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bixenwrites · 3 years

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Yours Truly, Jack

A fictional take on Jack the Ripper

NOVEMBER 1888

This was too much. Everything was too much.

The air was incredibly humid given the time of the year. My eyes wandered around the damp streets of Whitechapel District, traveling from one building to another, taking note of reminding the officials about the growing mass of garbage when I return to work tomorrow. It was awfully quiet, but that’s only because it’s 3 o’clock in the morning, otherwise the streets would’ve been filled by people of all age and size. I stared at the lamp posts, oh what horrors have these things witnessed?

Whilst everyone is at ease inside their homes, I was just getting home from a long day of police work. I walked further to East, hoping to reach my residence fast, keeping in mind that he was still out there. London at night is eerie, it’s as if I can stumble upon a murder any minute, and the last thing I want at this moment is another job to do. The warm and sticky ambience was also not helping; it made me feel like I was being constantly choked and it made me feel sick to my stomach. I tried to relieved myself by unbuttoning my uniform and removing my hat, but it did not help at all. I walked faster, desperate to seek solstice in my home.

I reached out to my pocket, lighting up my last stick of tobacco. I let my lips wet the unburnt tip and positioned it in between my teeth. I tried to ignore its bitter taste lingering in my tongue, and slowly, I breathed in the smoke. The coolness spread through my mouth, to my throat, reaching up to my chest, and then I exhaled, allowing myself to get intoxicated by the comfort it’s giving.

The tobacco was consumed to the last bit when I reach the door to my house. I went inside, removed my shoes, and didn’t even bother to get changed before I collapse on my bed. However, instead of sleeping, I stood up again and sat on my chair. I picked up the documents on my latest case and started browsing and searching for loopholes.

Mary Ann Nichols. Annie Chapman. Elizabeth Stride. Catherine Eddowes. Mary Kelly. All of them found dead with severely slashed throat; some of them mutilated, kidney removed, disemboweled, missing womb, and one was even skinned down. It was a work of a psychopath.

My eyes found the letters he sent the Central News Agency among the documents. It was an untidy scrawl of him boasting and being proud of his murders. He wrote like a maniac, he treated everything like a game. He gloated and laughed at how good it felt to kill these women. He mocked the police for our inability to identify and find him, and ridiculed us even more by teasing us with a clue that he planned to left after a murder. It was the letter from hell, and it signed: Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper.

The year 1888, hadn’t been good to the people of London. We encountered heaps of heavy thunderstorms since April, and just when August was supposed to end, the ripper came out to bring terror to our lives.

God, it was frustrating. This was too much. Everything was too much.

I picked up my written report and began reading the same notes that I have been reading for two months now. He had a pattern; all of his victims were prostitutes, all of his murders were killed at the ungodly hours of the morning, and all of his victims were cut and disemboweled in a way that would suggest that the killer had anatomical and surgical knowledge.

He wasn’t just any serial killer. He was smart, nay, he was a genius. He walks the streets among us, interact with us, and laugh with us, smoke with us. He appears perfectly sane, frighteningly normal, yet capable of extraordinary cruelty.

Jack the Ripper, that attention seeking, fearless bastard. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he found pleasure in the audience he was getting. This was exactly what he wanted, he wanted publicity, he wanted to be recognised, he wanted to be an enigma, he wanted spectators; and we are giving him exactly what he wanted.

He was always one step ahead of us.

I sighed, this is exasperating. I laid down the files on my desk, and went back to my bed. That’s enough for today.

November is ending, and we are nowhere near in capturing him than we were in August. The police solving the case are exhausted, the media running after us are exhausted, the people are exhausted, and I’m exhausted.

Jack the Ripper is a riddle, I can’t solve it, but that doesn’t mean it’s unsolvable.

JANUARY 2018

“I say, let it be a mystery. We’ll never know. We’ll just never know.”

“What?”

“Let it be a mystery.”

“You’ll be a very-very bad judge: Court is adjourned, let it be a mystery.”

I watched as Shane and Ryan bicker with each other on the newest episode of Buzzfeed’s True Crime series on YouTube. It’s a 37 minutes long documentary and it has successfully explained the whole case.

