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heathenarmyimagines · 3 years

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Title: Find Us

Summary: (Y/N) has done her job, now Ivar must do his.

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten

Taglist: @ubbesgirl, @shewolf2000, @tis-itheapplepie, @atequila, @demoncrypt1066, @greennightspider, @badbitsh13, @fireismysaftey, @minarawr, @laketaj24, @hvitserksgirl, @blahblahcookiesdoma, @fabulous-peasent, @sforsammmmmi, @minmiin1d, @courtrae89, @letsloveimagines, @tomarisela, @titty-teetee, @beyond-the-ashes@elenawrit, @mblaqgi, @whenimaunicorn, @chuflisworld, @mystruggledlife, @moose-squirrel-asstiel, @syreni-dea, @trashqueenbitch, @alykatv, @mbaku-babygirl, @perfectus-in-morte, @beyond-the-ashes, @neeadinghugs, @readsalot73, @triumphantreturnofpies, @anarchy-is-coming, @tephi101, @alicedopey, @ivarslittlebadgirl, @jtrstp, @nejijjeoroo, @charlylama, @ivartheblessed, @captstefanbrandt, @fabulouschrissi, @ivarsrideordie, @3x5gurl, @the-writer-appreciation-blog, @lolabee9, @captainfoxy22, @young-ugly-god, @im5ftbutmythroat66, @bribyyy, @irishhiggins, @cadetomlinson, @keclleon101, @slutforragnarssons, @ltkeke, @meeeeeeeeeps, @lille-kanin, @opalscarab, @ssraven7, @ivarandersen, @concretewaywardangel, @funmadnessandbadassvikings, @sharon-is-tired, @cadetomlinson, @mystruggledlife, @chuflisworld, @justmarissa97, @lol-haha-joke, @weirdly-randomly-awesome, @inlovewithmakeupcomicsanim, @idonthavehusbandsihavelovers, @alexa040004, @buckythetinman , @burntmythroatskullingmytea,@jorunnravenslayer, @two-unbeatable-beaters, @buffy-the-vampire-blogger, @arses21434, @ltkeke, @captainfoxy22, @chinduda @letsshamelessqueen-m @my-soul-is-the-moon @we-are-transcendent

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six,Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten

The sleep came easily enough, even easier considering that you had gone all day with no rest and unbeknownst to you it was the most rest you would receive in months.

In the land of the living it had been three days and you hadn’t had a clue, for you it was just like any other dream. Time was irrelevant and nothing important to worry about as you walked around the abandoned market. With the information you now had you came to the conclusion that this was a Viking age settlement.

And just knowing that much made you eager to look around and see everything. How many people could say they had seen something like this? It would be an opportunity lost if she didn’t explore.

You were still in your hospital gown and had been barefoot before you found some shoes that were too big but they stayed on.

Viking mud is still mud after all.

There was so much to see, there were stands that had vegetables and fruits and less attractive ones that had dead animals hug up on display. Further into the market area you found jewelry and long stretches of fabric. Most were brown or white but others were absolutely gorgeous colors like red, blue and gold.

It was while you were touching a blue silk fabric that you heard something behind you.

Muddy footsteps.

It made a wet squishing noise; squish squish squish, getting closer but not at a rushed speed.

Whoever was behind you felt no need to rush.

You turned around; fully expecting to see the man with no eyes to be standing there with a new riddle for you to solve, but that wasn’t who it was.

It was you.

The woman standing before you had your face, she was older maybe in her twenties or early thirties, her hair was longer than you could imagine growing yours and it was in a braid that rested plainly over her shoulder. She was wearing a brown dress and leather shoes.

Despite how much you had looked into mirrors you had never seen yourself like this.

‘Y-you.’ you managed to say when you found the will to speak.

‘You.’ the woman smiled.

‘Do you know who I am?’ she asked as she stepped closer to you.

Instinctively you stepped back.

‘Your name is Wilda, you are a Saxxon woman.’ you replied.

‘I am, or maybe I was. It is hard to understand even for me, I have been dead for so long and yet here I stand speaking with you.’ she mused.

She walked over to the fabric you were just holding and rubbed it curiously.

‘I had been wanting this fabric when I died, the woman who made this was the best seamstress in all of Kattegat.’

‘Kattegat? Is that the name of this place?’

‘Yes, this is where it all began. This is where it all happened, where your fate was sealed with the Boneless One. I must apologize, for I am also responsible for involving you in all this, but please know I didn’t wish for any of it.’ she said sadly.

It was weird seeing yourself like this, it was like watching yourself in a movie but you had no memory of acting in it. Either way this woman...this you, was talking and it was understandable.

‘Can you tell me what happened, why am I involved and what will happen after Ivar accepts his past life?’ you asked.

‘I do not know it all, but I will tell you what I know, come walk with me, I want you to see something.’ she said as she began to walk away from the fabric stand.

You walked beside her, still keeping a bit of distance.

‘I was a child of the church, in York. When I was a small child the city was raided by the Sons of Ragnar and their Heathen Army. I barely survived but after they took over Ivar took me in as a slave.’

‘Why?’

‘I was often the apprentice to the healers after men would come from battle. I would take care of his legs with salves and oils. He hated me, it was simply a fact but he valued my care through the years.’

‘Why did you marry him?’

‘Years had passed and I’d seen him do...horrific things, he’d won great victories and suffered massive losses then all at once he was just losing. Battle after battle his plans failed him, he was losing his fame, becoming a joke among warlords.’

As the two of you walked past the last stand of the market she led you through a trail in the woods.

‘At his wits end he called on the seer.’

‘Seer? The man with no eyes?’ you asked.

She nodded.

‘He sees peoples’ fates and speaks with the Pagan Gods. He told Ivar that the Gods had abandoned him; that they had favored his father Ragnar despite the disrespectful way he viewed them, and they would not show Ivar the same mercy if he followed his father’s footsteps.’

‘Ragnar? I thought he was a myth.’

‘People spoke of him as if he were, but he was a real man with real feelings. Ivar loved him despite the strain his broken legs put on their relationship, and like his father he began to place too much pride in his own importance.’

‘Broken legs...he really couldn’t walk could he.’ you said in amazement.

‘Not on his own he made braces to keep himself upright, really they were amazing to see. Even I, who despised him, felt a small amount of admiration for his resilience.’

‘I grew up in his care, he never hurt me but he was cruel. When he came to me demanding my hand in marriage I didn’t understand. He told me it was life or death, he said he would have the church in York reduced to ashes if I refused.’

‘How romantic.’ you said sarcastically.

‘I thought so as well. From what was told to me Ivar had gotten everyone close to him cursed, exiled from all their nine worlds, left to wait for the reincarnations of both Ivar the Boneless and a Christian Girl to to reunite and his guilt alongside her love and forgiveness would be the light that lead them to Valhalla.’

‘My love?’ you asked in embarrassed shock.

‘Yes, you love him and I know it.’

‘How can you know something like that? Do you feel my emotions or something, because I’m not sure if it is more than a crush.’ you said in your defense.

Wilda laughed and was odd to hear it, you recognized it as your own laughter but you never heard from someone else.

‘My sweet girl, you are not the first reincarnation, and your Ivar isn’t the first either, if God wills it you will be the last.’

‘I’m not the first? How many have there been and what happened to them?’

‘They all end up here eventually.’ Wilda answered as at last the two of you had arrived at your destination.

You were in a large clearing. There was nothing else there to take your eyes away from what was in the center.

Two graves, both empty and two piles of dirt waiting to fill them in once there was a body inside.

Your heart was lead.

‘It is never painful, for any of them, you’ll just go to sleep.’

‘But I- I’m sleeping now...am I am I d-‘

‘No, you are alive outside I promise. All you have to do is wait, wait for Ivar to accept his faults and remorse.’

‘And if he doesn’t then what? You’re saying I can’t do anything for myself? What kind of misogynistic bullshit is this? I thought Viking women had rights of their own.’ you ranted angrily as you paced, looking away from the graves.

‘Unfortunately, I wasn’t Viking, even if I did follow their beliefs I was a thrall. I had no rights before my marriage and even with that title I was still Christian.’

‘So what? Just sit here with you and wait?’

‘Yes, do you have faith that your Ivar will save you?’

‘Of course!’ you shouted so suddenly that it surprised you.

All at once it hit you how much faith you had in Ivar, the one thing you had no doubt about was that he would do anything for you.

He cared for you, even if not romantically, he cared about you; and no matter what he had to do he would save you.

Or he would die trying.

‘Then wait.’ Wilda said sweetly.

Ivar’s POV

The last three days had brought about a lot of chaos.

(Y/N)’s family was devastated by the news, her siblings were scared and her mother was in complete shambles. Miss (Y/L/N) had called your father who flew out with his wife and other kids and had arrived on the second night.

His own family had been affected as well, he had been too shaken up and crushed by guilt that he couldn’t drive so he just sat in his car feeling sorry for himself and crying harder than he had since he was a child. His brothers ended up tracking his phone and once he had calmed down he explained what had happened.

No one in the Ragnarson family could ever remember seeing Ivar this distraught before, even his parents sat aside their marital issues enough to sit in the waiting room with Ivar and (Y/N)’s family.

It was strange to see for Ivar.

His family loved each other in their own odd constipated way, but they rarely got together like this. Even Bjorn and Lagertha showed up once, apparently they all wanted to be there for him but he suspected they just couldn't get over the fact that he had a friend.

Every day there were at least four people in the waiting room for (Y/N) and one of the most constant residents was Ivar.

He hadn’t even gone to school, all he could do was sit and watch...and think about things. Think about what he had to do, because no matter what logic told him he just knew this was his fault. She was a human vegetable and was because of him.

That thought alone made his head hurt, he was constantly taking pain killers that did little to ease his headaches.

He was on his phone watching the same video he had seen a thousand times it felt like.

The footage from (Y/N)’s sleep study.

Her mother had demanded the footage, in hopes to find some kind of clue about what led to (Y/N)’s sudden seizure. She expected to see an administration of medicine or maybe even a nurse sneaking in, anything to explain it.

Unfortunately there was nothing on the film that the doctors hadn’t already explained. For about an hour she was sleeping peacefully, a bit of uncomfortable tossing and then, like a firecracker had startled her, she shot up.

Her body convulsing as she thrashed around so violently that she fell out of the bed and if the visual wasn’t upsetting enough the scream she let out after she landed on the floor was absolutely blood churning.

She was screaming loud and shrill at the top of her lungs, all the while her body never stopped shaking, her limbs were endlessly flailing. The nurses and doctors had rushed in to restrain after only forty seconds or so but it felt so much longer to Ivar.

He watched how carefully Herald administered the sedative and the way (Y/N)’s body went immediately limp. Ivar closed the video once the doctors started hurriedly checking her vitals.

Ivar sighed and stood up to stretch, the joints of his shoulder blades cracking in protest as he did so.

‘Going home for the night Ivar?’ Miss (Y/L/N) asked as she yawned in her own chair.

‘No, just going to the restroom, might get a coffee.’ he assured.

‘Grab me one please.’

‘Of course.’ Ivar said happily.

He didn’t really need to use the toilet, just needed to move around. His legs were getting sore and he needed to take his pills and he preferred to do that in private.

‘I would have killed for a treatment like that in my life.’

The color drained from his face as he looked in the mirror and saw a most unwelcomed sight.

‘I get the feeling you don’t like me much...understandable I suppose.’ the old man said from behind him.

His heart suddenly swelled with anger as he turned and swung, ready to feel his fist connect with the bearded face of this bastard, but it didn’t.

All that happened was his fist went right through him, as if he were air, with nothing solid to connect to he stumbled to regain balance.

‘I’m sure had I been alive that would have been a solid attack, were you done or do you want to waste more time? Because your Christian doesn’t have much to waste.’ the old man said tiredly.

Ivar turned around and glared, but it softened a bit when he saw something he hadn’t noticed before in his anger.

The old man was standing.

There were unpainted metal braces on the viking’s legs that seemed to be the only thing keeping him up, along with the cane he was using.

‘Why are you here? Are you going to kill her now, brain dead not enough for you? She has nothing to do with this, whatever bullshit this all is, leave her out of it!’ Ivar shouted, not caring if someone heard him yelling to himself.

‘My Christian had nothing to do with my problems either, and had she been as selfish as I was she would have refused to take part. Then I would be cursed with no hope of redemption, and both of our Christians would have had longer and probably happier lives without us.’ he said tiredly.

‘But she was soft, she felt it was her stupid Christian duty to help others over herself. Despite her resentment for me, and mine of her, she agreed to help my family and for that I want to repay my debt to her. In order to do that I need you to see me.’

‘I do see you.’ Ivar argued.

‘No. You see an old man in strange clothes but you don’t see yourself in me at all do you? It's frustrating because you are the last and most important piece to this complicated puzzle. The Christian, her job was to find us, you and me, now you have to see us. Really look at me and see yourself...she will die if you don’t and the loss of her will drive you mad.’

He felt like ripping out his hair in frustration, Ivar had never been this angry. In his youth anger was the backbone of his personality, he was angry because his legs hurt, he was angry he couldn’t talk to anyone other than his brother because he didn’t have any friends, he was always angry. But this was pure rage; red hot and scalding, he was angry because he was terrified.

‘What do you mean she will die?’

‘Her body is here where you can see it, but her essence is in the void between the nine worlds and a living person can only stay there a short while before their body lets them go completely. Please if not for me and my family or yourself do it for her.’

For her, all at once his anger left him.

‘J-just look at you?’ he repeated.

‘See me...and look into you.’

Ivar felt like fire ants were covering his entire body, his stomach felt ready to rid itself of the crappy hospital lunch he’d had earlier, his heart felt like it was frozen in ice; and all that paled in comparison to his headache.

He had only met the eyes of the old man for a few seconds and already he wanted nothing more than to look away.

For her.

Ivar dug his nails deeply into the palms of his hand as he held the man’s gaze.

‘There you go, see me...see all we have done.’

Then as if zoomed in like a scene from a movie he could see images in the blue pupils, and what he saw made him want to look away even more.

He saw...a boy with a dirty face it looked like he was trying to pull something, suddenly he felt like there was something leather in his hand and he pulled it back he felt the boy in the eye pull it back and suddenly he struck his hand out with all his might and watched as the boy in the eye was hit in the head by the blade of an axe.

‘No!’ he gasped in horror.

‘Don’t look away, no matter how terrible or how ashamed. Do not look away.’ the viking said, but his voice was different now. It wasn’t as hoarse as before it appeared to be...younger in a way.

The boy faded away and he saw something worse than the boy.

‘Sigurd?’

In the eye there was his brother, his hair long, his clothes strange and he was talking and Ivar wished more than anything that he couldn’t hear what his own brother was saying, but he did, clear as a bell in his mind was his older brother’s voice.

‘It must be hard for you now that your mummy’s dead. Knowing she was the only one who ever really loved you.’ Sigurd said in a strange dialect as he sipped something from a chalice.

Hurt and anger swelled and he felt something wet and thick touch his lip and distantly his mind realized his nose was bleeding heavily, again his arm jerked forward and watched an axe fly and plant itself in his brother's ribs.

‘Sigurd…’ he whimpered as his eyes began to overflow with tears.

If anyone came into this restroom they would see him standing still as a statue, staring into space as his nose bled like a red river and his eyes leaked like faucets.

‘Don’t look away, don’t run from what you have already done.’

‘Sigurd...Siggy I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-’ he choked on the lump in his throat, the blood from his nose leaked into his mouth as he spoke and the taste was horrid but it felt nostalgic in a horribly gruesome way.

Again the image in the eyes changed and this one was more than the image it practically sucked him in like a portal.

No longer was he in a hospital restroom; he was in a stone building and there was so much noise, loudest of all was a baby crying. He could recall this, the dream, the one he remembered in the truck that night with (Y/N) the one that made his nose bleed.

This time it was so much more, it felt like his brain was exploding in his skull, he felt an aching throb in his ears but it didn’t compare to the horror he was seeing and hearing.

He could smell burning flesh, feel the heat and as the melted gold poured into the crying man’s mouth; the screams would haunt him until his last breath.

In horror he felt his chest shake in laughter.

Just when Ivar thought he would pass out from the pain in his head he felt something he hadn’t felt in years. His legs were breaking under his weight, but that wasn’t possible, he had titanium bones, they could never break but still he felt it. Even worse so he heard that familiar cracking noise as he fell to the floor.

‘Hold strong, we both know you can take more than this, and there is so much more to see.’ now Ivar was certain the voice he heard wasn’t the voice of an old man.

That was his own voice, and he suddenly processed that he wasn’t being sucked into the eye, but the eye was moving closer to him.

No longer was the phantom standing on crude braces as an old and ragged man. Now he was crawling, using his strong arms to pull himself along, his legs dragging behind him like a useless tail.

More than anything Ivar wanted to look away and see what the face of this man looked like now but he couldn’t.

For her… for (Y/N).

He stilled himself and tried to brace himself for more pain he was sure would come.

He had been right, more pain came and no amount of preparation would have made him ready for it.

A thousand or a million images flashed in the eye going so fast it shouldn’t have been possible to follow each one, but he could. Not only did he see and comprehend each image he felt them.

He saw the light go out in a fat man’s eyes as someone was chopping into his back with an ax, he felt the muscles in his arms ache with the effort it took to stab through the muscle and bones of a man in the heat of battle.

That was when he realized that these images, these senses were all things he’d seen and experienced before.

These were his dreams.

‘Yes, you are remembering. That is good, almost done now; look at me.’

At last that horrible eye closed, and Ivar nearly collapsed in relief, but he kept just enough energy to look up at the face that carried the eye.

There was no longer a beard to hide anything from view he could see the face in front of him with complete clarity.

This truly was his face, it was like looking into a mirror but this mirror showed what he looked like before.

‘Finally...you see me.’ He smiled.

#ivar the boneless #ivar lothbrok #ivar ragnarson #ivar imagine #ivar x reader #vikings #modern!vikings #vikings imagine #Find us Series #The Seer

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ladyartemesia · 4 years

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How does one go about making friends?

That’s an interesting question, anon... I suppose it depends on whether you’re talking about on-line or in-person. I can share my experiences with both and hopefully that will provide insight...

(Though I am not really an expert, by any means, I suppose that having friends does make me at least marginally qualified to give advice about it.)

(Also - please assume that any in-person interaction I mention is carried out with ALL appropriate and applicable safety measures in place with regards to the pandemic.)

In-Person

I suppose this sort of friendship could come from school, or church, or on a team, or in a club, or at a party, or any thing where people habitually gather... I usually wait until I hear someone speak on something I know about and then chime in with thoughts and discussion. People like to be listened to. If you want to make friends, try and listen intently (I mean don’t be fake lol but if you are intent on forming a connection then effort is required obviously) and maybe ask questions that will keep them talking (if they seem interested in the topic).

