Let’s keep moving.” Not that he had much of a choice; they’d stopped to let Acatl drink but Yaotl wanted to keep going, tugging insistently on the end of his leash when his master stopped moving.

They continued on, keeping to the shade as much as possible. Whatever Yaotl was smelling, it was leading them on a long walk. At least Teomitl hung back to walk next to him, saying nothing at the way Acatl had taken to leaning on his bike. They were both silent; Acatl didn’t dare speak, knowing full well that not every creature unleashed by the shattered boundaries was confined to nighttime hours. Besides, he wasn’t sure how to start a conversation even if it had been safe. He cast a sideways glance at Teomitl and found him grave-faced and focused, gaze flicking towards every unexpected movement.

They were mainly ghosts. The Old City was filled with them—mostly Mexica, but a good sprinkling of others ranging from Spanish conquistadors to unfortunate tourists and, Acatl knew, at least one archaeologist who’d fallen off the Temple steps and hit his head. Acatl nodded to each of them, even the conquistadors, until he became aware of the steadily increasing tension emanating from Teomitl. He turned back to him then, feeling an answering irritation rise in his own heart. “What?”

“You keep stopping to be polite. We’re wasting time.”

His eyes narrowed. “My vocation demands no less. You should try it, too; you never know when you might need something a ghost can provide, and they do not appreciate rudeness.” Nor do I. “Besides,” he added, “It’s the decent thing to do.”

Teomitl fell quiet again after that, but the next time they passed a ghost—a little girl—he bowed, and she clapped her hands and cheered in silent delight at him. Acatl felt something warm in his chest, and found himself gazing at his new ally thoughtfully. Prickly and privileged and impatient, yes—but considerate too, when it’s pointed out to him as an option he should take. Maybe this won’t be so bad. (And he’s nice to look at, whispered a little voice that he staunchly ignored.)

The sun was setting. The shadows grew longer. They quickened their steps, and Yaotl broke out into a trot—

—And then, quite suddenly, into a run. Teomitl had to unclip the leash; it was that or have his arm yanked out of the socket. As he broke into a sprint, Acatl hopped onto his bike and pedaled after. Teomitl kept pace, which shouldn’t have surprised him but did. The part of his brain that was always devoted to spellwork wondered just how many magical protections had been layered over the boy.

There wasn’t much time to think about that, however. Yaotl led them through the city without stopping. Left—right—left again—the sun had vanished, and they were navigating by the reflective patches of the dog’s collar—and then the stench of blood and the bottomless grief of Mictlan hit him, and he gasped too-loud in the gathering gloom. Teomitl stopped dead with an instinctive retch and then continued on. Impressive, Acatl thought. Normally they throw up or start crying when they first sense that. He’d done both.

By the time Yaotl stopped in front of a house, stiff-legged and growling at the empty doorway, Acatl was wishing he’d waited for permission to bring a full crew. It would have to be just him and Teomitl, then. He slid off his bike with a grimace and grabbed Teomitl’s arm before he could rush in. He could just make out a ragged shape lying against the wall. The beast of shadows could be back any minute.

If it wasn’t already waiting for them.

He drew a knife and crept in by Teomitl’s side, holding his phone in his other hand for light. The beast’s latest meal had been male, white, age indeterminate, with a scruffy attempt at a beard. The blood was still fresh and pulsing with magical power. He breathed out, voice barely audible even to his own ears, “You leave behind your fine poems. You leave behind your beautiful flowers and the earth that was only lent to you. You ascend into the Light. Safe journey, my friend."

Teomitl tensed up, turning towards the door. “I heard something—“

Yaotl barked. It probably saved both their lives.

A thing darker than shadows, sharper than knives, barreled through the entryway. It knocked Teomitl aside in its rush; Acatl, turning, dropped his phone but managed to keep hold of his knife. And then it was flattening him under its weight and for a heartstopping second he couldn’t think. His world narrowed down to a crushing weight on his torso, a foul stench in his nose, snapping teeth and ripping claws entirely too close to his face. He heaved desperately—if he could just get some leverage to actually stab the thing—

“Acatl!” A dog’s snarl.