“For over 100 years, the mystery of Jack the Ripper has continued to fascinate, confound, and infuriate the public. Perhaps one day we will have the means to solve the crime, or perhaps this famous case will be yet another victim to time. But, for now, the age old question will continue to persist, Who was Jack the Ripper? The case remains unsolved.”

The screen faded into black. I stared at it for 15 minutes or so, taking in the vast information that I have just received. The air from the fan suddenly became colder, and my fingers started shaking. I looked at the picture of my great-great-grandfather next to five women; the photograph was old and wrinkly as it has been passed on our family for a century. He was smiling straight to the camera, a newspaper in one hand, and a tobacco on the other. The women beside him were laughing.

I flipped the photo; at the back of it is a note saying:

A fine morning with Elizabeth, Annie, Mary Ann, Mary Kelly, and Catherine while waiting for John. – Jack.

- jo bixen

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mxliv-oftheendless · 4 years

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The Horrifying Slaughter at Hinterkaifeck Farm

Hello! Perhaps unexpected, I know, but I got bored and decided “what the hell?” So y’all get another KISS Unsolved installment! This is a much shorter episode that I tweaked to fit the main format, which I had to do since this episode is from the very first episodes when Ryan was just making his little less-than-ten-minutes-long Powerpoints. But I hope you enjoy! (tw: there’s a mention of SUSPECTED incest near the end. Again, it’s SUSEPCTED incest, not confirmed, but I thought I’d let you guys know ahead of time.)

Tag list: @cosmicrealmofkissteria @ashestoashesvvi @kategwidt @retronova

[intro sequence, then title card]

[screen cuts from title card to Vinnie and Paul sitting behind a desk cluttered with papers, pens, a desk lamp, and other objects. Behind them are bulletin boards full of things from various unsolved cases and conspiracies. In order from left to right: Paul, Vinnie]

VINNIE: This week on Buzzfeed Unsolved, we’re taking a look at the horrifying slaughter of Hinterkaifeck Farm, an unsolved case in Germany to this day and, if I’m being honest, a pretty chilling one too.

PAUL: Also, you may have noticed the absence of one of the three in our little motley crew.

VINNIE: Yep, it’s just me and Paul today.

PAUL: Gene’s out sick. But don’t freak out, it’s just the flu. The media needs to calm the hell down.

VINNIE: They do. But we’re not here to talk about the media. We’re here to talk about a grisly murder.

PAUL: Which is also what the media talks about every day when they’re not talking about this crap.

VINNIE: [facepalms, laughing] See, this is what happens when Genie’s gone and it’s just me and Paul.

PAUL [grinning]: Chaos is unleashed.

VINNIE: Chaos is unleashed. Well, no sense in putting this off.

PAUL: Take it away, Vin. [Vinnie opens his case file]

[screen cuts away from the three to a black screen. Pictures and text appear on screen as Vinnie narrates]

VINNIE [voiceover]: On the evening of March 31st, 1922, six residents of the Hinterkaifeck Farm in Bavaria, Germany, were found murdered with a pickaxe. They were husband and wife Andreas and Cazilia Gruber, their widowed daughter, Viktoria, and Viktoria’s two children, Cazilia and Josef, as well as the Gruber family maid, Maria Baumgartner There are no credible news sources that reported this, but there are many accounts of it online, so it is very possible that it did indeed happen.

So this is just fuckin’ fanfiction (laughs) that someone wrote.

No! This isn’t (laughs) this isn’t fanfic, Paul. There’s pictures, and there’s also records of it in Germany.

Pictures—well that’s bullshit.

No it’s not!

You work at BuzzFeed, man, you don’t know how to doctor pictures???

I—shut up.

(laughs)

These aren’t doctored.

Okay, alright, let’s get into it.

(laughs) Fuck you, Paul.

I was just making sure this was accurate!

VINNIE [voiceover]: Before we get into suspects, a few things should be noted. The first is that two-year-old Josef was murdered in his crib, while the maid, Maria, was murdered in her bed. The rest of the family had been murdered all together in the family barn.