There are often moments that can be shared, like a professor being too hard or some thing silly happening that can be used as conversation starters. Shared micro-experiences like this (and subsequent discussions of them) are excellent building blocks for friendship.

Honestly... being honest about trying to make connections is really good as well. You may feel uncomfortable with that and worry what people think but ... if someone were to say to you, “I would just like to make more friends,” would you look down on them? And if that person does look down on you for this type of honesty... is that really the type of person you want to be friends with anyways? We are social creatures, we should never be ashamed of our desire for connection.

It is important to recognize boundaries in a growing friendship. Adults have many demands on their time and therefore cannot always be available for each other. Respecting this is vital. Empathy in general is vital. This goes for in-person and on-line.

Inviting these individuals to shared experiences is important as well. Come over to play games, let’s go have dinner, let’s just take a walk... etc. It may feel in the beginning like you are initiating all of this, but that is OK seriously, you are the one trying to make the friend after all. My current best friend of 15 years who I would legit charge into a burning building for... she called me every day for weeks. She always asked me to hang out. I was kind of an aspiring hermit at that tender young age, but she was persistent and one day I realized I couldn’t imagine not having her there. Retrospectively I was not pulling my weight in the beginning of our friendship, but she wanted to be my friend so she put in the work. She was my maid of honor. When she struggled with unprecedented challenges after her first child, I took off days of work to be by her side. We have travelled to England and the Bahamas and a ton of states together. Her friendship is one of the most important relationships in my life. I have pulled her back from the edge and she has done the same for me and you don’t get that if someone isn’t willing to put in the work in the beginning. Not everyone is best friend material - it’s true. But some people are.

There is also, I have found, a pervasive habit among humans to seek out a “desirable” friend group. This means completely different things to every person. For some people, they want stereotypical popular friends, for others they want influential friends, for others they want friends who have idealized lifestyles, for others they want friends who have achieved things... Don’t look for anything like this. Look for commonalities instead. We both love BTS. We both love anime. We both love traveling. We both love... whatever. The desirable traits you may be hoping to collect in a friend group are illusions, constructs, and perceptions... They are nothing in the face of one beautiful connection.

On-Line

My closest friends online became my friends when no one read our work (except for Donna, but she is Donna and is therefore the exception to most rules) - as I was saying - we joined a few network and collab chats here and there and shared each other’s stories... We started to talk about our experiences... We bonded over BTS. We talked about fic writers and fics we loved. Eventually we formed our own little server on Discord.

I would definitely recommend joining network chats or joining general discord chats. There are a bunch of them floating around. Kinktae and Gukyi run one of the best ones out there called the BTSSmutHub and it’s fabulous. I have made many friends there. Everyone in there is always willing to talk. They even host game nights and I have so much fun... Truly a lovely group.

Honestly... with Donna ( @taetaewonderland ) - she messaged me and began to talk to me about my work and what she was working on and it grew from there. She was a much bigger blog, but she liked my edits and I liked her.

Ana ( @xjoonchildx ) and Lindy ( @ppersonna ) and I became friends because we were baby blogs with like 7 notes on each of our stories, but we loved each other’s work and we talked to each other about it. No one really reached out to me or wanted to be my friend back then - I had like 6 followers and I’m pretty sure 4 of them were bots... but the three of us would comment on each other’s stuff and share funny memes in our chat boxes and theorize about the drama big blogs that never spoke to us seemed to always post about. We talked about BTS and the content and how our lives were being affected by the pandemic. Donna became friends with Lindy and we merged our little group together.

Those three are special to me. Truly my friends. We have been through things now. Things I never expected, but they remain a constant. We talk every day. The other three are such social butterflies, they have other group chats that they have friends in as well, but I have always been someone who is a little more reserved in general. I love playing in the Smut Hub server now and then and I am close with a few other blogs who I have small chats or small group chats with and I value them so so much. Because... making friends really ISN’T easy. I mentioned those three ladies because they were my very first friends here and they are incredibly close to me still. (Again - to the other blogs I’m close to - I VALUE YOU SO MUCH I AM JUST TALKING ABOUT THESE THREE CAUSE THEY WERE FIRST AND I FEEL LESS SELF-CONSCIOUS ABOUT NAME DROPPING THEM 🙈🙈)

I would really just try and interact with blogs who like the things you like. Ana, Donna, Lindy and I bonded because we loved the same kind of stories... We sent in asks to each other and shared things on each other’s feed or tagged each other in games. We shared authors we liked and BTS moments we couldn’t get enough of...

Way more people know who Donna, and Lindy, and Ana are now... (though people did know Donna already lolz) They are so talented and it was only a matter of time before more people than myself realized that. I’m so proud of what they have achieved, and watching their blogs grow has been so rewarding to me. I’m so glad they put effort into being my friend. I couldn’t give them influence or share their work with a huge audience, but they never cared about that... I wish everyone in the world could find friends like mine. They are one in a billion.

Find someone who will hype you up. If you’re a creator, find someone who will be honest with you about your work, for better or for worse. If you’re just a blog looking to read and make connections then making lists and recs and reviews of great BTS content like gifs, fics, and whatever BTS puts out for us is a great way to start conversations. Don’t be afraid to interact. It is the universal signal that you want connection of some sort. Not everyone will interact back, but that is fine... I only needed one Ana - one Lindy - one Donna... they were more than enough. If someone is willing to interact with you, then they probably want connection too. I’m so glad that those three didn’t look at me and think “she isn’t really a very impressive blog” and just brush me off.

#on friendship #my angels #anon anon

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god7072therescue · 4 years

Text

Mysme Fluff Week 2020 Day 3/ Household Chores

Hello everyone!! I know its been a loooong while, but I am wanting to dip my toes back into writing and reviving this blog! I thought the perfect way to do this is to contribute to the amazing fluff of @mmfluffweek. We all need this right now, right? So here is one of my contributions to this hella cool project!

The fic is about Zen cleaning his apartment when MC is about to move in. Hope You guys like it!

You can find my master list here!

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Zen wore a large grin on his face as he stared at the time on his cell phone. It was almost midnight, early in the evening for him. A picture of MC and himself holding one another in a playful embrace let out a bright light among the dark space around him. He watched a minute pass before he turned his phone off and leaned back into his chair with a content sigh.

Tomorrow was finally the day MC would be moving into his apartment. Not just staying the night, nor staying for a weekend, but actually living with him. She would never have to pry herself away from his too tight hugs when she would have to return home again. The thought made Zen feel giddy, almost like he was back in high school reading through theater scripts for the first time.

His eyes scanned over the apartment, trying to imagine the little touches she would add as she made herself at home. How many of her paintings would she hang on the walls? How much of his and her stuff would have to be put in storage so the two could live in a harmonious space? Whatever the answer was, he knew it would be the best because MC would finally be living with him. This would become their home.

However, the longer Zen inspected the apartment, he began to notice some aspects that would need to change when MC arrived. Has his place always been this messy? There were empty beer cans laying on the ground along with sheet mask wrappers from the nights before. Were those crumbs on the carpet always there when MC stayed over? Dust was on almost every surface, especially on his dinosaur of a computer. Would he finally be able to get rid of his outdated computer? MC had jokingly mentioned that she would be bringing her PC with her to replace Zen’s relic of a computer. He pouted playfully at the time but was secretly relieved because damn the thing was terribly slow.

A rising feeling of urgency began to rush through him. Did he expect his jagiya to come live in this? This environment was no place for MC! MC deserved to arrive to a spotless apartment to create her new home with him. He called her his princess on a daily basis, but this new palace is definitely not worthy of her. As he pondered the thought longer, he came to wonder how in the hell MC dealt with this constantly cluttered space. He could use his busy lifestyle as an excuse, but MC was just as busy as he was and still managed to keep her apartment decent at least.

Zen sprung to his feet in a slight panic as he realized just how little time he had to clean the apartment before her early morning arrival. If he worked efficiently and effectively, he could manage to make the apartment bearable. This meant Zen could not afford to find items he thought were lost and stand around to reminisce about them. He threw his ivory hair into a ponytail as he began to make a mental list of what to focus on first.

Thus, began the long evening of Zen’s cleaning journey. His journey consisted of and is not limited to:

Making a valiant effort to avoid nostalgia but failing miserably every time he would find a lost photo or ticket stub

Wondering how one man could consume so much beer in a short amount of time

Quickly throwing out cigarette boxes found in mysterious places

Being amazed at how much of his and MC’s hair was found lying around

Throwing out all of his sauces because they were expired

Hastily washing, drying, and folding laundry

Putting the dinosaur computer out of its misery

Creating a coin jar for all of the loose change he found

Cursing Yoosung for the amount of potato chip bags and crumbs under the cushion of the couch

Sweeping, mopping, and vacuuming in a near sprint

Tripping over the vacuum cord multiple times

The bathroom

By the time Zen considered his cleaning activities dealt with, he collapsed into clean bedsheets at 5:00 AM. He was startled awake by a loud knock on his apartment door. The sudden, loud noise caused him to jolt out of bed with a loud curse. “Hyun? Are you awake?” The familiar voice soothed the panic in Zen’s chest. It was his MC at the door, waiting to be let in one last time before she had a key of her very own. Just the thought of it brought a lopsided smile to Zen’s face. “Give me a moment, jagiya!” He had his teeth brushed, deodorant on, and a baseball cap on his head in record time before he greeted his jagiya. He laughed lightly when he heard the light pings of a mobile rhythm game MC had played around him a good bit. When he opened the door, he reveled in the sight of her angelic face scrunched up in determination. “Now you give me a moment, “She muttered in sheer concentration, “I’m about to beat this level.” He leaned against the doorway as he watched her. She looked ready to put in some work based on the outfit she chose for the day. Her hair was thrown under a baseball cap, an old paint stained T-shirt he’d seen her take naps in, and a pair of his old grey sweatpants she took from him early in their relationship had never looked so beautiful on her. MC let out a soft “yes” in victory then quickly put her phone in her pocket. Her eyes looked joyous when she lifted her head to speak with him, but they quickly turned concerned when she saw the dark circles under Zen’s eyes. “Zenny, did you get any sleep last night?” She brought her hand up to softly cup his cheek, “You look exhausted.” Zen was caught up peering deeply into the depths of her warm eyes before giving MC a sheepish smile, “I was too excited to sleep.” That was not a lie. He just didn’t want to tell her he spent the entire night frantically cleaning. Her face was slightly flushed in worry, but all of the cleaning he had done the night before was all worth it. Her being happy and comfortable was what mattered most to him. Losing a few hours of sleep was a small price to pay.

His eyes roamed over her face to memorize exactly how she looked before him. This was an important milestone for the two of them, he wanted to make sure he captured the moment. Maybe they could take a picture as a memento if she was not too tired after this.

Over the course of their relationship, Zen wondered if she could get anymore beautiful with each passing day. Today was not an exception. Her face was bare, probably because she knew she would be sweating during the day. She had always been self-conscious without make up, but he could not understand why. She was stunning regardless. He had always told her he would find his jagiya gorgeous whether she wore makeup or not. She looked at him with a glowering expression before standing on her tiptoes to give him a quick peck on the lips. The feeling of her soft lips caused him to lose his train of thought for a moment, so much so, he missed the bill of her baseball cap forcing his own to fall off of his head. She giggled as she leaned back to see his bed head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.” The timbre of her voice was playful as she picked up his hat for him. She handed it back with a content sigh. The look on her face was one he recognized from their time together. This relaxed expression was what she wore when she was curled up on the couch reading her favorite book with a lit candle on the nightstand beside her. This expression meant she felt comfortable. At home.

He took the hat from her gently and placed it back on his head. A newfound energy was flowing through him as he looked down at her serene, beautiful face. He was ready to experience the scenarios he had imagined of her making a place in his home and it looked like she was too. “You ready to start our little adventure, jagiya?” He held out his hand to her as he pushed himself from the doorframe. She took his hand in hers and squeezed it lightly, almost in an unspoken promise. “I’ve been looking forward to this for months, Hyun.”

Hearing his name from her lips filled his chest with pride as he began to lead them down the hallway. “Then let’s make it happen, jagiya.”

With the combined determination of the couple, they were able to move all of her belongings into the apartment by late afternoon. Zen made a point to carry as many boxes as he could to show MC how strong her prince is. He also didn’t want her to overexert herself; his princess deserved to be taken care of.

Now thoroughly exhausted, Zen sat on the couch as he watched MC unpack her belongings while humming to herself. Little trinkets she had collected over the years were piling up on Zen’s coffee table as she organized them by which room they would be in. She looked as if she was already at home. The domestic aura was enough for him to let his mind wander towards the future. Is this what having a family meant?

MC had always had this effect on him, no matter where they were or what they were doing. He didn’t feel the constant need to defend and fight for the right to be loved as he did when he lived with his parents. Since the beginning, MC had always supported Zen and made him feel valued. Hell, after one week she had made him feel more loved than he had ever felt in his life.

This milestone felt like a second chance at finding and building his own family with her.

He was pulled from his thoughts when MC plopped on the couch beside him, pulled her legs underneath her, and leaned into his side. She rested her head on his shoulder as he immediately placed his arm around her.

“Did you clean the apartment for me, Hyun?” Her voice was laced with appreciation as she lifted her head slightly so she could study his face.

His cheeks flushed slightly in embarrassment as he pulled her closer to him. “Well of course, jagiya, my princess deserves the absolute best.” She kissed his cheek before nestling her head back on his shoulder. “It looks wonderful, Hyun. Thank you.” He felt her relax into his side as she looked around the apartment herself. There were still many boxes that needed to be unpacked and almost all of the rooms needed to be rearranged, but they both knew it would all be worth it in the end.

She took his hand in hers and began to idly stroke the inside of his palm. The feeling of her fingers grazing against his skin brought him a sense of peace. He made a soft noise of approval and placed a small kiss on the top of her head. This was exactly what Zen imagined every day since the two had started dating. Just the two of them enjoying each other’s presence, not thinking of when one would have to leave the other.

“Let’s have a relaxing night tonight, Hyun,” MC said in a tranquil voice, “The boxes will be here tomorrow.” Zen’s heart melted at her suggestion. “That sounds absolutely perfect, MC.” The evening consisted of face masks, take out, massages, and a movie marathon before the two dozed off in the each other’s arms on the couch. Just as Zen was dozing off, thoughts of MC feeling like home drifted through his mind.

#mmfluffweek #mmfluffweek2020 #zen hyun ryu #zen x mc #mysme fluff week 2020 #my work

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falseroar · 5 years

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Goretober Day 22: Broken Glass

((Day 22 of @purple-anxiety-blog‘s Goretober prompts. Took a bit of liberty with this one, mainly so I could use it as a follow-up for Day 17: Chains, aka the one where Y/N gets abducted by a serial killer. Hey, remember that one story I wrote where the DA took over for Y/N for a night, because technically they share a same body but have different consciousnesses/memories? Yeah, that kind of comes up. Also, this one is rough, even though I tried to skim over the worst parts.

Warnings: Mainly implications here. Stabbing/threat of knife, torture, person bound against will and drugged, broken bones, attempted murder))

John waited for the scream to end before speaking again. “You’re not going to go quiet on me now, are you Y/N? I’m sure you must know something about Abe and the other man.”

He grabbed you and pulled down again, causing the chains supporting your weight to send a fresh fire down your arms and shoulders. “Or do you want a little taste of what I’m going to do to you first? Because after the hell they put me through, I have so many ideas what to do with Abe’s precious partner before he gets here.”

You could barely string two thoughts together, thanks to whatever the detective had put into your coffee. Despite the pain, despite your fear, it still pressed down on your skull, threatening to pull you back under again. As much as you wanted to escape this nightmare, there might be no waking up again.

You took a breath of the stale, oily air in the dark warehouse and gasped as the blade in John’s hand rasped against your ribs, in time to the fresh spasm of pain lancing through your back with just the effort it took to breathe. Despite the darkness, broken only by a light outside, you could see the black edges of your vision creeping in, threatening to drown out everything else.

“Abe—” You gasped as the blade found you again, unable to finish the thought.

But John was more than willing to pick it up for you. “Will come and save you? Please, I’ve seen his track record. As for the other one, well, I’ve got a few safeguards. Ever heard of a dead man’s switch?”

You didn’t dare speak again, and John didn’t wait long for a response. “Let’s just say, if I were to suddenly stop breathing, well, you won’t live long enough to know what happens next. Not that any of this ends with you walking out of here alive.”

John grabbed your shirt and pulled you closer, the chain overhead rattling in the darkness. “They took everything from me, they tortured me and then left me in the hands of my former colleagues to rot away the rest of my life.”

Were you supposed to feel sorry for him? Exposed for the murderer that he was? He killed one of the other officers, his own partner Sam had spent 72 hours missing and he looked you right in the eye and told you he could have stopped it at any time. And you’d comforted him when he cried to you about it, no clue what he really meant.

The pain began to recede along with everything else around you, even the point of the knife becoming a distant concern as your control and consciousness slipped away. Not to the drugs, not to the pain, but to a deep, bottomless well of anger.

“Thing is, I have nothing to lose,” John said with a laugh, a humorless sound closer to tears or a snarl than an actual laugh. “But they still have so much left to take away, and we only have so much time to do it in. So if you’re not going to play along—”

“…I’ll talk.”

The rasp of a heavy object being dragged across the concrete floor filled the silence before a box of some kind beneath the feet eased the weight on the chains overhead. John stepped up onto his own platform, putting him on the same level as the face before him. If he heard a change in the voice or sensed anything different about the person hanging before him, John made no sign of it. Instead he smiled, teeth and blade catching the little light in the warehouse as he spoke. “What was that?”

Sam had been defiant to the end. Others before them had tried to reason with the killer, to plea for mercy where there was none.

“I’ll tell you everything.”

The District Attorney would speak, and give him a name for everything he would learn to fear.

---

John paused and sighed.

“Again?”

There was no response from the body hanging in front of him, and after a moment’s consideration, he reared back and kicked the box out beneath their feet. A strained gasp erupted from the District Attorney as a fresh wave of pain lanced through their shoulders, feet desperately reaching for anything to take the weight off.

Even these movements were sluggish. Just as John was considering how best to infuse some new, if short, life into this little game, a clang came from a distant corner of the warehouse. He could hear the hushed whisper cut off too soon and knew there was someone else here now.

Finally.

“Didn’t hurry, did you?” he called out, his voice echoing in the large space. “I was starting to think your little friend and I would have the whole time to ourselves. What about you, Y/N?”

The only response from them was a raspy breath. Throat raw and dry from talking for as long as John was willing to listen to their little ghost story, and then after that from all of the screaming. He really should have paced himself better, but they reminded him so much of Sam. It made him want to snap their neck.

The crack of iron striking iron was the response from the darkness, and John chuckled. Planning and setting those traps had been a good use of his time after all.

And then the second trap triggered, the crash of barrels slipping their bonds and banging on every step down from the upper balcony until they spilled their contents all over the floor. The smell of gasoline filled the air, but John saw no sign of a body among those barrels.