It roared, dripping saliva, and turned its head away. As it shifted its weight, he finally shoved it off of him and scrambled, ungainly, to his feet and away from its claws. The throb in his chest suggested he’d cracked a rib, but that was a pain he’d deal with later. If he survived. His night vision was slow to arrive, his eyes watering painfully, but finally he could pick out three darker shapes in the night. The beast had turned to attack Yaotl, who was doing his best to hamstring it while Teomitl, knife in hand, was trying to land a blow. Acatl knew they were in trouble; Teomitl was clearly skilled, but the awkward way he moved in search of an opening suggested he’d been injured in the initial rush, and Yaotl’s jaws were already burned from its blood.

Think. If I can get it outside—the sky’s never truly dark, it’ll be weaker— It wasn’t focused on him. As quickly and quietly as he could, he moved to the doorway and drew his other knife. He would only get one shot at this.

He closed his eyes and cast his senses out. In the empty, static darkness of Mictlan, the beast’s outline was a knot of frantic hatred and hunger.

He threw the knife. As the beast howled in pain, he dropped to the ground. Its leap soared right over him, and then they were in the street together; he could finally see it, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Not that he had much time to take in more than a strong impression of burning eyes, claws like a bear, and too many teeth in a too-long jaw before it was lunging for him again. He threw himself to one side, quick enough to avoid a swipe to his chest but not enough to dodge the blow entirely. Agony seared up his shoulder as claws ripped into his arm instead, so cold that they burned. He felt his hand open of its own volition, felt the knife fall from useless fingers and skitter across the ground, felt himself scream in pain, and thought No.

When the beast launched itself at him again, his legs crumpled under it. Instinctively he raised his injured arm to protect his face; fangs raked his flesh, but before the beast could close its jaws Yaotl was leaping on it, snapping savagely at its head.

Teomitl’s footsteps. “Acatl!”

The world felt like it was made of tar, everything slower than it should be. The beast was still pinning him down while Yaotl’s teeth flashed in the night, Teomitl was moving towards him but it was too late, there was only the white-hot agony of his arm, the lances of pain through his ribs, through his head where he’d hit the ground. He couldn’t think. His knife had fallen inches from his bloody hand.

His hand.

The knife.

His fingers closed around it and he knew he was screaming, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Mictlan’s emptiness coiled within the blade, pushing away the pain—not far, but enough for him to move. Enough for him to strike. He brought the knife up, at an angle that made every tendon in his arm howl, and buried it in the beast’s ribs. It convulsed; he had a moment to see his impending death before Teomitl’s own blade slammed into the back of its neck.

He thought he blacked out; by the time he opened his eyes, Teomitl was dragging the bulk of the beast off of him. He croaked something he thought were words and made an aborted attempt at sitting up. He had to see it sent on properly. That was his duty.

Teomitl dropped to his knees, pressing him back down. His free hand held his phone, and the flashlight app was bright enough that Acatl hissed, tried to turn his head away, and immediately regretted it. He thought he might be sick. “Don’t move, Acatl! You’re—you’re losing a lot of blood.”

Oh. That explained why he felt so weak, then. The beast’s claws must have struck deep. “I have to—” He swallowed painfully. “Have to send it on. Or else it...doesn’t know it’s dead. They’re...just as hungry when they’re ghosts.”

Teomitl’s expression suggested he thought Acatl had gone crazy. “I’ll do it, then! You just stay there and—hang on, I have a first-aid-kit—“

“No,” he whispered. “Take my knife. Draw a quincunx...on its skull.” The light was just good enough to see Teomitl’s hand shake as he followed his instructions, stabbing deeply enough to strike bone. His chest hurt, but he could force out this rite if he were dead. “In darkness they dwell. They feast, they consume their prey. In darkness they dwell. They eat, they consume their prey. All save one...and that one returns. Mine is the...the knife that stole this life. Mine is the hand—“ He coughed, once, and nearly passed out from the pain. He’d definitely broken a rib. “—that sends this one home.”