So four of the family’s killed in the barn

Yes.

and the baby and the maid are left killed in their beds.

Exactly.

Huh. Interesting.

Yeah, for some reason the killer decided to leave them there, while murdering everyone else in the family barn. They were actually found stacked on top of each other.

Safe to assume they weren’t already stacked on top of each other

(wheeze)

and then killed, right?

(laughing) He killed them all in one fatal blow. (laughs) No, they weren’t. It didn’t happen that way.

VINNIE [voiceover]: This is where things get a little creepy. Whoever killed the Gruber family then stayed in the house afterwards. In the week that followed the murders, cattle were still being fed, meals were being eaten in the kitchen, and neighbors reported seeing smoke coming out of the chimney. The Saturday after the murders, the dog was seen tied to a post near the barn by the mailman. And the very next day on Sunday, the bodies were finally discovered.

Okay… wow.

Yeah, I know.

That’s… I don’t think you’ve ever talked about a case where the murderer does that.

No, I have not.

That is kinda creepy.

Oh, it gets creepier.

Oh shit.

VINNIE [voiceover]: Another creepy detail is that Maria, the maid, had not worked for the family for very long. In fact, the day of the murders was also the day she was hired to replace the previous maid. The previous maid had left six months earlier, claiming the house was haunted. She claimed to hear footsteps in the attic as well as voices. The family dismissed her, also initially dismissing her claims. But six months later, shortly before the murders, the family began to hear footsteps in the attic. Andreas Gruber found an unfamiliar newspaper, and the house keys also began to go missing. He also found that the door to the toolshed had been scratched up, as if someone had been trying to break in.

Is that where they kept the pickaxe?

Yep.

nOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOOOOOO really?!

(laughing)

They kept the pickaxe in the toolshed???

Well, where else would you keep a pickaxe?

Not in the toolshed!

VINNIE [voiceover]: Finally, footprints were discovered in the snow by Mr. Gruber, leading to the back of the house from the forest, but he didn’t find a set of footprints returning to the woods. Meaning three things about whoever the footprints belonged to: he or she never left the house, was most likely the one whose footsteps were heard by the maid and the family, and was most likely the one who murdered the Gruber family and Maria.

You can’t deny that that’s chilling.

That is pretty fucking creepy to think about. Too bad Gene’s not here, he would probably give a wild theory about it being a ghost or some shit.

(laughs) I can’t imagine you’d be excited about him doing that.

No, I wouldn’t. Because that’s bullshit.

VINNIE [voiceover]: There was no money taken during the murder, which suggests this was a crime of passion. And with that, let’s get into the suspects. Of the many theories online, there is only one legitimate suspect that I could find: the Gruber’s next door neighbor, Lorenz Schlittenbauer.

Nah, I bet it wasn’t him.

Dude, I didn’t even get into why he’s a suspect!

Yeah, but think about it: if he’s running his own farm, he doesn’t have the time to do all the work that needs to be done on the Gruber farm too. That’s like a six person job done by one guy, who has his own farm to run.

I never said he was the top suspect, or that he was even a solid suspect. I just said he was the one legitimate suspect.

Oh. Sorry, Vinnie.

(wheeze) If you would let me finish, I’ll tell you why he’s considered a suspect.

Okay, enlighten me.

VINNIE [voiceover]: Schlittenbauer believed Viktoria’s son, Josef, was his son, since he had been intimate with Viktoria in the past. However, in an unexpected twist, the son was suspected to be Andreas Gruber’s son, who if you’ll recall, was Viktoria’s father.

What the fuck?!

It’s suspected, not confirmed.

That still doesn’t make it okay!

I know, it doesn’t, I’m just saying!

VINNIE [voiceover]: Though, that is the only thing linking Schlittenbauer to the Gruber family. This theory is shaky at best. To cap this little horrifying tale off, the heads of the Grubers and Maria were removed during the autopsy, and then, somehow, misplaced. Meaning the six victims had to buried without their heads.

Hey man, it’s 1922, things get lost.

How do you lose—that’s six heads! That’s so many heads! How do you lose that many heads in one place?!