He did, however, hear the crash of a steel girder striking the floor, just above the main entrance, and then another trap went off behind him.

Just as John spun around to face the detective, or perhaps the other man, the Host they had called him, there was a snap and crackle of electricity before light flooded the warehouse, temporarily blinding him. Without hesitation, John lashed out and hit the nearby switch that sent the conveyor overhead into life. With a jolt, the chains began to move down the line, taking their burden with them toward the large machine that stood between yourself and the incinerator. After all, scrap metal needed to be condensed down before it reached the fire, hence the metal plates that clanged together at regular intervals. It didn’t take much imagination to consider what it would do to a human body.

With one hand on the waist at roughly eye level, John followed along, waiting for his eyes to adjust even as he called out in a singsong voice, “Oh, A-abe, come out and pla-ay! Or at least say goodbye to one more partner before they go.”

A bullet ricocheted off of the warehouse floor near John’s feet and he looked up at where it came from, in time to see the familiar face ducking behind a crate. Even with his not yet fully adjusted eyes, he could see the detective trying to stealth his way closer, while still sticking out like the fool he was.

“Not sure you want to do that, Abe,” John said. “Shooting me would be so easy, but, well, if my heart rate stops then so does your precious partner’s. The signal connecting me to the device dies, so do they. I let go of this button, and you let go of any chance you have of saving them.”

With that, he raised his hand, showing off the band on his wrist, and the wire running up to his thumb. Its mate was on your back, where even such a small explosive would be enough to finish the rest.

Which is why John could only laugh when another bullet missed his face and uselessly struck the machine behind him. Even accounting for his movement backwards, the shot was awful.

“I don’t know how I could have made that any clearer! Do you want to kill Y/N that badly? Or do you not know how to do anything but shoot at your problems?”

Really, he had expected more, even from Abe.

“Signal acquired.”

John lurched around, sure that he had heard the voice of the Host, but there was no one there.

The body on the chains moved slightly, and behind him John heard the dry, cracked voice, although with the ring of the gun still echoing in his ears it took him a second to recognize the sound.

They were laughing.

John turned back to face them, the stained knife in his other hand turning up to stop that sound, to do it while the worthless detective watched—

Only for his hand to stop short, a grip so tight around his wrist that he felt something snap as the knife fell to the ground. Cold seeped in to his body, starting at the wrist and flooding his veins as the light in the warehouse began to seep away, drained by the growing darkness of the…thing standing behind him.

John could not see what held him, not clearly, but he could hear the whispers, the crack and groan of something not fully contained as the very air strained and flickered with energy.

“Da—” he started, only to scream as the broken wrist twisted behind him.

Over his shuddering breaths, the figure behind him leaned in close and whispered, “If we wanted you dead, we would have brought Wilford. He, at least, knows the meaning of the word mercy. I cannot say the same for myself.”

John screamed again and tried to pull away from the spreading shadows, his thumb feverishly pressing the switch but with no reaction. He glanced at your body, saw Abe lifting you up as another man, much like the monster behind him but so very not, pulled the chains around your wrists off of the hook overhead.

Catching his stare, the android removed the small device taped to your back with a smile. Despite John’s efforts, even as his ripped his switch off with his teeth and let it drop without a contact to keep it going, the light on the small explosive continued to blink, very much armed and ready.

A light that blinked in unison with the ‘G’ on the android’s shirt, as he turned over the device with a professional curiosity. “Crude, but effective. Assuming, of course, the signal to detonate is not hijacked and mimicked.”

“John Booth flails desperately, searching for any escape as Darkiplier’s aura surrounds him, but there is no release from the darkness. There will be no timer to countdown the end of his punishment,” said a voice he was already intimately familiar with, the narration that had mocked and tormented him once before but now sounded empty and tired.

John’s screams continued, but Abe could care less as he held his partner’s body, as his legs gave out beneath him and he sank to the ground, tears streaming freely down his face.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” he repeated over and over again, barely sensible of the android leaning overhead to scan your injuries.

“Y/N is still alive but has lost a lot of blood. Muscle and nerve damage also detected. Dr. Iplier has been notified and is making preparations for treatment now.”

He could hear the Host and Dark talking, arguing maybe, but if there was any blame to go around Abe had no doubt exactly where it lay as he apologized over and over again.

“Tried to…protect…”

The voice was so faded that Abe was sure he was the only one who heard it, and even then it took a second to register. “Yeah, yeah, we tried to protect you, but we should have told you—”

They shook their head slightly, but even that small movement was enough to make a shudder run through their body. “Thought…could keep them…safe…”

They took a shuddering breath and for the first time their eyes flickered open. Abe saw the sharp edge of broken glass, the brief, painful anger in the District Attorney’s eyes, felt the shard pierce his heart as he realized what had happened. How the District Attorney, the one who remembered, had stepped in to protect you from another memory that could splinter and shatter any mind or soul.

“I was wrong.”

But broken glass was still fragile, could break again just as easily.

He felt the twitch in their shoulders as they tried and failed to reach out with a torn and numb hand as he pulled them closer. Felt the sobs shaking their body as Dark’s aura spread to take everyone back to the house, to the infirmary for help too late in coming, the Host silent as his narration failed to provide comfort.

Felt their tears become yours before the pain and drugs overwhelmed you once again. Felt your breath as you whispered his name.

Felt his heart break.

#markiplier #fanfiction #wkm district attorney #wkm detective #serial killer #torture #blood #broken glass #angst #i'm so sorry

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crystalstar8 · 4 years

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Guys! Guess what????

there’s a novelization of the Devil’s Rain screenplay but it was never published. HOWEVER. Someone leaked it online and I’ll be posting it here on this blog for everyone. So, without further ado, here is it.

“Devil’s Rain”

Jungkook looked to his right, seeing the side profiles of the other club members. Club...It wasn’t a club. It was a cult. Jungkook knew, well, he knew from the very beginning. But this...he wasn’t sure if he could follow through. He wasn’t sure he could back out though, either.

It was a Wednesday, the day Jungkook was approached by his classmate. The guy had always piqued Jungkook’s interest, being tall and thin with dyed hair and an incredibly pretty face, always carrying around a Polaroid. He didn’t even know the guy’s name, there were a lot of people in the lecture hall. But then one day, he approached Jungkook and introduced himself.

“My name is Taehyung,” he said, holding out a hand. It was after class. Students were rushing out of the double doors at the back of the room, ignoring the professor who was yelling about the readings they had to do over Thanksgiving break. Jungkook knew he was among the majority who was definitely not going to be doing the readings over break.

“Jungkook,” he replied, shaking the guy’s hand. Taehyung gave him a cute, boxy smile. For some reason, it made Jungkook uneasy. He ignored that part of himself as he heard Taehyung out.

“I’m a part of this club in the evenings and we need more members for it to keep going,” he said. “I think you’d really like it. It’s really fun.”

Jungkook felt a sinking feeling in his stomach from the moment he got the invite all the way to Friday night, the day of the meeting. Trepidation twisted in his chest as Jungkook followed the handwritten instructions Taehyung had given to him in class on Wednesday. He followed the little map all the way past the water tower and into the woods. He’s never been into these woods alone this late at night. It was dark by now. Luckily, he had thought to bring a flashlight since it was the only light source leading him through the brush. After a while of walking, a noise hit his ears. It was voices, a lot of voices. Jungkook followed the sound until the light of a fire illuminated the woods up ahead. When he finally got to the clearing, he was shocked to see so many people around a massive fire pit, all wearing dark robes. It was creepy, but also kind of cool.

One of the people around the fire broke away and approached Jungkook, removing his hood to reveal a pretty face and dyed hair.

“You made it!” said Taehyung, his cute smile beaming. “Come on, we’ll get you initiated.”

Ignoring the tiny voice in the back of his head telling him that this was a bad idea, Jungkook took Taehyung’s hand and let him lead the way.

Now, weeks later, as Jungkook stood in line, the high priest waiting for him to don his hood and mask, he couldn’t help but feel he had gotten himself into a huge mess. The courtyard they stood in was old, abandoned long ago but reclaimed for the purposes of this cult. Pale pillars rose up all around them, closing in a massive stone platform of cracked tiles. Dry vines wrapped around the pillars and emerged from the cracks in the tiles, lifeless just like the trees peeking between the pillars and arches. A thick autumn fog sat along the ground, heavy and wet, gliding past twigs and pillars and legs. It was beautiful in a goth kind of way, but Jungkook hadn’t thought of it’s beauty for a while. Not since he started participating in the rituals which took place here.

The high priest cleared his throat, his beady eyes boring into Jungkook. Jungkook gulped and pulled his hood up, then placed the white mask over his face.

“The Dark Lord has promised to keep his wrath at bay for another year,” the high priest began. “In return, his merciful holiness demands a sacrifice!”

The man clapped his hands twice, the sound bouncing off the stone around them. Two people emerged from behind him, taking their places on either side of the sacred altar. The altar was a carved slab of stone, thorny vines twisting around the base. One person was a beautiful but terrifying woman with long dark hair and piercing eyes. She was dressed in a long red gown. It was revealing; Jungkook thought that she had to be cold. The fall air was anything but warm. The other person was a grotesque man dressed in similar dark robes as everyone else. Gripped in his outstretched hand were the back feet of a struggling rabbit. It writhed and squeaked in his grasp, but the man paid no mind to it.

The priest clapped his hands again and fire burst from the torches all around the pavilion. He began chanting as the robed man placed the rabbit onto the altar. The woman pulled a black dagger from the folds of her gown. She lifted the dagger high into the air.

Jungkook closed his eyes before she could let the blade drop. He heard the blade cut through flesh then click against the stone. He suppressed his flinch. No matter how many rituals like this one Jungkook has been to, he still couldn’t get used to the sacrifices. They were cruel and the thought of them made his stomach roll. He didn’t want to open his eyes and see the mess on the altar, so he kept them closed as the priest concluded the ritual. When it was all over and the meeting was done, Jungkook finally opened his eyes, keeping them on the ground as he took the mask and hood off.

“I don’t think you should go to that club of yours anymore,” said Benedict Cumberbatch, Jungkook’s father. Jungkook was just coming home from the sacrifice. It was late, nearing one in the morning, and Jungkook wanted nothing more than to shower and go to bed. His father, who was sitting in the living room presumably waiting up for him, had other plans though. “You come home way too late, even on school nights. Your mood has changed too.”

“My mood?” asked Jungkook. He was too tired to argue, but he truly hasn’t noticed a difference in himself.

“You’re always tired and crabby,” said Benedict Cumberbatch.

“I don’t think-”

“You snapped at your mother last week,” Benedict Cumberbatch interrupted. “I’ve never seen you snap at anyone before, let alone your mother. What happened to my mild tempered boy?”

Jungkook hung his head. He remembered the incident. It was the morning after one of their sacrifices. The priest had sacrificed a stray cat that night and the ritual went on until two in the morning. Jungkook was dead tired by the time he got home but he stayed awake throwing up, the image of the cat on the altar burning into his mind. The next morning, he was awoken by his alarm and he dreaded going to class and seeing Taehyung. His mother had grilled him about his declining grades before he left and he had snapped at her. He felt guilty immediately after, but he was already out the door and he hasn’t apologized to her since.

Jungkook thought about telling his dad just then. He wondered if his dad could help him escape the cult. His dad would no doubt help his son if asked. But would he even be able to do anything against this cult? They were dangerous, and the magic they used was real, there was no doubt about that. He decided that the worst thing he could do was endanger his family.

“Sorry dad, I didn’t realize,” said Jungkook. “I’ll stay away from the club for a while and apologize to mom. I never meant to worry you guys.”

“We can’t help but worry, sport,” said Benedict Cumberbatch. “You’re our son.”

Benedict Cumberbatch got up and hugged his son. Jungkook went upstairs and fell into bed, falling asleep almost immediately.

“Hey do you have a minute?” someone called to Jungkook as he packed his backpack after lecture. He glanced up to see a pink haired boy approaching him. It was a small class, not many people took film classes at this university, so he knew the kid’s name. Well, “kid” probably wasn’t the right word. Jungkook knew he was the only freshman here.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asked. Jimin sat down in the aisle seat, blocking Jungkook from getting out.

“I recognize you,” Jimin said in a quiet voice. By now, the class and professor had cleared out of the room, leaving the two boys alone.

Jungkook knitted his eyebrows and said, “I mean, we’ve been in this class together all semester…”

“No, I mean,” Jimin shook his head and started over. “You’re in the cult. I saw you the other day after the rabbit ritual.”

Jungkook’s eyes widened. He stood up from his seat.

“Wait! Please,” said Jimin, his eyes pleading. “I need help. I can’t do it anymore. I need to get out of the cult but I don’t know how. I can tell you want out too. Maybe we can help each other.”

Jungkook thought about it. Jimin could be tricking him. If the cult found out that Jungkook was trying to escape, they might do something like this to trap him. But with one look at Jimin, Jungkook could see the desperation in his eyes. He really did want to get out.

“What do we have to do?” asked Jungkook.

“I’m not sure yet,” said Jimin. “I’m afraid if we just stop going to the meetings, they’ll find us. They know where everyone lives. We’d almost have to run away.”

“But they might do something to our families,” said Jungkook. “And they’ll probably be able to find us if we run.”

“True...maybe we could talk to the priest about leaving,” said Jimin. “If we leave honestly, maybe there won’t be any hard feelings.”

“Do you think he’d actually let us leave?” asked Jungkook.

“I don’t know,” said Jimin. “I really don’t know what to do.”

“We’ll think on it. Here’s my phone number. Call me if you figure something out,” said Jungkook, writing his number down in the corner of a page in his notebook. He tore it out and handed it to Jimin.

“Thank you,” said Jimin.

Benedict Cumberbatch knew that his son lied to him when several weeks passed and nothing changed. Jungkook was still coming home late and his grades were still dropping. Not to mention, he seemed to fall deeper and deeper into his depression. Benedict Cumberbatch decided to take matters into his own hands. He needed to figure out where his son was going every night.

So one day, after Jungkook left the house late at night, Benedict Cumberbatch followed him. He followed his son all the way past the water tower at the edge of town and into the forest. It was already dark, it had been getting darker earlier in the day, and Benedict Cumberbatch struggled to follow his son without making too much noise. Jungkook led him deep into the woods until they reached an old, abandoned stone pavilion. Jungkook went over to a slab of stone that looked like a tomb, sliding the lid over and descending into a dark stairwell. Benedict Cumberbatch waited a few minutes before following. But before he could get to the stone tomb, a force hit the back of his head and his vision went black.

Jungkook took his position in the third row of pews. The ritual tonight was going to take place in the unholy underground church of Satanic mass. It was a very dark, very old church, the pews ancient and carved. Thorny vines twisted around the pillars and dried leaves blew in from the drafty rafters. Fire blazed in the braziers, lighting up the podium at the front of the church. In front of the podium was a massive stone altar. Behind the podium, a stained glass window rose up. The designs depicted a scene of children kneeling before a goat headed, multi-horned Satan. The light of the full moon shined through the window, making Satan’s eyes look as though they were glowing.

A robed figure, smaller than Jungkook, slid into the pew and sat next to him. The figure peeked over at Jungkook from under his hood. It was Jimin. He looked nervous and upset.

“I didn’t call you because I didn’t want my mom listening over the line. But I’m thinking about running away,” said Jimin. “You can come with me. We can change our names and get jobs in another city far away from here…”

“Jimin, we can’t just run away,” said Jungkook. “We have lives here. What about your parents? They’re going to wonder what happened to you.”

“I’m eighteen. I can leave if I want to. I’ll send them a message from wherever we end up,” said Jimin. “I just...I have a feeling the priest is going to try to summon a powerful demon soon and I really don’t want to know what he’s going to sacrifice to make that happen. I also really don’t want to be here if he succeeds.”

“If something like that happens, we’ll just run out of here,” said Jungkook. “It’s okay, there’s no way he’s going to be able to do something like that anyway.”

“Servants of the night! Hear me!” the priest bellowed, his voice echoing throughout the church. The man stood behind the podium. He wore a horned goat headdress, charms and sigils hanging from the horns. “Tonight, we shall feast on the blood of youth! Our merciful dark lord has spoken to me. He has granted me the power to summon a servant of darkness to do our bidding and grant us the gift of youth.”

Many of the members cheered and shouted. Jungkook looked around but he didn’t see Taehyung anywhere.

“We shall need a vessel and a sacrifice,” the priest continued. “A human sacrifice!”

Jungkook felt Jimin tense beside him.

The priest clapped his hands twice and two people emerged from behind him. One was the woman in red. The other was...Taehyung. He had a small smile on his face and a strappy, leather harness over his dark clothes. Several robed figures also emerged from the shadows, carrying a limp man in their arms. As soon as they laid the man onto the altar, Jungkook shot up from his seat, his eyes wide with shock.

“Dad!” he shouted.

“Sit down, boy!” the priest boomed. Benedict Cumberbatch laid still on the stone slab, eyes closed and head lolled to the side. Jungkook hesitantly sat back down, gripping the edge of the pew with white knuckles.

“This man, Benedict Cumberbatch, will act as our vessel,” the priest said. “We must now have a sacrifice. Park Jimin!”

Jimin’s head snapped up to face the priest. His eyes were wide and terrified.

“Please approach the altar,” the priest said. Jimin shook his head and leaned further into Jungkook’s side. The priest clapped his hands once and the robed figures who carried Benedict Cumberbatch to the altar went to Jimin, forcibly lifting him from the pew. Jungkook tried to pull him back but more robed members held him back.

“Jimin!” he shouted. The robed men carried Jimin to the altar, chaining him to the stone right beside Benedict Cumberbatch. Jungkook could hear him whimpering and pleading with the priest to spare him, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. The woman in red snaked her arms over Jimin’s shoulders and chest, pulling his robe off. Taehyung moved his hands from behind his back, revealing the black, sacrificial dagger in his grip. He used the dagger to tear Jimin’s shirt open then began carving an upside down pentagram into his chest. Jimin’s screams echoed throughout the church. Jungkook couldn’t bear to witness this.

“Please! Please don’t hurt him! We can use a different sacrifice!” Jungkook shouted, but no one paid him any mind except the men holding him back.

Once Taehyung was finished carving the pentagram, he stepped back, allowing the priest to approach the altar. He raised his hands and began chanting. Lightning struck outside, flashing through the window. The boom from the thunder shook the entire church. Taehyung handed him the dagger. The man raised the dagger high in the air, still chanting in latin.

The dagger came down and pierced Jimin’s heart.