The bulk of the beast’s corpse sagged; as wisps of black smoke bled off it, Teomitl dropped the knife in disgust and yanked a first-aid kit from his pocket. “Now can I stop you from bleeding to death?!”

He turned his head to see Teomitl’s shin crooked and covered in blood and managed, somehow, to whisper, “You’re hurt.” You shouldn’t be hurt. You’re such a good fighter, much better than Payaxin, and I was supposed to look after you...Ceyaxochitl will be so angry…

“Don’t worry about me!” Teomitl snapped. The gauze pad he pressed to Acatl’s shoulder was soaked almost immediately, and he muttered a curse and tossed it aside for another one. “Come on—gods, no, Yaotl, do not put that in your mouth—Acatl, stay with me!”

He let himself be lifted so Teomitl could wrap bandages, noted with dispassionate interest how the hand he set at the back of his head was dark and wet. The antiseptic poured on him with shaking hands stung, but everything seemed very far away. “You did well.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded like it was coming through water. “Thank you.”

Teomitl’s voice was a snarl. “Thank me when we’re safe! After we get Yaotl to a vet and you to a hospital and I get a chance to kick your ass for throwing a fucking knife at me, really? A knife? Was that necessary?”

He should be annoyed, he thought. “I’ll remember that for...next time.”

“Next time, I’ll be better prepared.” He pressed more gauze down on Acatl’s forearm and cast a glance at his face. In the darkness, his eyes glittered wetly. “You are not allowed to die until then, okay? I will drag you back from Heaven myself.”

“Mictlan,” he whispered. “I am—a priest, for the modern era. A priest of...Lord Death. I’ll go to Mictlan.” Not forever on earth, but for a little while...

“No.” Teomitl’s voice was ragged with an emotion Acatl couldn’t place. Grief, he thought. Or rage.

He felt a smile curve his lips. “It’s not so bad. The Last Priest will guide me as he guides us all.”

“Well, I won’t let him.” It was a growl that softened as he leaned closer, reaching down to—oh, he was moving Acatl’s hair away from his face. That was nice. “You hear me? We’re close enough to the walls to get a signal. I’m going to call the paramedics and you’ll be fine. But you have to stay awake, okay?”

He was going to. Really. But his eyes slid shut, and the next thing he knew was Teomitl grabbing his arm as Yaotl’s cold nose met the side of his head. “Hm?”

“Wake up!” There was an edge of real fear in his voice. “Talk to me. Ask me anything you want to know. Or tell me something—tell me I’m being rude again.”

If he took shallow breaths, it didn’t hurt as much. Talk to me. He thought he could manage that. “You...saved my life.” Another breath. “You can be as rude as you want. But...you won’t impress Mihm like that.”

Teomitl snorted. “Nothing I do would impress Mihmatini.”

“Shame.” Hmm. Interesting. Words seemed to be coming out of his mouth that had bypassed his brain entirely. “But...you look kind of like the mayor, anyway. She wouldn’t like that. She doesn’t like him.”

There was another snort, and when he wedged open one eye he saw him shaking his head. “Nobody likes Tizoc. Not even me, and we share a father. She’s not alone.”

“Your brother?” Thinking hurt about as much as breathing—which was to say, much worse when he tried to put any effort into it. So he didn’t. “Huh. You’re much better looking than he is. Very pretty.”

So that was what it sounded like when someone choked on their own spit. “I—Acatl!” It was followed up by a muttered, “Now I know you hit your head too hard.”

As Teomitl hit the number for the paramedics, his free hand settled over Acatl’s and stayed there.