I—government, man.

(wheeze) The government… (laughs)

VINNIE [voiceover]: Following the murders, the farmhouse was demolished, and a monument to the Gruber family was put up in its place. And yet, many questions still remain. Who was the person staying in the house of the unsuspecting Grubers? Who murdered the Grubers and their maid? And most importantly, how in the hell do you lose six heads? For now, and perhaps forever, the case remains… UNSOLVED.

[cuts back to the office set]

PAUL: Well this was fun.

VINNIE: Yeah, all things considered, it was less intense telling this story than I thought it would be.

PAUL: A fun little yarn to cap off the week. Gene, sorry you couldn’t be here to see this. Hope by the time this goes up, you’re not sick anymore.

VINNIE: Hope he doesn’t give Shannon what he caught.

PAUL: Yeah, me too. Shannon’s an angel.

VINNIE: Yeah, she’s great.

PAUL: She puts up with Gene, she’s a lovely angel. [Vinnie laughs] I spend too long a time in the same room with Gene, I wanna punch him in the face.

VINNIE: Okay, okay. We should probably wrap this up.

PAUL: Wanna go get Subway?

VINNIE: Sure, I’d love that. [they get up from their chairs and wave at the camera before they walk off set]

BUZZFEED UNSOLVED TRUE CRIME

What unsolved mystery do you want to see next?

#kiss unsolved #kiss unsolved true crime #so... yeah #this is just a short little thing I thought i'd type up just for fun #which is how I got started with this au lol but anyway #hope you guys enjoyed!#gene's not there because... reasons #but I hope y'all enjoyed paul and vinnie together #kiss au writing #my writing #thanks for reading!

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deathfrisbeeinthetardis · 4 years

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The Sky Beast, New and Improved Chapter 2

Yay I wrote a second chapter for the fic!! One of the key plot points is inspired by @q-unsolved‘s amazing art :D

Summary:

Ryan Bergara is 100% human until they shoot the Mothman episode. They didn’t find anything but Ryan might have brought a piece of the investigation home with him. Or: A bit of Mothman attaches to Ryan and he gets pretty cool perks. Shane is a fan.

Chapter 2 Summary:

Ryan goes to work with his wings tucked away, and they go camping for the weekend. Hijinks ensue.

Find it on Ao3 here or read below!

They take a sick day.

Partly to figure out how to best keep Ryan's transformation a secret from the rest of the world. Partly just because it is all new and exciting, and the two men want the chance to completely regress to boys for the occasion, you know, to celebrate.

Case in point, Ryan is flapping around his apartment with Shane on his tail, his wings doing all the work to keep them and Ryan's body from crashing into the walls or the furniture. They had taken time before this to clear away everything of value from shelves or tables, of course, they were capable of behaving like adults for a few minutes longer before they totally lost it.

"How's your six-foot-fourness helping now huh?" Ryan shouts with glee, cackling breathlessly as his wings maneuver him deftly away from Shane's outstretched hands, settling him to perch on top of a cupboard.

"Damn it, why aren’t you obeying the laws of physics?" Shane wheezed, supporting his hands on his bent knees before said cupboard with a giant grin on his face, which brightened even more, "You know what? Your mob name is going to be wings now if I am to be called legs! It's only fair." he declared, straightening with hands on his hips.

"Uh, no way. My wings are totally going to be my secret weapon! I can't go announcing that to all my enemies, also Night-Night is way cooler. You're just jealous." Ryan stuck out his tongue, relishing in the joy of this moment. The past two hours actually, they really haven't accomplished much.

It takes another half an hour before both of them are too exhausted and hungry to continue, and they collapse onto Ryan's couch with a carton of orange juice between them, chugging it down with the fervor of men after vigorous aerobic exercise and several cases of severe laughter-syndrome.

"So," Shane says when his breaths finally start to even out, "We know you can fly outside the natural laws of this earth. Also, I think I saw you're eyes glint red when the light hit it a few minutes ago, you're not about to go rogue on me now are you?"