“No!” Jungkook screamed. Another flash of lightning lit up the room, illuminating Benedict Cumberbatch’s unconscious body. His body continued to glow even after the lightning faded away. Jungkook watched in horror as his father’s body began to convulse violently on the altar, a red glow emanating from his mouth and eyes. Then he stopped moving all at once, the red glow disappearing. The church went silent. Benedict Cumberbatch sat up slowly and then turned to face the pews. But it was no longer Benedict Cumberbatch. His face and body melted away, revealing a different figure. This one was shorter, with snow white skin and black hair. The man raised his head, revealing a delicate face with coal shadows around his eyes, which were completely black.

“Tell us your name, demon!” the priest shouted.

The demon smiled.

“Suga,” he said. His voice was deep and soft, but it seemed to carry.

The priest knelt down, followed by the woman in red and Taehyung. The rest of the cult members knelt as well. Jungkook was forced to his knees by the men holding onto him. As soon as the demon began speaking, Jungkook took the opportunity to crawl past the pews and sneak over to the secret exit tunnel.

As soon as he was in the clear, he took off running. He made it to the stairs, which he took two at a time to get outside. Once the cool night air hit his face, Jungkook gasped and tried to catch his breath. Every time he blinked, he saw Jimin on the altar, the knife sticking up out of his chest. He couldn’t stop though. He tore the robe from his body and ran into the forest.

The light of the full moon was the only light peaking through the bare branches of the trees. Jungkook stumbled through the woods until he reached a road. The road was only two lanes and wound through the woods, leading Jungkook to a small gas station on the side of the road. It was lit by a single street lamp and a light above the Qwik Mart door. There were two cars parked in front of the small building: a small silver Honda and a rusty red pickup truck. Four figures were leaned up against the brick wall beside the pickup truck, drinking from cans and laughing loudly.

WIth trepidation, Jungkook approached the group, breathing heavily and leaning on the truck once he got there.

“Whoa, dude, you okay?” one of them asked. Jungkook looked up and finally got a good look at the four strangers. They surprisingly weren’t strangers, but people Jungkook recognised from some of his classes. Chelle, a beautiful dark skinned woman stood beside a tall man with dark hair and glasses; RM was what he went by, from his biology class. Beside him was a strikingly handsome man, Jin, RM’s lab partner in biology. The last boy was almost famous in town...or rather, infamous. Jimmy K, the captain of the university football team and the hero of many adventure filled stories told around the small town.

All four of them wore leather jackets covered in patches, white t-shirts underneath and jeans, cuffed at the bottom.

“I need help,” said Jungkook. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Hey man, take a deep breath,” said Jimmy K, moving forward to put his hands on Jungkook’s shoulders. Jungkook sucked in a few deep breaths. “Now tell me what happened.”

“It’s a cult, I escaped but they might be after me,” Jungkook rambled. “They kidnapped my dad and he got possessed by a demon. They k-killed…”

Jungkook’s voice caught on a sob as Jimin’s screams rang through his mind.

“They killed Jimin,” he said.

“Okay I don’t know who that is but this sounds serious,” said Jimmy K. “Let’s head to my house and we’ll figure out a plan of action.”

The four of them guided Jungkook into the backseat of the pickup truck, then they piled in behind him.

Jimmy K drove them down out of the woods and into town. Jungkook’s eyes felt heavy as he leaned against the window. He finally felt the car stop and he opened his eyes. The car was parked in the driveway of a disconnected garage, a modest ranch off to the side. They exited the pickup and Jimmy K led the way into the garage through the side door. When he flicked the lights on, Jungkook stared with wide eyes at the sight before him.

Records covered the walls behind a pool table off to one side of the garage. A couch sat against the back wall, three guitars leaned up against the armrest. Next to that was a drum set, partially taken apart. The other side of the garage held a black 1952 Mustang.

“Is that a 1952 Mustang?” asked Jungkook.

“Yeah, it’s my dad’s,” said Jimmy K. “He bought it new when him and my mom got married. He said if I could fix the engine, he’d let me have it.”

“Have you fixed it yet?” asked Jungkook.

“Nah, I haven’t had time,” he said.

“Hey Jimmy K, where’s our cassettes?” Jin asked from the corner of the garage where he was rummaging through some boxes.

“Up on the shelf,” Jimmy K said as he sat down on the couch. Jungkook sat down beside him. Chelle and RM sat beside Jungkook. “So tell us about this cult.”

To the soundtrack of Nothin’ but Pure Funk, Jungkook spent the next hour and a half telling them all about how he got into the cult, the sacrifices, trying to escape and poor, poor Jimin. The five of them stayed up throughout the night, making plans to take down this evil cult.

“The rain shall come and bring horror upon you.”

The voice was deeper and smoother than anything Father Borgnine had ever heard before. It spoke directly into his mind, as if he were being possessed.

“No! Please, we did as you asked! What went wrong?” Father Borgnine asked.

“A member of your council has been led astray,” Satan rumbled. “He wishes to leave.”

“No, i-it couldn’t be! We are loyal only to you my lord!”

“You have failed me.”

“There must be something I can do to appease you my lord!”

“Perhaps there is something. But if you fail me again, the rain will come…”

Priest Borgnine fell to his knees as the voice faded away, the heavy rumble and pressure leaving the room. He sighed into the silence, unsure of what to do. He thought there was only one traitor among them, Jimin, who he had taken care of in the last ritual. How had he not recognized Jungkook’s traitorous ways?

“Jungkook is still out there, plotting ways to take you down,” a whisper found his ear. Priest Borgnine turned and leapt to his feet. Hobi stood there, hands behind his back, red tinted aviators sitting on his nose, and a smirk across his face.

“You,” Priest Borgnine growled. “I thought I-”

“Banished me?” Hobi finished. “I played along with your cute ritual for a while, but when you summoned my brother here, I just had to come back and say ‘hi’.”

“Brother?” Priest Borgnine whispered.

“You know who he’s talking about,” a deep, smooth voice said from behind him, startling him and making him turn around. Suga, the demon inhabiting Benedict Cumberbatch’s body, stood there. Priest Borgnine didn’t even hear him approach. “You have us here, you might as well use us.”

“Would you like us to pay little Jungkookie a visit for you?” Hobi asked.

Priest Borgnine pulled himself together and remembered the real problem at hand. “Yes. He must be plotting ways to take us down as we speak.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of him for you,” Hobi cooed.

Before he could even respond, Priest Borgnine looked around but the demon brothers were nowhere to be seen.

Jimmy K, with the help of his friends, spent all of the next day researching Satanic cults and making a plan of action. He learned that most Satanic cults were just regular people who were goth or edgy or just wanted to have fun. They were mostly harmless. But this particular cult was just plain evil.

He decided to scout it out first, figure out the entrances and exits to the church and when the priest came and went. So Jimmy K and his friends donned their matching Wildcat jackets and headed out on their bikes.

The rumble of the engines could be heard miles down the road, that is, if there were anyone down this road besides at the gas station. But even as they passed the small Qwik Mart with two pumps, they saw that there was only one car in the lot. They kept driving. Jimmy K, Chelle, RM, and Jin relished the feeling of the wind on their faces while they drove, knowing that whatever happened, at least they had this moment together. They knew that what they were getting into was dangerous, but in order to save Jungkook, Benedict Cumberbatch, hell, even the whole town, they needed to do this,

Just as they passed the water tower, Jimmy K held up a hand as he slowed to a stop at the side of the road. His friends came to a stop behind him. It was barely visible, but there was a trail leading into the forest. The group pulled their bikes over and hid them in the brush, taking the trail into the woods. The trail led them deep into the forest, but eventually they came to an abandoned stone pavilion. It was deserted, but it looked just like the one Jungkook had described. They spotted the secret entrance tomb at the other end, which they had been warned against entering.

“This is it," said Chelle. “I know he said not to go down but how else are we gonna figure out what the priest is up to?”

“Maybe we go down and just check it out real fast,” said RM. “Sneakily.”

“Right. Sneakily. We won’t even get caught,” said Jin.

So the four friends sneakily sneaked into the underground unholy church.

Meanwhile, Jungkook went back to his empty house and tried to get some rest. But every time he closed his eyes, images of poor Jimin flashed through his mind. He couldn’t help but think of possible ways to exorcise his father. He also wondered if Jimmy K and his gang was going to be alright.

“Jimmy K and his friends might be gobbled up by now,” a silky smooth, deep voice said, making Jungkook’s eyes fly open and dart around the room.

“Yeah, I heard the priest is a cannibal,” said another voice, this one gravelly and almost sunny.

“Who’s there?” Jungkook called into his empty room.

“Who, us? We’re just some friends who figured you’d want to see how your dad’s doing,” the gravelly voice purred. Benedict Cumberbatch materialized at the other end of the room, his hands behind his back and a smirk on his face.

“He’s doing great, by the way,” Benedict Cumberbatch said. His face then melted away, revealing the face of the demon Jungkook saw back in the church. Pale white skin, smoky eyes and wavy black hair. The man that stood at the foot of the bed was beautiful, but Jungkook felt nothing but unadulterated fear being in his presence. Suga, he remembered. Another man materialized behind this man. This one wore red tinted sunglasses and a toothy smile across his face.

“Thanks for letting us have Jimin’s soul, by the way,” said the man with the red sunglasses. The one with the gravelly voice. “It was you who turned him into a traitor right? Wanting to escape the club? Well, either way, his soul was delicious. We really owe you.”

“Perhaps there’s something you want,” said Suga. “We can give it to you.”

Jungkook couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Jimin’s death wasn’t his fault, was it? But now that he thought about it, it made sense. Jimin was going to run away with him. Jungkook encouraged his escape. He must not have been as discreet about it as he thought, because somehow, the priest found out.

“I want my father back,” said Jungkook, tears blurring his sight.

“Sure, but someone will have to replace him,” Suga said.

“You’ll also have to do something for us,” said the man in the sunglasses.

“What? But I thought you guys owed me!” Jungkook said, blinking away his tears.

“Oh, Kookie, don’t you know how this works?” The red sunglasses man said, tilting his head and cooing at Jungkook. “We still need payment for our services.”

Jungkook felt angry tears spill over his cheeks. He wiped at them and glared at the two ethereal men.

“What do you want me to do?” he gritted out.

“Daddy is angry with Priest Borgnine’s club and wants to send the rain after them all,” said the sunglasses man. “You can be a good boy and provide a human sacrifice to hold off Daddy’s anger.”

“And then you’ll free my father?” asked Jungkook.

“Of course Kookie,” Suga cooed, sitting down on the bed beside him and wiping away his tears with a thumb. “Your father misses you. He’s calling for you right now. You can free him if you do this for your club.”

“C-can I think about it?” asked Jungkook.

“Sure,” said Suga. He offered a tiny smile and deceptively soft eyes. His thumb was still gently brushing Jungkook’s cheek. Jungkook pushed away when he realized that he was leaning into the gentle touch. These men were dangerous, he needed to remember that.

“Take all the time that you need Kookie,” said the red sunglasses man. “We’ll always be here.”

“How do I find you if I need you,” said Jungkook.

“You know my name,” said Suga.

“And my name is Hobi,” said the sunglasses man. “Write our names anywhere and we’ll come to you.”

Jungkook nodded and looked away. He blinked away any stray tears but when he opened his eyes, the two men were gone. He sighed and fell back into his bed. He didn’t want to kill another innocent person for this club. He didn’t think he’d be able to handle it, even if it was for his father. But by providing a sacrifice, he’d be saving the club. Did they deserve saving though? No, he couldn’t think like this. Humans weren’t tokens to be traded around. They didn’t hold different values. Was there even a way to avoid more deaths?

Jungkook was interrupted from his thoughts when a tiny pebble hit his window. He went to his window and looked down at the lawn. Jimmy K was down there, waving up at him.

“Can I come up?” he asked, gesturing towards the tree whose branches reached across his bedroom window. Jungkook nodded, moving away from the window so Jimmy K wouldn’t see him wiping at his face. Jimmy K wasted no time scaling the tree and climbing through the window. Once he was in, he closed the window and sat on the ground.

“Where are your friends?” asked Jungkook.

“They went home to get some rest. I figured you’d want to know how the mission went though,” he said. Jungkook nodded. “Well, we found the church. It was really creepy. We didn’t run into anyone, so we were able to successfully scout the area out. We also found a room that looked like the priest’s office. He had a bunch of rabbits and other animals in cages down there. A lot of creepy talismans and stuff. We also found this.”

Jimmy K reached into his jacket and pulled out a leather bound journal.

“What is that?” asked Jungkook.

Jimmy K smiled and said, “his diary.”

“I thought you said you guys wouldn’t steal anything,” said Jungkook, taking the notebook and flipping through the pages. They were filled with almost illegible handwriting and strange drawings.

“But this was too useful to leave behind. We can find out about his future sinister plans with this,” said Jimmy K. “And I read something from it. Apparently, Satan is angry with the priest for having traitors in his cult, so he’s going to send a rain that’s somehow going to kill everyone in the club.”

Jungkook wondered if he should tell Jimmy K about the conversation he just had with the two demons. He finally decided against it, not wanting to involve anyone else in his mess.

“I heard,” said Jungkook. “That’ll include me too. I took the blood oath.”

“Is there a way to reverse it?” asked Jimmy K.

“Yes. I’ll have to be baptized in a catholic church. But the catholic priest has to strike my name out of the unholy book of names himself afterwards,” said Jungkook. “Getting the book of names is going to be tough.”

“We’ll figure it out,” said Jimmy K. “If we can get you out of this cult, then the rain won’t hurt you and you won’t have anything left to worry about.”

“What about my father?” Jungkook asked.

“I think we’ll cross that bridge when we reach it,” said Jimmy K. “It wouldn’t be my first exorcism.”

Jungkook raised his eyebrows at that. Jimmy smirked.

“Anyway, my uncle is a priest,” said Jimmy K. “He can help us. I never believed in the stuff myself, but anything to get you out safely.”

Late the next day, Jimmy K gathered his gang, along with Jungkook, to sneak into the underground unholy church. Jungkook was wearing a blessed rain poncho, a hand-me-down from Jimmy K’s uncle, just in case the rain turned dangerous.

It should have been an easy night, no rituals or visits from the priest. The plan was to get in, get the unholy book of names and get out fast.

So at the strike of midnight, Jimmy K, RM, Jin, Chelle, and Jungkook met at the water tower at the edge of town. The early winter air was frigid and paired with the light, icy mist, it was absolutely miserable. But this might have been their only chance, so they braved the weather and trekked into the forest.

They pushed through the woods, their coats and rain ponchos keeping most of the rain off of them and their flashlights lit the way. Jungkook hated this, trudging through the mud in the dark, shivering against the cold and dodging twigs and logs that he could barely see. But he couldn’t give up. This was for his father. For Jimin. For all the other sorry saps who got themselves tangled up this evil cult.

And it was an evil cult, Jungkook could see that now. They called themselves Satanists but they weren’t. They were corrupt and it was time that their tirade ended.

The gang made it to the clearing in the woods, the stone pavilion. As quietly as they could, they opened the secret passageway and went down into the underground unholy church.

“Let’s split up,” said Jimmy K. “We’ll find it faster. What does it look like?”

“It’s big, bound in human skin,” said Jungkook. “It’s filled with signatures, all written in blood.”

Chelle cringed and RM shivered.

“That sounds like a health hazard,” said Jin.

“Alright, let’s go then,” said Jimmy K. The five of them split up and began searching. The others started looking in and around the priest’s office, but Jungkook knew it wasn’t there. That krusty old man was too paranoid to keep it in such an obvious place. So instead, Jungkook paced the halls and walked between pews looking for anything; loose floorboards, suspicious bricks in the wall, oddly placed urns.

But just as he was checking for a trapdoor under a rug, a hand came around and clamped over his mouth, muffling his surprised shout.

“You’re gonna regret this little stunt, brother,” Taehyung whispered into his ear. Something hit the back of Jungkook’s head and his world went black.

When Jungkook opened his eyes, it took him a moment to figure out where he was. He was in a dimly lit room, the light of the fire in the braziers the only light source. His arms were bound above his head, which he groggily tried to move. The clink of metal told him that he was chained up. The thought of that cleared his head a bit. He glanced around again, this time noticing Jimmy K, Chelle, RM, and Jin also chained up along the wall with him. Jimmy K was naked with only a loin cloth covering him, revealing his sturdy oiled thighs. He was struggling in his restraints.

“Behold! The perfect sacrifice!” Priest Borgnine’s voice boomed throughout the room. He entered the room, followed by Taehyung and the woman in red. “We’re saved!”

“A bit hasty, don’t you think?” another voice asked, seemingly coming from nowhere. But Jungkook knew who the voice belonged to. The demon with the red sunglasses. Hobi. He appeared behind Priest Borgnine, smiling at Jungkook. Suga appeared on the priest’s other side, humming a sound of agreement.

“Shush,” Taehyung said to Hobi, a finger to his lips and his eyebrows drawn. “We are saved. Jimmy K will save us.”

Hobi just smiled. Priest Borgnine clapped his hands twice and said, “Bring the sacrifice forth and we shall begin the ritual!”

Two hooded cult members unchained Jimmy K and dragged him across the room, kicking and struggling. They chained him to the stone altar.

“No, Jimmy!” Chelle shouted.

“Jimmy!” RM yelled.

“Silence!” Priest Borgnine bellowed. Taehyung and the woman in red approached the altar. They circled Jimmy K like sharks. Grinning, evil, incredibly sexy sharks. The woman’s dress was made of sheer, billowing red fabric, leaving nothing to the imagination. Taehyung wore a strappy leather harness over his clothes, which were also sheer and billowing. Jungkook couldn’t help but stare at them. They looked hot, but they were deadly.

The woman in red pulled an obsidian knife from the folds of her dress.

“I command this soul to be purified by fire and water!” Priest Borgnine shouted. The woman in red climbed up onto the altar and over Jimmy K’s body until she was straddling him, looking down at him with a glint in her eyes. She lifted the knife and began carving into his chest. He threw his head back and screamed, his voice echoing off of the cavernous stone walls.

“Jimmy!!!” his friends shouted. Jungkook struggled against his restraints. He couldn’t watch this happen again. Not again.

“Let him go!” Jungkook yelled. “Please, take me instead! I’m the one who caused you all this trouble in the first place. Take me!”

“Shhhhh,” Suga hushed Jungkook as he got close, a hand carding through his hair. “You precious boy, please don’t yell.”

Jungkook shook his head away from Suga’s hand, still glaring at the priest who ignored him.

Once the woman was done carving the pentagram into Jimmy K’s chest, Taehyung took her spot upon Jimmy’s sturdy oiled thighs. He gazed down at Jimmy K, his lips curling into a smirk. Taehyung reached into his shirt and produced a small burlap doll. It was faceless and fit in the palm of his big hands. The woman in red set down a bronze bowl on the altar beside Jimmy K, which Taehyung placed the doll into. The cult members started chanting.