The First Patecatl Hospital had grown, like many other public buildings in Mexico City, out of a temple to the gods. In the hospital’s case, the very small attempt at a pyramid was still in the central courtyard, and Acatl had a fine view of it from his window. It would have been peaceful to the point of boredom if he hadn’t been so tired. The doctors had treated his wounds (severe lacerations, two broken ribs, minor acid burns and dehydration, and a nasty concussion) but when he’d suggested that maybe he could have Neutemoc drive him home he had been very firmly moved to a private room for continued observation. His brother and sister had come and gone, Mihmatini with concern and Neutemoc with...well, now that he thought about it, also concern, even though it had been masked with far too much I-told-you-this-would-happen grumbling for an army sergeant. I must have looked terrible. Even Ichtaca had spent a whole fifteen minutes frowning at him while filling him in on work.

Total casualties of his work day: his uniform (unsalvageable), his phone (cracked by the beast, to Mihm’s undisguised glee; Acatl supposed now he really had no excuse but to get a new one), and one regulation obsidian knife. At least he’d been reassured that Yaotl would be fine, and Mihm had promised to check on Little Skull. And they’d brought him clothes.

He hadn’t mentioned Teomitl to her, he realized. In his defense, the painkillers he’d been given were strong. At least they made breathing easier. But as the pain started to ease back in, it brought clarity with it. He closed his eyes, remembering how Teomitl had bandaged his wounds and begged him to keep talking. I have to speak to him. I have to see his face.

He had no idea where Teomitl had been taken and certainly wasn’t going to be able to wander around looking for him. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the button to call the nurse.

In no time at all, he was being bundled into a wheelchair and steered a few rooms down the hall, where a trio of very large men in suits hovered. They eyed him with thinly veiled hostility, and he recalled those videos of the mayor. He thought he remembered Teomitl saying something about Tizoc.

Unlike him, the nurse was entirely unruffled. “Chief Acatl of the Mictlan Division here to see the patient. You three can stop blocking the hallway now.”

They edged away to lean against the opposite wall, enabling him to finally see into the room and spy Teomitl. His first thought was relief—while Teomitl’s leg was heavily bandaged and splinted, the air full of the grassy scent of Patecatl’s magic to speed healing, his other injuries looked much shallower. He was listening to something on his phone; the way his face transformed from concentration to delight when he slipped his earbud out and turned to see Acatl in the doorway was entirely too heartwarming. “Acatl!”

He couldn’t keep a smile from his face. Teomitl’s joy was infectious. “How are you feeling?”

“I should be asking you that!” He waved a hand dismissively. “Cracked tibia, I’ll live. I’m going to have words with someone here, I swear—I wanted to come see you but nobody would let me.” That was pure, huffy impatience, and Acatl shouldn’t have found it charming.

Nor should I wanted to come see you have set his heart fluttering against his ribcage. “I was having stitches done; I was very heavily medicated.” Honestly, he still was; everything was fine as long as he didn’t make any sudden movements, but his limbs were not precisely cooperative. “And my family was here.” Looking around the room, he saw no signs of any similar visitations for Teomitl. The fluttering in his chest clenched into a fist.

“...I figured they would be.” Teomitl’s eyes gleamed as he looked him up and down “Nice shirt.”

Acatl groaned internally. Of course his siblings, when asked to bring him something to wear, would subject him to the old college T-shirt he usually only wore on laundry day. Loose and comfortable it might be, but nobody wanted to be reminded of their taste in bands from ten years ago. “Mihmatini picked it.”

“Mihmatini has good taste.” And since this was objectively true except in matters likely to mildly embarrass her older brothers, Acatl had to nod.

The nurse’s pager buzzed, and she sighed at it. “Sorry, I have to run—will you be alright in here for ten minutes?”

“He’ll be fine.” Teomitl aimed a dazzling smile at her. Acatl, clipped by its edge, could only gulp and feel his face grow hot. “I’ll take care of him.”

It felt easier to talk when she left. True, the door was still half open behind her, but he could pretend for a moment that there weren’t a trio of burly bodyguards eyeing him. He took the chance to simply gaze at Teomitl, noting the shadows under his eyes and the bandaged scrape along his arm. “You’ve already done so much.”