"Wait, really?" He really hadn't noticed, cause that's not how eyes work. It was probably too dark the last time he looked in the mirror that morning for him to see. Ryan sets the carton onto the coffee table and hops over it to get to the window where watery sunlight shines into the room. Using his phone as a makeshift mirror, he wiggles his head until the light catches his eyes at a certain angle and, "Oh wow, they really are red."

"That could be a problem with filming, especially when our cameras are all good enough to avoid red-eye." Shane pauses, then chuckles, "Oh boy, if the fans ever find out they are going to go crazy. All those theorists positing how I'm a demon are gonna come after you now!"

Ryan wrinkles his nose at his reflection, "You're being way too happy about this."

"Hey, you win some you lose some. At least your red eyes are normal-sized, not like goggles or something like in the myths."

"Goggles," Ryan frowns at that, something in his memory sparking an idea, "didn't you recently get those pair of broke-Tony Stark glasses? The yellow ones?" He eyes Shane without turning, "You think they sell red ones? I can always say the red is from the glasses' reflection."

The other man makes a considering noise and pulls out his phone, after a minute his brows climb high on his forehead, stretching out his hand to show the screen displaying an astounding collection of red-tinted sunglasses, "They're supposed to help with visibility apparently, like the yellow ones." He strokes his nonexistent goatee, "Hmm I wonder what character wears red glasses, I gotta get you back for that Tony Stark comment."

"Shut up, Shane," Ryan replies almost on instinct, squinting at the screen to pick out the least obnoxious design. There was an optician's a few blocks from his apartment and Shane volunteers to get Ryan a pair while he practices camouflaging into a normal human workplace.

It actually turns out to be pretty easy, just as long as he keeps the thought of the necessity of the invisibility in the back of his mind. Ryan also discovers to his delight and Shane's halfhearted dismay that tangibility does not seem to affect his flight ability much beyond some extra concentration. He'll be fine tomorrow at work. He'll just have to remember to take a break every few hours to stretch or something.

The shoot on Monday though, that could be a problem. Now that he has gotten used to his wings through one day of intense usage, Ryan has absolutely no guarantees that if he gets spooked he won't just flap away on instinct.

Shane sleeps over that night to 'observe the Mothman in his natural habitat', Ryan decides his newest favorite sleeping position right in the middle of a five-pillow nest and when he drifts off he dreams about the red-eyed Mothman from the stories.

On Friday, Ryan wears the biggest hoodie he owns to work, just in case his wings pop-out unplanned. Despite the confidence from the day before, paranoia of a different kind creeps up on him as he sits at his desk next to Shane. He almost never comes in this early, but it was better than walking through the office with everyone there.

He stares bleary-eyed when his computer boots up, taking his new glasses out of the case and setting them on his nose. The color gives everything a mildly sinister tinge and makes him more self-conscious of his appearance than he has been in a long time, but they do their job.

He's quite proud that he only jumps a little when Jen calls "Nice specs, Ryan!" from six desks away. He also manages to wait until lunch break before he has to race to the bathroom to let his wings out. One of the pros of working at Buzzfeed is that there are constantly so many weird things happening that his abnormal choice in eye-wear didn't draw any attention more than a few comments and even some compliments.

All things considered, it's a good day. Ryan even manages to get a good chunk of editing done amidst his paranoia and routine banter with Shane, the latter has gradually started to become more and more moth specific. Seriously did the guy research all the moth puns through the night?

"What do you call a group of moths dancing around a light?" Shane leans over to say an hour before they can go home for the weekend, his eyes twinkling, "A moth pit."

Ryan groans, choosing not to respond as the passive-aggressive way to protest against the excessive abuse of all things moth-related within the day. His shoulders feel stiff, and out of habit he folds his arms behind his head and leans back in a long slow stretch, and it is the most satisfying stretch in his life, as the strain of a whole afternoon of mostly sitting still with his head craned forward just vanishes. He hums a little in satisfaction.

Simultaneously, the lights overhead go out. So does his computer. And everyone else's.

"Oh no no no my computer just crashed!?"

"Is there a power outage? What's going on?"

"I didn't save..."