“Ad ligandum eos pariter eos coram me, Ad ligandum eos pariter eos coram me, Ad ligandum eos pariter eos coram me!” they chanted. The woman in red, who was standing behind Jimmy K’s head, grabbed his hair and pulled his head back, leaving his neck exposed and glistening with sweat. She handed Taehyung the obsidian dagger, which he used to slice a tiny sliver down the column of Jimmy’s throat. A droplet of blood oozed from the slit, which Taehyung swiped with his thumb. He then let the drop of blood drip onto the doll in the bronze bowl. As soon as the blood hit the doll, it burst into flames. Jimmy K screamed and writhed as if he were on fire himself. Priest Borgnine was shouting something, but his speech was drowned out by the screams.

“Now, we seal it with the holy waters of forgetfulness,” said Priest Borgnine, raising a bowl above his head. He handed the bowl to the woman in red, who leaned over Jimmy with it. Taehyung scooped some water out of the bowl and dribbled it over Jimmy K’s face. He flinched and blinked the water out of his eyes. Taehyung dribbled more water over him, wetting his already sweaty hair.

The ground rumbled, shaking debris from the rafters. In the middle of the empty floor, the ground cracked. The crack opened wider, flames licking the rim of the pit that was slowly forming.

“Now…” the priest said. “Throw him into the pit, so that the prince of the abyss may have his way with this worthy soul.”

Taehyung and the woman in red unchained Jimmy K and pulled him over to the pit. He was still struggling but it was weaker than before. As soon as they got to the edge of the pit, Jimmy K ripped his arms from their grasps and pushed Taehyung away from him. Taehyung stumbled and fell backwards, right into the pit. He screamed but was quickly consumed by the flames. The woman in red screamed and stumbled away from the pit, her hands over her face.

Jimmy K tried to run to his friends who were still chained to the wall, but several cult members stopped him.

Thunder crashed outside, illuminating the church. The ground rumbled again and a booming voice bellowed from the pit.

“You dare send me an uncleansed soul!?”

“No my lord! It-it was an accident! He was the wrong one!” Priest Borgnine said, falling to his knees in front of the pit. Thunder crashed again, this time shattering the stained glass window above the altar. Rain began pouring down, blowing into the church.

“No! No, please! I promise we will fix everything! Please!” Priest Borgnine begged. But his pleas went unnoticed. The rain came down in sheets, soaking everyone in the church to the bone. Jimmy struggled against the cult members, but as soon as the rain hit them, they began screaming. Jimmy K got out of their hold and stood up, watching in horror as the skin seemed to melt from their bodies. Fleshy goo dripped from their hoods, their flesh sliding off of them like melted butter. Jimmy K turned away from the horror and ran to his friends, snagging the ring of keys from Priest Borgnine’s belt on his way. He unchained all of them and they all began making their way out of the church.

As they walked past the pit, something grabbed Jungkook’s ankle and he fell, his head and shoulders hanging over the pit. He could feel the heat on the back of his neck as he struggled against his captor.

“You won’t get away with this!” Priest Borgnine growled as he pressed Jungkook closer to the edge.

“Let go of me!” Jungkook yelled. The priest pushed him further over the edge, a hand gripping his face, the other one keeping Jungkook’s hands away from him. A wooden chair broke over the priest’s back and he tumbled over Jungkook into the pit, almost dragging him along. Jungkook looked up and saw Jimmy K standing over him, holding out a hand. Jungkook grabbed his hand and let Jimmy K haul him to his feet. Once they were up, they fled the building. RM held an unconscious but unmelted Suga over his shoulder. They ran up the stairs, leaving the wails of the melting cult members behind them. Once they were outside in the pavilion, RM laid Suga down on the ground. The rain was still coming down hard. Jungkook huddled further into his blessed rain poncho so the rain wouldn’t hit him. Suga’s skin began melting off, but it didn’t slide off in fleshy goops. As it melted, it burned away with billowing black smoke until all of his skin was gone, revealing Benedict Cumberbatch.

Benedict Cumberbatch groaned and tried to sit up.

“Dad!” Jungkook shouted as he rushed to his father, hugging him tight. Benedict Cumberbatch hugged his son back.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” said Benedict Cumberbatch. “I was awake in there the whole time, but I couldn’t do anything.”

Jungkook pulled away to look at his father, his hands still on his dad’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry dad,” he said. “I’m sorry you were dragged into this. It was my mess and I ruined everything.”

“It’s okay son,” said Benedict Cumberbatch. “It’s okay. We’re safe now, and that’s all that matters.”

Jungkook hugged his father again, and as they sat in the stone pavilion, letting the rain pour down on them, all of them knew that they were finally safe from the evil cult.

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arcanalogue · 5 years

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On Keeping Important Things To Yourself, Or: ‘The Revelation Will Not Be Instagrammed’

I had a really profound experience this past weekend, while staying out in the desert with friends. In fact, it was the kind I might even capitalize: a Profound Experience!

(Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell you about it!)

Naturally though, I cataloged the entire thing, writing notes to myself so I wouldn’t forget a single detail. And before we’d even returned home, I was well into the “research” phase of the Profound Experience, tumbling down Wikipedia rabbit-holes in search of terminology, precedents, areas of overlap with others’ Profound Experiences, established traditions that might explain what had happened and (perhaps most importantly) tell me what to do about it.

It’s an exhilarating feeling, that research phase, uncovering the vastly interconnected nature of our history, our cultures, our entire reality. You can’t just pull one thread, the whole fabric comes with it. Before the internet, this would have taken weeks.

But even after a couple days of trying to pin this Experience down, I was getting tired and frustrated. I’d only spent a few minutes having the Experience in the first place, and now I’d gorged myself on all this additional context. It was began keeping me from being able to recall the Experience purely, as it had happened. Why was I doing this to myself??

Fortunately, in my groping I stumbled across this article about the Tao Te Ching, which commented:

"’The unnameable is the eternally real. Naming is the origin of all particular things.’ The second line of Mitchell's translation opens up the nature of the dysfunction. We're accustomed to perceiving our world and all the objects in it by naming them. But what if we stop obsessively naming everything and instead just — pardon me while I slip in to full on hippy mode for a moment — rest in awareness?

What the Tao Te Ching does, time and time again, is attempt to show us how we might see things if we could spend more time in awareness, and less in naming. ‘Practice not-doing, and everything will fall into place.’"

To my tired brain, reading this felt like cool water splashed across a hot sidewalk, making it passable for tender bare feet. (I grew up in the desert, I’m not just a tourist!)

So I closed all of my Wikipedia tabs, and went for a walk outside in the afternoon sunshine. I wanted to see if I could feel the Experience, become illuminated by it once again, even faintly, and grasp its truth just as closely, just as palpably, simply by relaxing my focus instead of straining toward it.

Not only was this successful, but walking with this glow unexpectedly reminded me of my ultimate purpose as a diviner.

We find messages. We find meanings. That is the work of a diviner. We must always strive to embody that quality, whether we’re searching on behalf of ourselves or others.

I find messages. I find meanings. Not everybody does, but I do, and always have. Powerful words and images make their way to me, as if by magic. Interpreting them is something that comes after; first you have to find them, recognize them.

Messages don’t always come with a calling card or ingredients list attached. It’s not always clear who or what is speaking, or whether the face we see is a mask worn by something else. It probably is! Just assume it is.

But we care about getting these things right, about being in harmony with all the forces out there which are greater than ourselves (which is nearly everything, kids). And the part of our mind that’s anchored to this world, this time and place, craves to know things and do things. Without something to know or to do, we can get very restless and grumpy indeed.

And have you noticed? There’s a tendency among mystical types to attempt speaking with authority, to draw oneself up to an impressive (yet still #humble) height and declare: “I am a practitioner of [insert tradition here], and/or a worshiper of [insert entity], who speaks to/through me.” There are certainly material benefits to behaving this way. Certainty confers trust, and trust leads to faith, and faith — whether in a belief or a person — is a lucrative business.

This is why we spiritual and occult weirdos (especially white folks, most of whom weren’t born into a tradition that provides context for our Profound Experiences) end up relentlessly sniffing out the pedigree of our own gnosis, sort of like how Mormon moms go overboard with geneaology.

The message itself ends up tucked away a drawer, almost secondary to the quest for unassailable authority in determining its authorship, which also ultimately determines its audience. But... and I ask this sincerely... who cares?

I’m not faulting this instinct of ours. How could it be otherwise? We’re a bunch of lonely, hallucinating apes who want to feel understood. Which is why I try not to look askance at others’ work, or weigh my methods or Experiences against theirs. What would be the point?

I feel the same way about labels related to magical practice. There are times when we urgently feel the need to name ourselves, claim a title that we can then labor to live up to. But almost immediately we discover the limitations of these labels. I love thinking of myself as a witch... so many enticing connotations! Right up to the moment when someone else refers to me as a witch, and then I feel the seriousness and specificity of what I’m attempting is undermined, since “witch” and “witchcraft” can be applied to nearly anyone and anything. I’m more than this word, dammit. At times, I’m something else altogether.

But the word itself isn’t the problem, the act of naming is.

Consider this post is a message in a bottle to you, whomever may be reading. Just as there is power in naming things, there can be even greater power in NOT naming things. This is the meatiest kernel of truth contained in the Powers of the Sphinx, that old chestnut of Western occultism: “To Know, To Dare, To Will, and To Keep Silent.”

Silence is a necessary component of reflection, and reflection is a necessary component of divination.

One of the things I’ve discovered along this journey is that the qualities that make a good diviner don’t necessarily lend themselves to crafting an exciting or successful web/social media presence. We end up performing what we know, polishing our thoughts and expressions into nice, glossy, digestible packages. That’s a useful skill to have! But it’s also a short leap from there to only valuing the kinds of experiences that lend themselves to being shared, slowly grooming oneself to only have the kinds of thoughts that can be expressed through these media.

It’s a mindfuck, dear reader.

I want would-be diviners to know that it’s possible to hear a call, and answer it, without ever putting pen to paper, without plugging words into a search engine. It’s written on your heart, where nothing is ever truly forgotten. You can honor this experience by sitting with it, or expressing it through your deeds, without ever having to explain or justify it to anyone.

And a reminder: just as it’s valuable to inspire and draw inspiration from others, your own Profound Experiences mustn’t end up being constrained to whatever you can manage to broadcast to others in words or pixels. If you’re struggling with that, consider keeping it to yourself for a while so it can distill and speak to you more deeply. As Kahlil Gibran wrote:

“And in much of your talking, thinking is half murdered. For thought is a bird of space, that in a cage of words may indeed unfold its wings but cannot fly.”

The irony of blogging about this isn’t lost on me, so I’m doubling down and including some pics from last weekend. Did you know people are far more likely to engage with your content when they can see your face?

😐

#divination #revelation #tarot cards #oracle

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entertheembrace · 4 years

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Two - The First Evening

Thank God I'm back in my room. I don't remember the New Orleans sun being that brutal. When I walked out of the hotel earlier this morning, the sun nearly blinded me. It was just as bad coming back to the hotel. And my face feels like it has sunburn even though I couldn't have been in the sun for more than 15 minutes all day.

After dropping my things on the bed, I went to the laptop and sat thinking of where to start. I needed to eat but wanted information first. I couldn't spend much time on the computer until I ate. I've been so hungry all day; it's been hard to concentrate. Even with 2 full meals and quite a few snacks throughout the day, it seems like I can't satisfy the hunger I'm feeling.

I did a quick Google search for the band Anarch. The results showed 1,174,839 entries.

This is about normal when you consider reviews, news articles, regular websites dedicated to the band as well as all of the Twitter, Facebook and blog sites that mention the group.

A quick perusal of the most recent data showed that the band was playing tonight at a club called The Cathedral. I had to meet with David and Harry to take a few prospects out to dinner, but that shouldn't last too long and the band didn't start playing until 11:00.

I still wasn't feeling great, but a quick shower and some food should pep me up enough to make the show. I figured that was as good a place as any to look for Marie.

As I was about to walk to the bathroom, I noticed that Google was also showing a second profile whose counter read 11,285 pages so far. A quick look showed what appeared to be an ancient religion or cult. Obviously, this is where the band got their name.

I was about to delete these search results, but then decided to leave it.. Maybe Google would show the connection from the band to this cult.

After a quick shower, I was off to the restaurant. As hungry as I was, nothing on the menu appealed to me. I still wasn't feeling good and my nostrils were being assaulted by the various smells of…people. Not the exotic food from the restaurant's kitchen, but of all the people in the restaurant.

Like today, in the Convention Center. It seemed like I could smell each individual person and could attach each odor to its owner. Perfumes, colognes, deodorants, I could place them all. Then there was the smell of sickness. Its hard to explain, but I could smell someone's illness. I don't know how I knew it, but I did.

Most disturbing of all, though were the women. Not all of the women, just the menstruating ones. I could smell that strong and pungent smell on them. That, however, is not what was disturbing. What was disturbing was the fact that I was somewhat aroused by that particular odor.

What was wrong with me? I was obviously suffering the after effects of whatever Marie had slipped me. I should probably go back to my room and try to sleep this off. But, this was maybe my best chance of finding Marie. I had to go to that club.

As I left the restaurant, I was thankful to see that the sun was nearly set and I was starting to feel better. Except for the fact that, despite the full meal and dessert I just ate, I was growing even more hungry.

I found myself approaching the club around 10:30. I thought that if she was a groupie, then Marie would probably be there early. Of course, she may be backstage with the band, but there was nothing I could do about that.

As I approached the club, I began to get nervous. The kinds of people hanging around the club were not the kind I hung with at my Saturday night poker games.

I realized my tan pants, white shirt and blue blazer was going to stick out among all of the black leather and lace. My face was also lacking the heavy makeup and piercing that seemed to adorn the many faces that were looking back at me.

I was hoping I would be able to find Marie without having to ask around. If I started asking around for someone in this crowd, I would no doubt be marked as a cop at best. Those who didn't think of me as a cop may look at me as an easy target, just like Marie had done the night before.

Upon reaching the club, I began to notice two distinct groups of attendees. The first and, by far, most numerous were the nouveau Goths. This group was done up in dark, heavy makeup. Their dress had a Halloween-like feel to it and they looked as if they were going to a book signing with my beloved Anne Rice.

The second, smaller group was much different. Members of this group looked older, but not in age since some appeared to be no more than fifteen, but their eyes. Their stares looked much older.

This group lacked the gaudy make-up, but still had the Goth-like look upon their faces. And their clothes looked…authentic. And they looked comfortable in their clothes like they've been wearing them since they were first in vogue a hundred years ago.

At first, I don't know why I even noticed the difference in the groups. Then I realized that it was how they noticed me that separated them.

While the costumed-laced revelers looked upon me in my suit with a kind of humor and disdain, the other group seemed to follow me with their looks.

Some stared at me while others simply nodded or even gave a little smile. They all seemed to look at me with some kind of knowing glance that made me feel that I was somehow a kindred spirit to them.

I shook off this feeling and pushed my way into the club.

The first thing that hit me was the smell. Incense, again. That makes sense in a club called The Cathedral.

The club was housed in what was at one time a glorious church that closed its doors due to the decreased number of faithful in the parish. It was un-consecrated and sold at auction.

Inside, the décor was that of a church including statues of the saints, wrought iron chandeliers and a stage in place of the high altar.

The owners were probably burning incense to help add the authenticity of the place. If Marie hung out here enough, this scent would easily get stuck in her clothes and cling to her skin.

It was then that I realized that the incense smell seemed to be emitting from some of the attendees like the body odor coming from some of the others.

Every time I followed the scent to its source, I found one from the "comfortable" group and they always seemed to be staring at me with that knowing look. I was becoming decidedly un-comfortable with the comfortable group.

I circulated around the club looking for any sign of Marie. My increased sense of smell was little help since the only fragrance I can match with her was the incense smell that seemed to be coming from at least a dozen of the concert goers.

The crowd began to surge as the lights coming from the faux candles in the black chandeliers began to dim. Movement on the stage signaled that the band was about to start and still I had no sign of Marie.

Anarch started and the noise pierced into my brain. While I'm no old timer, it was difficult to recognize what I was hearing as music. The sound was loud, fast and harsh. The lead vocalist began screaming the lyrics rather than singing them.

When I looked up to the stage to see what kind of man could make such sounds, I was taken aback. The man was nothing what I expected. While his skin was pale and his long, curly hair was black, he didn't look like a Goth.

He wore no shirt and had on black pants and boots and almost looked like Jim Morrison in the day of The Doors. He wore no make-up and had no tattoos or piercing that I could see.

His face was young. It could almost be described as angelic. He was breathtaking. I knew, from the Google search that I looked over, that he went by the stage name Lazarus.

As he screamed into the microphone, he seemed to look at the crowd like he knew every one of them. No eyes closed or pointing to the sky. This guy was making eye contact with everyone he looked at.

The crowd began pumping fists, throwing their heads back and forth and wriggling their bodies in time with the music. That's when I noticed that some of the crowd wasn’t in time with the music…at least not completely.

The main rhythm of the song matched the majority of the gyrating crowds, but I was hearing a back beat that didn't quite match the song or the crowd. I thought maybe I was hearing something in the background or maybe imagining this song within a song.

I looked around to see who else noticed this and was sorry as soon as I did. My new friends, the comfy crowd, all seemed to be swaying and moving in time with each other, but at a different tempo then the rest of the audience.

I watched this group and tried to concentrate on the other noise and soon was able to pick up the rhythm in time with their movements. Soon I was hearing a whole different song and the original thrash music was just background noise.

I looked around to be sure that everyone else was still banging their heads to the original song, but the other group, my group, had a song all to themselves.

It was a haunting sound that shook me to my soul. The voice was beautiful, but seemed to be balancing on the edge of a razor.

I looked up at the stage and the singer was looking right at me. He locked my gaze and I felt as if I was falling under a spell. My eyes closed as I swayed to the mysterious music and began to feel not unlike the feeling of being in Marie's presence…

Marie! My eyes shot open and I quickly turned around just as I saw a figure near the stage heading out a side door. From the back, it looked like Marie but I couldn't be sure until she turned her head back and smiled at me.

I hastily started pushing my way through the crowd hoping to reach the door before I lost sight of my target.

I made it through the door and saw the hallway which Marie was walking down. Her dress was a severe contrast to the sea of black I'd just left. It was white with one bare shoulder and a gold braided belt around her waist. This made me think again how Marie looked Egyptian…except for the paleness of her skin.

Her hair was in one, long braid and tossed over her one covered shoulder. As I approached her, I noticed another tattoo, this one on the back of her bare shoulder.

I didn't remember seeing this one last night, but then there are many things from last night that are not clear in my head.

This tattoo was different than the one I saw up close and personal last night. Where the first one had the beautiful artwork of a Renaissance piece, this one looked like it would be more at home on a Nazi SS uniform.

The ink was all black. The design appeared to be a "T" with triangles moving down the vertical and a type of fanfare hanging from the horizontal.

When I finally was close enough, I grabbed her arm and turned her around.