“So have you.” The warm regard in Teomitl’s face was too much; Acatl had to drop his gaze. “...I wouldn’t have been able to kill that thing by myself, or—what did you say? Let it know it’s dead? You did that. I owe you one.” He shifted on the bed. When a hand came to rest on his good arm, Acatl jolted.

He knew he had to be red. Responses fired through his mind—you don’t owe me anything, I got you into this, I’m so sorry—but his eyes fell on Teomitl’s phone before he could voice any of them. He’d been watching the news, he realized. Tizoc was giving a speech. Side by side, there really was no denying their family resemblance. So that’s why Ceyaxochitl assigned him to me. She always said we needed more political support. “...Convince your brother to let me keep my job, and we’re even. When were you going to tell me about him?”

Teomitl flinched, eyes narrowing poisonously at his phone before he flipped it screen-side down. “I don’t want to ride on his coattails all my life. I want to prove myself on my own merits and do things the right way. And…” He cast a sidelong glance at Acatl, catching his lip between his teeth. “I think we make a good team, and I know from Mihm how you feel about him.”

Tizoc thought the tenuous balance between worlds should be maintained with guns, that there was no need for the one-time clergy of the Mexica to continue ministering to their peoples’ spiritual well-being. He was not popular among anyone who had anything to do with magic. Or, for that matter, common sense. That even his own brother didn’t like him spoke well of Teomitl’s judgement. “That doesn’t change my opinion of you. Just...warn me next time.” There would be a next time. He was sure of it. He was also suddenly very aware that Teomitl hadn’t removed his hand.

A smile attempted to cross Teomitl’s face, but fell flat at the starting point. “If I warned you about all my horrible relatives, you’d fall asleep again before I got halfway through. I’ve been getting calls all morning; they weren’t happy about any of this.”

Oh, thank the Duality. Work. I can always talk about work. He nodded. “We still don’t know how the beast slipped in, but Ichtaca told me they’re trying to track down the relatives of the people who were killed to reassure them that it was slain. I’ll have a lot of paperwork to fill out next week; you’ll likely have to sign some as well.” His head throbbed rebelliously at the mere thought.

“…Ah.” Teomitl didn’t look happy about that, but then he looked up and his expression turned distinctly hopeful. “You’re taking the week off?”

“Patecatl can only do so much.” Also, Ichtaca had told him in no uncertain terms to take a vacation.

Teomitl fell silent at that, gaze shifting thoughtfully away. His hand slid down Acatl’s forearm and over his wrist, and all of Acatl’s higher brain functions immediately shifted to processing the sensation. There were calluses on those fingers, and scars as well. And they were so warm.

He still wasn’t quite looking at Acatl when he spoke. “You know,” he began, “I never did get your number.”

“You…” It was slow to compute. Sounds floated on the air without resolving into words, until finally in a shocking rush they arranged themselves into something Acatl could process. Things like this did not happen to him. “You want my number?!”

“You called me pretty.” Now Teomitl was looking at him. Worse, that radiant smile was out in full force, scouring away any defense Acatl could muster. The hand on his wrist was gentle and unmistakable. “I’d like to think that wasn’t the concussion talking.”

Fuck. It was the first clear thought he’d had in what felt like an eternity. He had said that. And Teomitl had heard it and...seemed interested in hearing more. “Mgh.” He should use words. Teomitl deserved words. “...No. It wasn’t.” You’re beautiful.

Teomitl’s hand slid over his, lacing their fingers together. Acatl had seen heated gazes before, but having one directed at him was an experience that defied description. “So...”

He had to look away. It was that or combust. “So.”

“I’d like to get to know you better. Much better.” Teomitl squeezed his hand once, lightly, and pulled away. Acatl mourned the separation immediately. “Can I?”