"Michael", she smiled, "I'm so happy to see you here. I didn't realize you were a fan. Are you hungry?" she asked as she turned back to the door she had reached.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am" I answered, "but first I'd like to ask you a few things".

"I'm sure. Would you like some dinner?"

"What I'd like" I responded tersely, "is some answers!"

"Well, if you'll come with me, I'll see if I can fulfill both of your needs at once." With that she was through the door and I was left alone in the hallway.

The last time I was alone with Marie, things didn't work out so well. But, if I didn't follow her, I may never get the answers I needed from her. And, it seemed, the longer I waited, the more questions I was coming up with.

I decided to follow her into the room, but I certainly wasn't going to accept anything to eat or drink from her. The last thing I needed at this point was for her to slip another mickey in my drink.

The room beyond the door was dark and the quickly moving shadows showed me that the light in this space came from candles. I closed the door and began to focus in the dimly lit room.

In the center of the room was a man, naked and sprawled out on a lounge. What I at first took to be a dark space in the room focused into a naked woman with skin the color of milk chocolate and hair dyed a deep bronze.

The woman had her back to me and was straddled across the man's thighs riding up and down on him while kissing the man's neck and chest. I could see a tattoo on her lower back but it was too dark to make out any of the details.

The sound of a wet kiss drew my attention to the man's side where another woman knelt on the ground beside him.

While clothed in what appeared to be tight, black leather pants, she was topless and her very ample bosom was pressed into his ribs. The short, blonde hair was cut in a severe style. The tattoo that seemed to cover her entire shoulder and upper arm also hinted of masculinity in this woman.

The man appeared to be fondling this blonde's breast, but then I realized that the woman was holding his hand close and appeared to be kissing him up and down his arm.

I looked around the room for Marie but didn't see her. While the tightening in my pants was drawing me forward, I fought off the feeling. I would not cheat on my wife again. Rita may forgive me for one slip over 16 years, but not a second in as many nights.

I began looking around for another exit out of the room, trying to be quiet so as to not draw unwanted attention to myself.

Suddenly, both women stood up and away from the man so I got my first real glimpse of him.

He lay there, naked and stretched out. His skin, like so many in this Goth world, was pale and I could see dark spots on his neck and chest that appeared to be some kind of artwork.

Realizing the absurdity of just standing there like some voyeur, I decided to ask the man if he noticed Marie walk through the room. Though, with what he had going on on his own, I doubted he would notice Godiva herself riding naked through the ménage a trios' room on horseback.

In the closer candle light, the pale skin looked sicklier then the milk colored skin that those like Marie had. Then I noticed that the artwork on his chest that I thought was a tattoo was moving...running would be a better term.

The coppery smell that hit me made my stomach leap and I realized that it was blood running down the man's chest and dripping down his arm. The pale skin that looked like illness a minute ago now had the pallor of death.

My first reaction should have been to run, to get out of the room and away from the club, but it wasn't. I stared in fascination at the blood and my mouth went dry as my stomach flipped upon itself again. I felt drawn to the man and was about to take a step towards him when I felt a presence close at my side.

"Hungry Michael?" I turned to see the beautiful black woman, still naked, standing beside me. Her eyes glowed red to match the blood that was running down the sides of her mouth and dripping onto her breasts.

I spun to run out of the room, but the last thing I remember was connecting face first with the door jam. Then there was nothing but blackness.

#entertheembrace #vampire #vampyr #witch #fantasy #urban fantasy #dark fantasy #gothic #goth #horror #witches

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geck-o-witch · 4 years

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Originally, I never intended to post about my witchy journey. Not this early, at least. However, something happened that I just have to share. Six months ago I decided I wanted to start my journey as a witch, but shortly after starting, life got in the way and I had to stop. That's what I thought, at least. Now I believe that it might have been a sign, life was telling me I wasn't ready to start yet, that I needed to wait just a little bit longer. Which brings me to yesterday.

It was the new moon, a fact which I had entirely forgotten about. I had the urge to clear my previous slate and try to begin my journey again. I decided that I would not try to work with a deity, not yet. I wanted to align my energies first and consider the idea of a patron later. Apparently, the gods had different plans. I was sitting in bed meditating, and as I was my mind began to wander to different deities I might want to work with in the future. I cycled through gods and goddesses I have always been fascinated by. Hades, Artemis, Eris, and Hermes. When my mind came to Hermes I stopped.

I can't fully explain the feeling I got, but I felt the need to restudy him. I got to work doing so immediately, and came across many signs I hadn't expected. I often find bird feathers from all types of birds. Crows, hawks, jays, you name it. I thought that maybe this was a vague sign, but as I continued to read I stumbled upon more. I have a fascination with rabbits. They are beautiful, quirky, and I would consider them one of my favorite (if not my favorite) animals. Until recently I owned three rabbits, but now I own one. I have countless rabbit stuffed animals, trinkets, and even a rabbit tattoo. Finding that hares were a symbol of Hermes surprised me, and I remembered an encounter I had about a year ago.

I was walking home one morning after a twelve hour shift at my graveyard job. It was seven in the morning, and I was walking along a fairly dangerous bike path on my way home because it was the fastest route home. I came across a gorgeous domestic rabbit, presumably lost or abandoned. It looked very healthy, so I assumed it must have been recently lost. I followed the rabbit for upwards of an hour and in that time it took me on an adventure where I did and saw things I've never experienced before. I have never been one to trespass on people's property, especially private. But this rabbit drew me onto private property, through back yards, and at one point, underneath the porch of a mobile home in a park I never knew existed until that morning. It was an adventure, and by the end of it when I finally returned home my pants and jacket were covered in mud.

I reflected on that experience for a few minutes before I continued in my research, and recognized that even though I've never had any connection to tortoises or turtles, I have quite a few charms and stone carvings of them. Why? Now it feels like it was related to Hermes. I love to communicate, explore people and places, learn the ins and outs of people and the universe and existence as a whole. It felt as if I was resonating with this trickster god of so many skills.

Now it's worth noting that Hermes is connected to Mercury. I am a Gemini and as such my ruling planet is Mercury, but that's not all. For as long as I can remember, mercury has called to me. It has been my favorite planet as well as my ruling planet. This among many other small things I realized during my research made it hard to believe that there wasn't some meaning behind this and my new journey beginning, on the day of a new moon no less. But I am only just starting, am I really ready to work with a deity?

My entire life I've dislikes prayer. It has felt forced and uncomfortable no matter what power I tried to pray to, and I never enjoyed it because of that. But I decided to take a shot in the dark yesterday, and made an attempt to pray to Hermes. To my own surprise, it felt natural. It felt real, and by the end of it, I felt calmer than I had when I started. This all happened yesterday, and I believed that maybe just maybe, I was now meant to start my witchy journey and life was letting me know it was time.

Flash forward to today, just two hours ago. I woke up after sleeping in (it's a weekend) and I opened up all of my social media accounts to check my notifications. On one, I saw a video. Someone was demonstrating a tarot spread they used to determine their deity. Curious, I assumed there was no harm given everything that happened yesterday, and I set up my tarot deck.

As I drew the cards, spread them, and flipped them one by one, something became increasingly clear. And by the end of the reading?

I had drawn Hermes.

It was just another sign, something I don't believe I can deny, and because of that I figure it is worth my time to write this even if no one reads it. My experience was far more clear than I ever could have anticipated it being, and if Hermes is here to stay, I will start off our working together with a blog. Good luck to any witches out there, and if you have any experiences of your own that have been eye opening for you, please share them with me!!

#hellenic worship #hellenic pagan #hellenic witch #hellenic pantheon #hermes #witchcraft #beginner witch #witchlife #witch #pagan #witchy #baby witch

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adamarinayu · 5 years

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SO. I have no idea if this is on my blog or if I shared it in my Discord group but here, have something I wrote almost a month ago, and sorry if it’s a repost but?? I can’t find it on my blog

Forewarned, it’s DUno (Donald/Uno) AF but come on, isn’t everything I do? :3

Immortal

Odin knew all about immortality. Odin knew more about immortality than Uno possibly could.

The simple reason was time.

Uno was young. Uno was naive, though he would have never admitted it then. He had his body- he could walk among the mortals, play their games, live a life so like theirs. He could be one of them.

He thought he could be one of them.

Odin knew better. He could never be one of them.

Often he found his gaze drawn to a wall of pictures- pictures from his life not as Odin, but as Uno. Uno Ducklair, rather than Odin Eidolon- pictures Donald took of him, his first experiences, him with Donald, him with Donald’s family, him with their friends.

Uno smiled. He was so happy.

Odin smiled. He was not so happy. The pictures spoke a story that Uno hadn’t realized was unfolding. The pictures- arranged chronologically, as Odin was so prone to do- spoke the story of temporary bliss. A story of doomed love.

It was the story of an immortal and a mortal.

Uno hadn’t noticed it. Years passed by, years of adventure and fun and bliss. He had Donald by his side, and everything happened so fast later he would wonder where all of the time went.

Fighting bad guys, discovering lost temples, uncovering legends- it was all a day in the life of Donald Duck- Paperinik- and his family and friends.

Love was unexpected. The first time he turned to his best friend and kissed Donald- no real warning, it had been a high-stress moment and they lived to see another day, Donald lived to see another day, and it just seemed like the right thing to do- he’d been more surprised than his friend.

But it had started an adventure Uno had never even considered. A life hand-in-hand with his partner-against-crime (and alien invasions), a life with more meaning than computers, satellites and shields.

Suddenly his life included children- watching them grow up by Donald’s side, attending PTA meetings and helping them with their homework. His life included family reunions, several different ‘If you hurt him I will kill you’ talks from various members of Donald’s family (including his nephews and, surprisingly, his cousins), holidays at the farm, so many things he had never even thought about.

Everything seemed normal. Everything was blissful. Children grew up, some of them even got married (Huey had a wedding and Uno remembered even when he became Odin how Donald smiled through the tears- how Donald returned home that night and sat in Huey’s old bedroom, just remembering the little boy he raised), a new generation of Duck-McDucks began to hatch...

Then reality hit them hard.

Grandma was the first to pass away, old and tired but having lived to see her granddaughter come home- having lived to see her grandson and her great grandchildren get their happy ever afters, to see her great great grandchildren hatch. Donald cried for days, but he knew- he knew she’d been happy.

It was the first time Uno found himself considering religion and afterlife- something Donald believed in, something Uno did not. For the first time, Uno hoped to be wrong.

Things became normal again. Adventure continued. Love thrived. Scrooge continued to live on, spry in his old unnatural age, and Huey’s daughter confided in Uno that she had a crush on the curly-haired redhead three classes over. Uno thought she was too young-

Then he blinked and remembered she was fifteen.

He turned around and in that moment everything fell into place. For the first time he realized how much time had passed- consciously aware, and he looked at Donald and saw him- saw him the way he always did, the duck he loved and always would- and saw him the way others did.

Donald wasn’t young anymore. He wasn’t old- but he was. He was already sixty-five, and Uno came to the sudden realization that the children he watched grow up were already forty.

In the blink of an eye, thirty years had passed them by. He’d be lucky to have thirty more.

The looks they received from strangers- people Uno didn’t recognize, a generation of ducks he never knew- finally made sense to him.

Donald was already sixty-four. Uno hadn’t aged a single day.

He didn’t care. He was determined to enjoy the limited time he had left with his family.

Donald finally gave up hero work when he turned sixty-eight. He couldn’t keep up anymore, and Louie’s son- hardly nineteen years old- took up the mask and cape in his stead.

Uno stayed stubbornly by Donald’s side, through it all. Scrooge’s unnatural aging- the man was almost 200 years old by then- couldn’t save him from death, and once more Uno sat by Donald’s side as he mourned another family member.

At seventy-two, Della died. Donald wished he’d had more time with her- thirty-eight years just hadn’t been enough. Uno could understand- it wasn’t enough for Uno, either.

Dewey was the first of the children to die. No one was expecting it- a trap in a temple he and Huey were investigating, and Donald- seventy-four- only wished he had encouraged them to stop adventuring when they hit their forties.

Dewey would still be here, Donald was so sure, and this time only Huey, Louie and Webby could give any sort of comfort.

Time was cruel- thirty blissful years, and Uno could see youth was kind to Huey and Louie’s children. Growing up, one of them already had a young duckling and another on the way, another was well on her way to a doctorate, and Uno was so happy for them- but as he watched Donald’s generation fall, he knew it was only a matter of time.

Donald finally passed when he was seventy-nine years old, and this time Uno, Huey, Louie and Webby had to comfort each other.

The only solace was that Uno knew he’d see Donald again some day.

Odin would see him again some day.

It was only a matter of time before Gladstone and Fethry both passed- thankfully peacefully- and Uno could only stand by as Huey, Louie and Webby followed suit.

Time seemed to crawl, yet speed past; Uno watched as the children he watched grow up- and the ones he helped raise- and the ones he could only watch from a distance as the family moved on and forgot about the past- grew old with time. The mask and cape continued to be passed down- from Donald, to Louie’s son, to Louie’s twin granddaughters, to the elder twin’s youngest son... and on and on it went.

Only he was less involved in every new PK.

The Duck-McDuck family lived on, but there was no place for Uno in it anymore. He retreated to Ducklair Tower once more, and when he left again years later it was with a new name and a new face.

Now Uno Ducklair lived only in photographs, and Odin Eidolon carried the memory of seven generations of Duck-McDucks.

The first time he saw Donald, something inside him twisted.

It had been a good century and then some since he last saw his lover, and it was all he could do to not reveal himself right then and there.

But he knew he couldn’t.

Uno Ducklair and Odin Eidolon are two different people, with two different experiences.

And if he wished he could warn himself how it all ended- if he, for a moment, considered changing everything...

Well. He dismissed the idea. As much as the end of their story hurt, he wouldn’t have changed it for anything.

He wouldn’t give up those happy times, even to be rid of the bad.

And if they lived only in memory?

He’d remember them well.

The story wasn’t quite a story of the immortal and the mortal. Machines don’t last forever. Not even ones as advanced as Odin Eidolon.

Uno Ducklair had known that. Odin Eidolon had forgotten.

It was a strange sensation, falling into sleep- a deep sleep, one unlike anything he could remember feeling- only to wake up, as if in a dream, surrounded by what seemed like neverending light.

Memories always played through Uno and Odin’s mind as they recharged- as they “slept.” Memories of the good, of the bad, of what was and never would be again. But those things- they had always been real. They had happened, once upon a time, someway or somehow.

This, though? This was not a memory. There was light- so much light- yet nothing at all stretching on around him. He looked down at himself, at his hands. Slender fingers, but his wrists weren’t as thin as they once were. His white feathers were a little more grey- familiar feathers that did not belong to Odin, but to Uno.

He felt warmth, felt a strange energy through his body, like he was and was not at the same time.

He felt light. Like he was fading.

Is this what it feels like to die?

The thought seemed to echo out into the forever around him. He was not afraid. He felt strangely calm. Like this? This was normal. This was... this was okay.

“Uno?”

The voice reached him- so familiar, yet so young. Uno looked up and there were people there.

Donald was there, young- or younger, if Uno had to guess he’d say Donald was in his mid to late thirties again- and by his side was Dewey, hardly a day over twenty-five, and Huey and Louie and Webby, too, were by him. Scrooge stood with Grandma, Gladstone and Fethry in the back, watching quietly as the family seemed to come out of the nothingness around. Children and grandchildren seemed to come forward to greet him, seeming delighted to finally have him join them-

And Donald smiled at him.

“We’ve been waiting!” Donald said, and Louie’s hands are on his hips as he added, “You’re late, Unc.”

“Think you could’a joined us a century or so ago?” Huey asked, though he smiled too, and Scrooge just rolled his eyes.

“Never could get with the program, huh?” Dewey said as Webby just laughed, “Always gotta be different, good ol’ Uncle Uno.”

Uno didn’t know if he was dreaming. Maybe he was dead? But how could he be here if he were dead? Uno was an android. Surely no afterlife would apply to him?

But then Donald was taking his hand and he didn’t care. Uno hugged Donald tightly- “I missed you...”

And that was all that needed to be said. The light of the nothingness around them- the light of forever- only seemed to become brighter and brighter.

Uno didn’t let go.

#DuckTales 2017 #Paperinik #Crossover AU #Donald Duck #Android Uno #Duno #This might be a repost??#I can't find it on my blog #But I know I shared it #So that might have been on Discord

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jbaiata · 5 years

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The making of “The Ballad of Charlie and Grace”

Stephen Hawking once famously observed that even those who believe everything in life is predestined look both ways before crossing the street. And while I don’t believe the arc of our lives is entirely predetermined, I do think it is contingent on us to be open enough to recognize seemingly chance encounters for what they are: opportunities. Or, as Jackson Browne more eloquently puts it: “Pay attention to the open sky/you never know what will be coming down.”

In April of 2016 I was presented with an amazing opportunity: to give voice to a story that was just begging to be told. Each year I volunteer for a fundraiser in Ridgewood, NJ - Saylestock, to benefit The Matt Sayles Foundation for Salivary Gland Cancer. It’s an inspiring day - an all day music and arts festival that inevitably creates some magic moments for organizers and attendees alike. Toward the end of the day I was approached by a town resident and asked about the origins of the fundraiser. I told her how Dave and Kathy Sayles had turned the most convulsive, painful event of their lives - the death of their young son to a rare cancer - into an urgent, vital cause. That resident, Lisa Paterson, could unfortunately relate. We fell into an hour long conversation, and Lisa bared her soul to someone who had been a complete stranger to her moments before.

Widowed on 9/11 when her husband Steven was among those murdered by the terrorists, Lisa was left to raise her twin four year-old’s, Lucy and Wyatt, alone. And to work through her own searing grief while trying to ensure her children did not become collateral damage to the worst terrorist attack in our country’s history. She endured a Sisyphean, near decade-long struggle to get Wyatt, who is developmentally disabled, to accept that his father was gone. I was incredibly moved, and determined that the story needed to reach a much wider audience.

While driving down to Philadelphia the next morning, I was fixated on two things. The first was the conversation with Lisa, and replaying in my mind something she had recounted about Wyatt’s finally turning the corner. She’d found a working farm the then teenaged Wyatt had really taken to, and when asked why he liked it so much, he’d replied “Daddy’s in the sky there.” The second was how much I’d thoroughly enjoyed one band in particular - a self-described “funk, soul, jazz and rock fusion” outfit that I wanted to see again. What the hell was their name? I had thrown one of the Saylestock handout brochures into my work bag, and quickly pulled it out. Ho-lee shit. “SkyDaddy.” The name of the freaking band was SkyDaddy!

Photo: Lisa Paterson (second from left) poses with the band SkyDaddy and a friend. Credit: John Baiata

In that moment, chance encounter begat providence. Lisa and I began a long series of spoken and written conversations that, half a year later, culminated in this story, and a second on “NBC Nightly News.” Lisa was a completely open book, confiding her private pain and doubts, and granting me access to those who knew her best. She invited me out to Wyatt’s farm to spend the day there. I interviewed Wyatt’s longtime doctor. I interviewed Lisa’s therapist. But it was a conversation with Lisa’s exceptional daughter, Lucy, that would eventually birth “The Ballad of Charlie and Grace.”

Lisa had shared with me the extraordinary, lifelong bond Lucy and Wyatt had developed, and even credited Wyatt with saving Lucy’s life as an infant. Lucy was failing to thrive, in trouble, and nothing the doctors had tried was working. It was only after Wyatt was laid beside his sister in the NICU that Lucy began to respond. Still, speaking at length with Lucy directly was revelatory. I came away with a much clearer understanding of the “two unique souls united by birth” dynamic associated with twins in general, with an even deeper appreciation of the lifelong, unbreakable bond Lucy and Wyatt has forged - and with the inspiration for a song.

Photo: An infant and endangered Lucy Paterson . Credit: Paterson family.

I’ve been writing song lyrics since I was a teenager. To see the vast majority of them is to understand just how difficult good songwriting is. In each case, I set out to write about a specific subject. I wrote the lyrics. This will inevitably sound cliche` but I can think of no other way to describe it: for the first time, with “The Ballad of Charlie and Grace,” the lyrics wrote me. They started coming to me in the days after that phone interview with Lucy, and kept up a steady patter in my brain until I finally reached for a notebook beside my bed, and began to capture the voices in my head.

Wyatt and Lucy became Charlie and Grace. I cribbed Charlie’s name from Charlie Greene, an outstanding young man who had also lost his father in the 9/11 attacks. I’d gotten the chance to work with Charlie in the summer of 2011, and had recently introduced him to Lucy. I cribbed Grace’s name from John Newton, the poet and clergyman who wrote “Amazing Grace” a hundred and forty years ago. In all, the lyrics contain references to fifteen other songs, and eight bible verses. (If you’d like to see how many you recognize or are just a glutton for punishment, they are all annotated at the end of this blog.) Once finished, I had a thought I’d never conjured before about lyrics I’d written: “These don’t suck.”

I shared the lyrics initially only with Lisa, a fellow music nut like me, and with my wife Anna. Encouraged by their enthusiastic responses, I made my best decision yet, and shared them with my cousin Flynn - along with the story I’d written about Lisa, Lucy and Wyatt for context.

Photo: Wyatt and Lucy Paterson today. Credit: Paterson family.

My wife Anna has long pondered how to leverage all the music trivia in my brain for financial gain, and I consider myself pretty knowledgeable about music in general. But Flynn (That’s his full, legal name) is an actual musician, and someone whom I’ve always looked up to. Music has long been the common thread between us. As teenagers I was enthralled listening to his takes on local rock heroes the Stray Cats, and many others. As adults he would often invite me on Friday nights to come sing and play a little percussion with a small group of his musician friends. Nothing serious - “basement band” stuff. But it meant a lot that a group of musicians whose talent level far exceeded my own would include me. Since moving to southern Florida, Flynn has played extensively and cultivated an impressive network of musician friends in the area. He plays guitar beautifully, writes and records, and has notebooks filled with original lyrics of his own. And so when he got back to me, I was not quite prepared for his reaction.

It was beyond encouraging. He was effusive in his praise, and inspired by the story behind the lyrics. Flynn became the driving force behind the project. It took more than two years to bring to fruition, and in all that time his north star for it was clear-eyed. He wanted to give the lyrics a musical home to be proud of, for sure, but more than anything he was driven by his heart, and by doing something special for the Paterson family. Without his recruiting and wrangling of musical contributors, his booking of studio times and overseeing sessions, the steady stream of ideas and feedback he ran by me, this song would not exist. I am grateful beyond words.

In February of 2018 Flynn and I went into Rain Cat Recordings in Jensen Beach, Florida to lay down the first and most important building block of the song, a gorgeous guitar track that he had written to accompany the lyrics. We had home field advantage. The wizards behind Rain Cat, Jeff Coulter and Bryan Lamar, were well acquainted with Flynn. Having been briefed on the project’s origins in advance, they were happy to get involved.

Photo: Flynn working the guitar track at Rain Cat Recordings

Flynn had recorded a scratch vocal track that day as well, but it was a placeholder until we could identify a vocalist. He offered up a wide array of vocalists he knew and could approach - men and women. I felt strongly that it should be a woman, as the chorus is sung from Grace’s first person point of view. In the end we decided to try and recruit Summer Gill for the project. I confided in Flynn that I’d kept a running list in my head for years of my own “heavenly choir,” the voices I would choose to sing me home when my time came: Mavis Staples, Emmy Lou Harris, Aretha Franklin, Linda Ronstadt and Alicia Keys. Summer’s voice moved me in the same way those others did, wringing emotion from every verse. I had my doubts that we could get her onboard. She was gigging constantly in support of her latest EP, working on songs for her next one, and our little song seemed a trifle by comparison. And so we were both thrilled when Flynn reported back that she’d readily agreed to work with us - and all the more so upon hearing her evocative vocal.

Photo: Summer Gill during one of our sessions at Rain Cat Recordings

Along the way there were plenty of setbacks. While at Rain Cat with Summer during the first session to record the vocal track, Flynn got word that his Mom had passed. Another session was scuttled last minute after Summer was involved in a car accident. Some musicians proved more difficult to schedule than others, and a good chunk of time was lost trying to schedule one in particular.

That disappointment was more than made up for by the contributions of Adam Emanuel, a multi-talented musician who, in Flynn’s words, was “all in from the beginning.” From Adam we got a vital piano track; one he tinkered with and improved over several sessions. Adam also gave life to Flynn’s vision for a “sweetener” track. After considering a couple of other paths - a pedal steel guitar? Nah. Flute? Nope - Adam came up with the synth strings that really enhanced the song’s emotional resonance.

Photo: Adam Emanuel laying down the piano track at Rain Cat Recordings

And then there’s the guys behind Rain Cat, Jeff and Bryan. It’s no given that artists who are really good at making music are experts at mixing it, and these guys are both. They also support their artists out in the community, and have developed a fiercely loyal client base because of it. It’s got to be all kinds of cool to be in the business of bringing others’ musical visions to life. Serious respect for these guys.

Photo: Jeff Coulter and Bryan Lamar. Courtesy: Rain Cat Recordings

Throughout the process, Flynn and I engaged in a grand jury level of secrecy, so as not to spoil the eventual reveal to Lisa and Wyatt. Lucy, however, was conscripted as a necessary co-conspirator. Her first reaction to the lyrics she helped inspire was moving and heartfelt:

“I had to take a step back from the computer in order to compose myself... Thank you so very much for depicting my family’s story, specifically mine, in such a poetic and gorgeously bittersweet way.”

Her words also further incentivized us to finish. Lucy was responsible for gathering the bulk of the family photos that helped imbue the lyrics video with the personalized look her family’s remarkable story deserves. Finally, a big shout out to my daughter Alexa for her time and help editing the video.

The song is available on Apple Music, Google Play & Youtube Music, Amazon, Pandora, Tidal, Napster, iHeart Radio, etc Any proceeds from the song are going to help support Wyatt’s farm. You can also make a direct donation.

Thanks for reading this far, but I am reminded that where words fail, music speaks. I hope “The Ballad of Charlie and Grace” speaks to you. Click here for a listen.

“The Ballad of Charlie and Grace”

One mother, two cords, one shared space

Brother and sister, Charlie and Grace

Grace soon fell ill, her parents dismayed

But grew strong once Charlie’s sweet head was laid

Beside her own on the pillowcase

The first time he started

amazing Grace

“The boy’s not right,” they said. “His mind’s addled.”

Grace took up armor, prepared for battle

Be not afraid, her flag unfurled

Then had a thought that could change the world

In Charlie, redemption she could see and taste

And he’d only begun

amazing Grace

(spoken) And she sang:

He showed me the roll in the hills, a bird on the wing

A little bit of beauty in everything

The life in the day, the call in the breeze

Lucy in the sky, the magic in believe

Far too young when their daddy was taken

Charlie sat and wailed, “Why have you forsaken me?”

Grace took up his battle cry

While Charlie paid attention to the open sky

And blessings from space

And he carried on

amazing Grace

Charlie grew up to work the land

Planting seed written in the palm of his hands

And Charlie taught Grace to sow some seeds of her own

How some will grow, some you just call a loan

To tend to your gardens where the land is laid waste

And he never failed at

amazing Grace

He showed me the roll in the hills, a bird on the wing

A little bit of beauty in everything

The spirit in the sky, sorrow in the fountain

Smoke on the water, and fire on the mountain

Charlie grew frail, his head a crown of splendor

Grace held firm; a loss she thought might end her

But Charlie’s voice rose in song she could believe

How sweet the sound, her fears relieved

And even as the light fell from his face

He never once stopped

amazing Grace

He just might have saved her from going under

Charlie boy, the boy wonder

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.

Source material/references for “The Ballad of Charlie and Grace”:

“Amazing Grace,” John Newton

“For a Dancer,” Jackson Browne

“Fountain of Sorrow,” Jackson Browne

“Call it a Loan,” Jackson Browne

“Grace,” U2

“Fire on the Mountain,” The Grateful Dead

“Spirit in the Sky,” Norman Greenbaum

“Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” The Beatles

“A Day in the Life,” The Beatles

“Call Me the Breeze,” Lynard Skynard

“Do You Believe in Magic?” The Lovin’ Spoonful

“A Man Who Was Gonna Die Young,” Eric Church

“Me and Charlie Talking,” Miranda Lambert

“Away in a Manger” Charles Gabriel

Psalm 40/U2’s “40” “He set my feet upon a rock, and held my footsteps firm.”

Isaiah 41:10 “Fear not, for I am with you. Be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will hold you with my righteous right hand.”

Matthew 27:46 “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Ephesians 6:13 “Therefore take up the whole armor of God, that you may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand firm.”

Proverbs 16:31 Gray hair is a crown of splendor; it is attained in the way of righteousness

Isaiah 49:16 ”See, I have written your name in the palm of my hands.”

Psalm 34:8 “Taste and see the Lord is good, blessed is the one who takes refuge in him.

Ezekial 36:35 “They will say ‘This land that was laid waste has become like the garden of Eden; the cities that were lying in ruins, desolate and destroyed, are now fortified and inhabited.”

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tenchikothefangirl · 6 years

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Where’s Henry?

In honor of a very special event that occurred today in the @ask-joeydrewstudios blog, I have actually decided to do my job and write something, dammit. This is the chaos I have created as a result this evening, at 11 p.m. Enjoy the chaos!

Every little sound was setting him on edge. Every creak of the door and every rustle of paper, was a break in the silence so thick Joey thought it must be made of cotton. He tried to direct his focus elsewhere—paperwork, scripts, reports from the maintenance crew. The words skittered and danced along the pages, mocking him.

Goddammit.

Joey was pretty sure he was losing his mind.

He tossed aside his pen, absently noting the ache in his hands. He rubbed the complaining joints and scanned around his office. Surely he had some sort of mindless busy work in need of attention around here.

Next thing he knew, he was walking out of his office and heading toward his apartment. He wasted an unreasonable amount of time making a fresh pot of tea, and by the time he was done, his counter was spotless, the trash can emptied, and the items in his refrigerator rearranged. Three times.

He didn’t even bother stepping back into his office. Instead, his cup in hand, he went straight for the animation department. If he sped up a little the closer he came, no one was there to see. His heart faltered when he rounded the corner to zero in on Henry’s desk. Empty. Not a single page of work was set (Henry always took his work home with him), and the chair was still pulled aside so the animator could slip into it as smoothly as possible.

Bendy sat next to the chair, not daring to touch a speck of dust. The little toon’s eyes brightened at first until he recognized that it was just his father. His tail fell limp and wrapped around his left leg. Joey’s shoulders fell at the sight. Bendy and Joey looked at one another, but didn’t say a word.

In the room across from Henry’s desk, the rest of the animation team was busy but tense. There was nothing but frowns, and Joey caught a few tense murmurs rumbling among them. One man even snipped at his neighbor.

“Mr. Drew?”

The man behind the voice stood behind him sorting through a collection of papers. Oh, this was one of the newbies. What was his name again? It started with an A…

Joey stepped out of the way, but had to ask, “Has Henry showed up yet?”

The young man quirked a brow, unsurprised. “Sorry, sir, but no.”

“Has anyone gotten any calls from him?”

The man shrugged. “As far as I know, no.”

Joey nodded, his grip on his cup’s handle tightening. He let the young man return to his work, and retreated back to his office where he soon set aside his untouched cup next to the other four.

Joey Drew might have thought he was doing well, keeping his worries in check and away from everyone else, but unfortunately, his mood was a plague that spread fast and infected everyone else in the studio.

As a matter of fact, things were already coming to a head in the break room.

“Can you believe it!?” Sammy raged, slamming his cup of coffee onto the table. “Joey has come in and out of my department six times—six times—today, telling me how to do my job! I swear if the tapes weren’t still rolling, I would have clobbered the bastard!”

“No, you wouldn’t have.” Susie grabbed Sammy by the arm and dragged him into the nearest chair. His scowl never wavered, but his leg was bouncing so fast, the table rattled.

Shawn, who had been listening to Sammy’s incessant tirade, frowned. “I’d hate to say it, but I can understand that completely.” He groaned as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “It’s one thing to get a surprise visit every once ’n a while, but this is ridiculous. Hardly an hour into my work, and Mr. Drew is in and out, scannin’ over every doll we make.” His face screwed up in distaste. “Not a word said between a hello and a goodbye.”

Lacie scoffed and joined the table. “At least you don’t have Mr. Drew ask’n for progress reports every hour. Can’t do a lick of work with him breathin’ down my neck.”

“Joey’s just been having a weird day,” Susie said calmly. Another unnamed employee offered Susie a drink that she politely declined.

“Yeah, but it was creepy,” Shawn said.

“And annoy’n” Lacie added while Sammy nodded.

“If ya wanna talk creepy—“ Wally walked into the break room, mop clasped in an iron hold. “Get this: Henry’s not here.”

All movement in the room stopped. Everyone stared at Wally, before Sammy broke the silence with a snort.

“Very funny, Franks.”

“No, I wish I was that funny! He’s really not here.”

“What are you talk’n about, Wally, that man’s always here,” Lacie replied. “It’s a wonder he ever leaves.”

“Oh yeah? I can prove it!”

“Oh here we go.”

Wally stuck his tongue at Sammy and said, “Just look.” He marched over to the cabinet. With a grand wave of the hand, he threw open the door. It swung open with a clatter. It almost rattled shut, but Wally caught it. He gestured toward the top shelf.

Everyone became quiet.

Susie, hesitant, slowly rose from her chair. Her heels clicked loudly along the hardwood floor as she walked. She almost wavered before reaching for the item on the shelf, and she examined it as though it was a cursed, foreign object.

With wide eyes, she looked at the group, and held up the item. “It’s…it’s Henry’s mug.”

A chair shrieked, and Sammy was at her side in a flash. He snatched the mug from her hands. After a solid five minutes of scrutiny… “Holy shit, it’s clean.”

“Yeah, and so’s his desk,” Wally said, a smug grin on his face. “See for yourself.”

One of the unnamed employees ran out of the room and down the hall. After a tense minute, the remaining group heard the guy scream, “OH MY GOD!”

In record time, the entire studio was uncomfortably aware that Henry Batim was not at work today, and Joey definitely had not scheduled a week off for him. Some checked their calendars and annoyed the secretary three or four times just to be sure. The animators were harassed, but not one of them could explain this phenomenon away. The gossipers got more incredulous as this sick game of telephone circulated.

Some even say that Grant Cohen stepped out of his office to ask around himself.

The members of the main crew who were still gathered in the break room stared at one another, in disbelief, worry hanging over their heads like a dark, stormy cloud.

“Should…” Susie began, “Should someone call his house to check on him?”

No one moved.

“I’ve tried a coupla times already.” Wally shook his head, leaning heavily on his mop. He made the cut-throat motion with his hand. “Nada.”

“This is bullshit,” Sammy said, still staring at the mug.

“I’m telling ya, it’s a sign of the apocalypse. And you can bet that when the sky falls, I’m outta here.”

Bendy sat at Henry’s desk, trying not to fidget. He wanted to curl into a ball but didn’t dare when there were so many people in the next room. So many witnesses… When that one rando employee had run off screaming, Bendy felt his panic rise, but he stubbornly refused to move.

“He’s just a little late,” he mumbled. “Papa said so, so he must be.” He wrapped his arms around his legs. “He’s gotta be.”

“Bendy? Are you still here?” Bendy looked up to see Alice standing over him. Her hands were on her hips, but her frown was a concerned one. She got herself situated on the ground with him. “It’s been hours, Bendy.”

“I’m waiting for Henry.” He scowled and faced the wall.

Alice sighed. “This is getting ridiculous.” Bendy ignored her. “Haven’t you set up that ink bucket yet?” she asked.

Maybe if he ignored her, she’d go away.

“I think there’s a slice of cake that Sammy hasn’t eaten yet,” Alice said. “It’s double layer. You could scrape off the icing in the middle and replace it with ink, no problem.”

Wonder how much longer it’ll take for Henry to come? Hopefully Papa Drew will give him a earful for all this trouble.

Alice hummed and then gasped. “What about that invisible ink? You annoyed Wally for hours about it yesterday.” She poked the back of his head. “Don’t you wanna try it?” she asked playfully.

“No.”

Alice recoiled. Although Bendy didn’t see it, a scowl formed on her face. If she was a colored toon, her face would have become boiling red. “Okay that does it.”

Faster than he could have thought possible—and, for a toon, that was saying something—Alice scooped him up and threw him over her shoulder.

“Hey! Put me down, Al! Alice!” He pounded his fists on her shoulder and squirmed like a drowning snake. “Lemme go, you jerk!”

“Bite me. I dare you,” she shot back. “We’re fixing this right now, or so help me—“ As soon as she passed by the stairs, she shouted, “BORIS! DRAG YOUR TAIL UP TO PAPA DREW’S OFFICE. NOW!”

By the time Alice toed their father’s office door open, Bendy gave up struggling in favor of making himself dead weight for his sister to lug around. Boris caught up to them, tail dragging and ears pressed to the back of his head. Alice ignored them both and marched inside.

“Papa?” Alice called as she came in. Joey looked up just in time to see Alice hold Bendy up by the arms. “This”—She gave Bendy a careful shake—“and this”—she used Bendy to gesture to Boris—“is a problem.” She then dropped Bendy like a sack of potatoes, and he yelped.

“What was that for!?”

Alice ignored him and marched over to the door. “Oh, and did I forget about this?”

She wrenched the door open, and if one listened carefully, they could hear the sound of someone screaming in the hallway about Henry’s empty desk. Her point made, she snapped the door closed and moved aside a seventh untouched cup of tea so she could place her hands on their father’s desk.