He swallowed hard. Duality, yes. Yes, please. It was probably a bad idea. No, it was probably a terrible idea given all that Teomitl was, all the differences between them. He was absolutely going to regret this when the painkillers wore off and he was operating at full mental capacity again. But he’d seen moths fluttering around candle flames, and now he thought he knew how they felt before they burned. “Give me your phone. I’ll put my number in and...you can text me in a day or two when I’ve got a new one.” His head wouldn’t be happy with staring at a screen, but it was better than whatever hearing Teomitl’s voice in his ear would do to his heart.

Teomitl had to hold the phone up so he could type. It took three tries, not least because Teomitl took advantage of their proximity to murmur, “I can’t wait. I’m looking forward to doing lots of things with you when you’re feeling better.”

The nurse returned just in time to hear the strangled noise he made.

> ACATL.

> how are you feeling?? how’s the new phone?

>> Much better, thank you. I’m home now. I have no complaints about the phone.

> good! I’m glad to hear that

> i was worried about you

> wanna get dinner sometime? my treat

>> I’d rather cook. It’s more economical, and the doctors assure me light exercise will benefit my arm.

> are you inviting me over to your place?

(…)

>> I suppose.

> that sounds great!! i’d love to come over and meet your cat!! is friday ok?? at 8?

>> That’s fine.

> :thumbsup: it’s a date! see u then!

(…)

>> I look forward to it.

ahuizotl2: mihm help

dear_prudence: what did you do

ahuizotl2: I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING I just. uh. your brother

dear_prudence: t e o

ahuizotl2: I asked him to dinner

dear_prudence: and?????????

dear_prudence: oh no did he turn you down?

ahuizotl2: NO

ahuizotl2: he invited me over to his place instead

dear_prudence: he

dear_prudence: he what

ahuizotl2: and I said it’s a date and he saID HE WAS LOOKING FORWARD TO IT

dear_prudence: MY brother??? ACATL???????

dear_prudence: AHAHAHAHAHAHA

dear_prudence: MIRACLES DO HAPPEN too bad he has terrible taste

ahuizotl2: yes yes I’m sure this is hilarious for you but more importantly I don’t know what to wear. my date wardrobe is all armani!!! do you know ANYTHING abt what your brother likes?????

dear_prudence: son, you’re on your own

ahuizotl2: wow rude

[The Gods Squad Groupchat]

Cursed Snake Facts: so what’s this I hear about someone having a hot date????

Hummingbirds Will Fuck You Up: wHAT

Cursed Snake Facts: I mean mihm’s big brother, of course :) what did you think I meant?

Hummingbirds Will Fuck You Up: fuck you neza

Cursed Snake Facts: is that an invitation?

Hummingbirds Will Fuck You Up: I would literally rather stick my dick in a cactus

Queen Of All She Surveys: yes, a miracle finally occurred

Queen Of All She Surveys: the gods have blessed us

Queen Of All She Surveys: acatl has a date

Queen Of All She Surveys: and NO, I am NOT telling you who with. That is his business. We’re all very happy for him and his private life, neza

Cursed Snake Facts: godsdammit

Queen Of All She Surveys: :)

ahuizotl2: I take it back

ahuizotl2: I love you. name it and its yours

dear_prudence: take me shopping bitch

ahuizotl2: done! :D

ahuizotl2: ...also how the fuck did HE find out??

dear_prudence: it’s nez

ahuizotl2: point taken

Further AU notes:

- little skull is mostly white with black ears and a patch on her back that lends her her name. acatl talks to her like a person. sometimes her eyes reflect light that isn't there. - everyone is bi because I say so. - acatl's parents really wanted him to go into law or medicine but no, he had to major in religious studies, minor in history, and go off to be a glorified coroner. - neutemoc and huei's divorce was a nightmare but they are both happier now. - modern acatl can summon the wind of knives. the wind of knives thinks OG acatl was better. - yaotl: shadow beasts? no problem. an 8-lb cat? VERY SCARY MUCH SHARP.

#teocatl #obsidian and blood #acatl #teomitl #blood tw #concussion tw

0 notes