“Papa,” she asked softly, “where’s Henry?”

Joey was quiet for a minute there, the senseless scribbles on his papers long forgotten. He was an absolute mess. Although he’d begun the day no better or worse than any other day, his vest was now hanging on a chair while his sleeves were pushed back as far as possible (the ceiling fan was at its highest setting as well), and his bowtie hung loose. His hair looked like it’s been combed through with his fingers multiple times, and he kept tapping his pen against the blank paper at an obnoxiously rapid pace.

Tptptptptptptptptptptp

Joey took in a deep breath, the taps slowing. “Honestly, sweetie…I…I don’t know.” There was a moment allowed for it to sink in. “I don’t know…and it’s driving me crazy.”

Bendy and Boris jumped while Alice slid easily out of the way when their father suddenly stood to pace.

“I don’t know where he is, why he hasn’t come in, and he isn’t answering his phone—believe me, I couldn’t begin to recall how many times I—” He sucked in a deep breath. He rubbed his temples, brows furrowed, and let out a loud sigh.

Bendy and Boris exchanged worried looks. What could they do? Papa Drew was usually so calm and easy going. If things were this bad, then…what did that say about Henry being missing?

“Papa,” Alice said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe it would be a good idea if you headed over to Henry’s house.”

Joey blinked, dumbfounded.

“It’s mayhem in here,” Alice said, flinging her arms in the air, “More than usual! Everything’s gone bananas because Henry’s not here. You need to check up on him.”

There was a long stretch of silence. Joey looked from one toon to the other. Bendy shuffled his feet, anxious. Boris’s eyes shone, worried and sad. Alice offered her father a confident nod. After a second, Joey slowly began to nod as well.

“You’re right,” he mumbled slowly. The toons jolted when Joey suddenly slapped his hands on the desk. “You are absolutely right.” He seemed to spring back to life as he went about gathering items around the office. He opened up his desk drawer and started rifling through his things as he rambled on, “You three go let the others know that I’ll be out for a bit. Oh where are my keys?”

Moving closer to his father, Boris scanned the desk, and his eyes eventually lit up. “Oh right there!” He pointed them out to Joey.

“Thank you!” Joey fished them out. “It shouldn’t take too long. Their house is about…eh, twenty minutes away—”

Alice offered Joey his vest. He slid into it as best he could, still rambling, “I’ll call to let you all know what’s going on, so stay by the phone, and I’ll—“

Prrrrrrrring Prrrrring!

Joey and the toons jumped when the ringing began.

Prrrrring!

Speak of the devil.

Prrrrring!

The four all looked at each other, and then they looked at the phone vibrating on the wall. Joey practically charged after the phone, the toons skittering behind him. He snatched the phone off its cradle and pressed it into his ear so fast, he was almost certain he’d snap the chord.

“Henry!?” he asked immediately. His heart was pounding as he waited to hear an answer.

“Joey—”

Oh thank GOD! “Oh my GOODNESS,” he cried, relief flooding his veins. His boy’s voice was the greatest thing he’d heard all day. The toons looked at one another, eyes alight.

“Where on earth are you??” Joey demanded, “Are you OKAY!? Do you even know how late you are!?”

Did Joey even know how late it was!? When was the last time he looked at a clock? “I have been worried sick all day—”

“Joey.”

Joey had half a mind to tell Henry to not Joey him young man, but he was already on a roll. “I was about ready to come check in on you two.”

The toons were trying to listen to Henry’s end of the line, but clearly they knew better than to get close while Joey’s voice was starting to rise.

“I mean, you NEVER just NOT COME IN without some kind of call prior—”

—And nothing short of death would usually stop Henry from coming i—Oh god. Dianne. The baby!

“E-even if you couldn’t, then Diane would—”

But she didn’t. Oh god. Oh god!

“And yet, WHAT ON—“

“JOEY!”

“WHAT!?”

From the other end of the line, Joey could hear Henry take in a deep breath. When he spoke again, Henry’s voice was soft, almost in reverent disbelief. Quietly, he said, “You’re a grandfather, Joey.”

His panic jerked to an abrupt halt, and it took him a moment for the words to register. The toons became nervous when Joey didn’t say anything. Meanwhile, Joey could only imagine the grand smile spreading across Henry’s face. It took a second for him to realize that his own lips were pulling into a small smile.

“…Really?!”

((Aaaand then Grandpa Drew runs out of the studio and leaves his kids to explain what the heck just happened. It takes a bit for everyone to calm the frick down. Joey might have forgotten his wallet.

Happy Birthday, Ben. Welcome to the nuthouse—I mean family

—Tenchiko))

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graceisgrateful · 5 years

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Voice Acting School Journey Ep. 1

So there you go. Last year I told myself that I need a creative outlet to keep me sane. I know I already have photography. I have my blog. But apparently, those were not the one I was looking for. I always wanted to be a performer. I always wanted to feel like I’m somebody else. I want to be the instrument. So I decided to enroll to VoiceWORX. I originally planned to enroll last 2017. I can’t believe I waited for 2 years to push this. Last time, I remember it was because I don’t have enough money. But that was not true even last year. I guess the reason was I am too scatterbrained. I have many wants. And I am sort of doing many things then get tired of it. I have to go through an emotional breakdown last Christmas season to really figure out what my heart is aching for. I want to perform. Use my voice, my body and soul as channel of feelings. I originally wanted to do theater. As much as I believe I am not shy, I’m actually self-conscious. So I guess I’ll start with voice acting lessons. It’s still acting minus the pressure of being watched by many and be crazy on what they think I looked like. I could be a queen or witch. I could be a man or the evil. I could be many characters in one show. I could sing too. I’m excited with the possibilities.

The class was 2pm. I was a bit late because I have no sense of urgency. I woke 11 am but I have to eat and watch few episodes of “Friends” in Netflix. It was 1 pm already when I woke up from procrastination. By then I have no time to take a bath. Because if I did, I’ll be super duper late. So I decided not to take a bath. Don’t judge me. I have no choice!

Thank God it was easy to book a grab. I was only for about 10 minutes late. To tell you the truth, I was not that impressed on how the establishment looked. It doesn’t looked like there is a “school” in the outside. The building is so old. The paint is rusty and the metal in the windows are rusty. It was like a building of dust. I need to ask someone from the outside on where is the entrance for the VoiceWorx school. He pointed to this dark alley. I was scared and I don’t know if I should go on anymore. I saw a door and still it doesn’t look like a school. It was creepy looking dor. When you open it, it leads to a staircase which still does not look like it houses a school in there. But of couorse I enetered and then on the second floor, there are a lot of animation poster and clippings that are related to voice acting. I calm down now. This really looks like it will not finally lead me to a voice acting school. When I reached another door, it was a reception. Not fancy loooking but there are now computers and some people. A beautiful girl approached me and confirmed that she is Josephine, the secretary of the school. I paid half of my tuition fee then advised me to go to the classroom upstairs.

And yes finally, I got to arrive in the classroom. IThe CEO of the school is there. I recognized him because he is the face of the website and social media of Voiceworx. His name is Pocholo.Gonzales. He is sort of having a get to know session of my classmates there. And they were eight of them already. All girls. Honestly, I was kind of disappointed because I want boy classmates. I mean in voice acting school, I think its nice that you would be able t interact to a male talent. Just a thought. I took a seat. Sir Pocholo began asking me to introduce myself. Of course. The usual scenario. He also asked me on how did I learn about the school. And why I enrolled. I told him the first paragraph. But the short version of course. I told him I learned about this in Facebook and I really searched for a voice acting school.

He remarked me that some of my classmates told him that they enrolled because they are bored. If you think about it, in my case, that is true also. I am incredibly bored with my life.

After a while, he told us that he won’t the instructor for today. He’ll appear again at the middle part of the whole course. Our professor for today was a man with an incredibly powerful voice in terms of volume and charm. His name is Brian Mathew Ligsay aka DJ Big Brian. His name suits him well. Physically, he’s tall and he as this commanding aura on him.

This is what he looks like.

He is the voice in LRT2 stations telling people that the train is arriving. Of course he has a lot of work apart from that. But that was the one I was most familiar with. And damn, that voice is really charming. It feels like it belong to a young handsome man. In person, he’s really handsome but not so young anymore.

He told us names from the voice acting industry. And to tell you the truth I know nothing of those names. Unlike in Japan, voice actors is not that popular in the Philippines. But looking on the brighter side, voice actors is not prone to being outdated or “Laos” in Filipino. As long as they have the voice, they can land work. He mentioned a lot of names and the only one that stucked with me is Tit Delly Magpayo. She was a beautiful woman in persomally which radiates even at her old age. She was in icon in this filed. She died while doing her job on the radio. I was so curious that i searched her in the glosious land of internet.

The wikipedia states that:

Fidela Magpayo-Reyes, (October 29, 1920 – September 1, 2008) known as Tiya Dely ("Aunt Dely"), was a Philippine radio broadcasting icon well-loved by generations of listeners and advice-seekers who tuned into her radio counselling programs. She was a pioneer radio broadcaster who debuted in the 1950s, and was among the first wave of broadcasters who popularised Filipino songs as American music still dominated the airwaves following the country's independence from the United States in 1946.[1]

And she looked like this. Wow, she’s indeed beautiful. And he’s also an actress!

We got a taste of performing when Sir Brian asked us to get an object inside our bag, give that thing a voice, make that thing our best friend and let that thing introduce us. He also made us sing! My classmates are gamem performers and some of them shows potential talent in voice acting already.

What did I do? I pickd up my camera, named her Fuji. I gave my camera a shy small voice. Fuji introduces me as Guresu and told everyone that its because I was fond of Japanese anime’ wchih end up Sir Brian asking me to sing an anime’ song. Good thing I remembered few lines in Kaze no Koe, my favorite ending song of Hunter X Hunter. But my song was so short because I kind ad a mental block on what’s next. But my classmates sang shorter so that’s okay.

But anyway our first class is really not the start of our lessons. That was just getting to know or more like a backgrounder of the voice acting field in the Philippines. We signed a contract of commitment and we had an assignment!

1. Gargle two times a day. e tbspn Salt + Lukewarm water

2. No COLD DRINKS.

3. Listen to Radio Televsion Commercials.

4. REad a loud everyday for 20 minutes.

By the way here are my classmates. DJ Big Brian said that we will have more classmates next time because the students in the morning session were 18 and it was too much. I saw in the facebook account that they were cramped out in the classroom. There were a lot of boys too. I hope some of them will join us. That would be more exciting to have boys in the class.

#voice acting diary #voice #diary

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blizzweirdo · 6 years

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StarCraft Fanfiction: “No Omen, No Country’s Cause”

A few months ago, during the StarCraft 20th anniversary celebration, I created a blog for the sole purpose of remedying a great injustice: according to an infographic I saw here on Tumblr, fanfiction involving my favorite character, Vice Adm. Alexei Stukov, comprised only 1% of StarCraft fanfiction (in English, I’m assuming).

And so I embarked on a months-long odyssey, putting together what I thought would be a short story about how Stukov would react to the UED returning to the Koprulu sector. What it turned into is a multi-perspective, most likely novella- length text that I think would work well as a serial.

In “No Omen, No Country’s Cause,” I seek to reconcile discordant parts of Stukov’s personality, give him something to live for, flesh out his backstory, make him to engage in some badassery, and get him back to where he was in SC: Brood War (personality wise). Along the way, expect a lot of battles, new characters, and interactions with other canon characters like Adm. Matt Horner, Valerian Mengsk, Alarak, Zagara, and others.

This teaser is rated T, but expect some chapters to be M for language, violence, sexual content, and zergy squish-squish. I’ll probably post small bits once or twice a week, releasing what I’ve written so far and giving me a chance to write more. I do see myself finishing it (I’ve already written the ending but not the middle) unless there’s just zero interest.

Any feedback is greatly appreciated. If you’d like to view this in a different format, it is also available on FanFiction.net, Archive of Our Own, and Wattpad under the same username.

Note: someone pointed out this sounds like it’s going to get political. I promise it is not.

“No Omen, No Country’s Cause”

TARSONIS CITY, TARSONIS: 09:55

"Five minutes to air time, people. Let's get moving!" Kate Lockwell paced behind Adm. Matthew Horner as he stood at his podium. From the side of the makeshift stage, she shouted at a few people in the wings. "Tim! Where's Kallie with the other camera?"

"The replacement lens didn't come in. Wasn't a 'priority' shipment and didn't make it through customs. She knows a guy uptown and she's going to borrow one. She'll be back in fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen?!"

"We'll start without her! It'll be fine. No one will notice we're down a camera."

"They'll notice if we're down two presidential debaters... Where're my challenger candidates?" Kim Lockwell stopped on her heel and put her hand on the shoulder of Horner's blue suit.

"Well, if there's one thing that I can say for you military types, at least you're punctual, Mr. President." She winked at him, and before he could respond, she was gone.

Horner leaned over the podium and looked into the "audience." In the makeshift broadcast room, there were about two-dozen seats, all of which were full of journalists from around the sector-Umoja, Moria, and even some of the outlying colonies. All were there to see the beginning of Tarsonis's new government as it shifted from the Terran Dominion to the Terran Republic. After defeating Amon and negotiating peace with the zerg under Zagara, Valerian Mengsk had begun focusing on rebuilding Tarsonis and Korhal, and that's when the political shitstorm started. The Dominion needed the Umojan Protectorate's help, but they refused to acknowledge a "medieval monarchy spawned by a dictator" as a valid government even though it was constitutional. The Umojans also released more information about Valerian that was potentially damaging-that the labs run by Mobius Corp. had been more closely supervised by him than he had originally said. Skygeirr Station was the most egregious. Horner had asked him, man-to-man, what he actually knew. He had told him that he was only aware they were performing experiments on zerg and xel'naga tissues-he didn't know about the hybrid breeding program. But he did know about what they were doing to UED POW Vice Admiral Alexei Stukov. Valerian said that he willingly turned a blind eye to what they did to him because he thought it vital, at the time, to finding a way to neutralize Sara Kerrigan. Whether it was because he was UED or because he was infested and technically zerg, news reports focused on the hybrids and glossed over the torture of someone he knew to be a decent man. If it bothered Valerian, it was hard to see, which made Horner watchful of him now, waiting for more of his father to emerge. The Umojan Protectorate has a point, Horner thought.

Valerian was forced to step down, and his cabinet named Horner as his interim successor until the Terran Republic could build its infrastructure enough to hold an election. The Umojan Protectorate began helping Tarsonis pick up the pieces of the coup against Arcturus Mengsk and the invasion by the Queen of Blades. It had been five years, and Horner was just now thinking that he had the hang of governing-and now he would have to publicly debate other candidates and run for the position to keep it for another five years. Even so, Horner had doubts about his leadership capabilities. Raynor should be up here-not me, he thought. But he knew that would never have worked. Jim Raynor had not wanted to lead even when he was with the Raiders. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them, he thought, Valerian was the first, Raynor the second... But Valerian was disgraced and Raynor had vanished. Hopefully I'm the third... After Valerian stepped down and the smoke cleared, there weren't many other options.

Horner took a deep breath and thumbed again through his notes on the datapad in front of him. His main talking points were those of national security. They had been burned before by outside threats. Other than a few outlying factions, the protoss were their allies, but on the other hand, the zerg, even with Zagara leading them, could be fractured by a new leader-just as Abathur almost had done. Worse, if Horner had learned anything, it was the threat that could not be predicted that always ...bites you in the ass. Restructuring was also critical. The military needed its academies back online, and the education system-especially on Tarsonis-needed new buildings, updated materials, and staff that were not praising the "glory of the Dominion." Trade deals with the Kel-Morians and the Umojan Protectorate to bring food and other resources to people who needed it were his other sticking points. Things we can all agree on, not too detailed, and enough to talk about but not enough to make me look like a boring, stuffed uniform-I hope.

Finally, one of the other candidates entered the studio. The journalists all stood at once, their cameras flashing as she strode in. He recognized her; It was Dr. Joan Slavens, a philosophy professor at Tarsonis City Colonial University, the largest and most prestigious public universities on Tarsonis-before it was shut down by the Dominion. She had settled into being a nuisance via private broadcasts during the war. Horner had watched a few of them. Dr. Slavens was a good speaker, and she had the air of a rumpled intellectual with her barely-tamed blonde curls and wrinkled tweed jacket. She waved warmly to the journalists. This made him even more nervous. Dr. Slavens was a well-known personality and respected. She already had a following, and it would be easy for her to build a bloc of voters. He, on the other hand, had name recognition, and was known as a war hero on one hand but a compatriot of the now-controversial Valerian Mengsk on the other-his alliances could make someone's decision either way.

Dr. Slavens took her place at the podium next to his and adjusted her microphone, tapping on it to test it. She put her hand over it and turned to Horner, giving him a rueful smile.

"Of course, Mr. Marinakis isn't here yet. I hope his freighters are timelier than he is."

"You have some experience with Marcos Marinakis?"

"Unfortunately, yes. He told me he would let me interview him for my vids a half a dozen times... He was a no-show on half of them and more than an hour late on the rest. We could be here a while. I mean, this only a presidential debate, after all. I'm sure his business brunch was much more pressing."

"Well, if he's much later, we'll have to start without him."

Marcos Marinakis was a shipping magnate-one of the few that wasn't Kel-Morian. He had a reputation of being loud, obnoxious, but shrewd in business. Some people would believe that would make him good at guiding the Republic, but Horner didn't really see him as a threat. Because of his manner and what inevitably comes out about anyone who runs a large company, he was by far a long shot.

Horner's thoughts were interrupted by a low rumble far in the distance. It shook the building, and a little bit of plaster rained from the ceiling.

"What the hell was that?" Lockwell said. Horner's security detail, two marines in street combat gear, came in from outside the room.

"Mr. President, we have reports of an attack on the outskirts of town heading inward to our position. We need to get you all to a secure location."

"Where?" Horner said quickly.

"The basement of this building is a nuclear bunker. We should be able to hide out there."

Horner sprung into action.

"All right everyone, listen," Horner said into the microphone. "We're all going to do this quietly and without panicking. Please follow these gentlemen downstairs. Keep aware of your surroundings..."

There was another rumble and the power went out. Horner shouted over the din of fighting and the journalists talking nervously among themselves.

"And don't panic."

The journalists filed out of the room with Horner taking up the rear. He paused to look out the window. Republic troops had began flooding into the streets, and before them, a nydus canal had opened. The infested crawled from its maw, waves of them flooding over abandoned hovercars and the makeshift barriers troops had constructed along the way. In the distance, a siege tank and a platoon of Terran Republic troops began firing at them, but were overwhelmed by the sea of flesh and claws almost instantly. With dread, Horner realized there could be only one person responsible: Stukov.

And there's the threat we didn't anticipate.

#starcraft #fanfic #fanfiction #alexei stukov #stukov #matt horner #no omen no country's cause

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