Ryan is frozen in his position as the cacophony of voices barrages his now slightly enhanced hearing, and it hits him a moment later. In a flash, he's hunching down in his seat, trying to seem as small as he can with his face in his hands, while his invisible wings come down to wrap around him from where they had just stretched too, unseen. Fuck. Wasn't there a thing about electrical malfunctions on the nights of Mothman sightings? Oh god, he hopes he didn't knock the whole of Los Angeles off the grid. He feels his face flush, the skin heating up against his palms. Great job Bergara. Fantastic managing of your powers.

Shane, who had been in the process of returning to his own editing after snickering at his godawful joke, has his hands hovering over the keyboard and a bemused smile on his face as he tilts his head and sees Ryan with the hood of his hoodie pulled down over his face.

"I'm sorry," Ryan mumbles faintly into his hands, "I didn't think that part would apply to me."

Shane looks at him for a moment, then he claps a hand on Ryan's shoulder and wiggles him a little in his seat as his smile splits into a grin, "Lucky for you, I save my work by the hour. Otherwise, you'd have to fly like hell cause I'll tackle you."

"You'd never catch me," Ryan says, lifting his head a little to shoot a grateful glance at the taller man, "remember yesterday?"

"Oh but I was unprepared!" Shane declares, rubbing his hands and widening his eyes until he resembled a crazed hunter, "Next time I'll have a bow and a ton of those suction-tipped arrows, and I'm bringing you down baby!"

"You're unbelievable." Ryan huffs with a laugh, glancing around the pandemonium that has descended onto the BuzzFeed office and what seems to be the street outside as well, "Ugh, wanna head back now? We're gonna have to walk, uber is definitely not going to work."

Shane nods, chuckling silently at the whole situation. On their way out, Ryan desperately avoids eye contact with anyone and stares at his red-tinted feet, only snapping out of his inner guilt tirade when Shane pokes him in the rib.

"Stop looking down and hunching your shoulders, makes you look more guilty." He chides, the stupid grin still on his face as he tugs Ryan's hood back as they walk onto the sunlit street. "They'll just blame it on PG&E. The whole thing will teach everyone a lesson to be on top of their job and not rely entirely on technology and big electrical companies to save their work."

"You're just smug that you didn't get affected as much." Ryan retorts, but the comment didn't have any actual heat behind it.

"You bet I am. Come on, buck up buddy. We've got the entire weekend to have fun with this!" The taller man gestured to the general area on Ryan's back where his wings hung hidden, "Don't you want to go into the wild and see what happens?"

Ryan would never tell Shane this, but his wings stir and shudder a little at the words as if they were dying to show the extent of their abilities. Traitors.

They end up in Monrovia Canyon Park after an hour-long drive that afternoon, since they figured most of LA's population would be out in the city doing fun Friday night things, so the chances of anyone seeing a figure flying through the trees of the park are greatly reduced. Fortunately, they arrive with around an hour of sunlight left to hike in and set up their camping gear. Unfortunately, the light gives Ryan the opportunity to read the sign at the trailhead.

"Fuck no." Ryan yelps, pointing an accusing finger at the picture of a black bear with the words 'warning, you are entering bear territory' emblazoned in black under it. He's terrified of bears, those things are the apex predators of the land, and Shane knows that because they've argued about this multiple times, on camera. It's probably why he chose this damn park over the others. "I am not camping here with those things around."

The man shrugs and the tall backpack on his shoulders rise up at least half a foot with the motion. "It is the most heavily wooded park in the area, and I do have this bear mace here," He says innocently, though his brown eyes sparkling in the sunlight seem to issue a challenge that riles up something in Ryan into a frenzy. "And in case you forgot, you can fly, Ryan, no bears are gonna get you."

"I hate you," Ryan mutters darkly, shooting the other man a look that was something between affection and scorn. What Shane said makes sense, logically, and Ryan is beyond annoyed when stuff like this happens on the regular. Speaking of powers, he wonders if there are any more tricks up the Mothman's sleeve that he can use to give Shane a good getting back at.

Ryan half stomps over and yanks the canister of anti-bear from the side pocket of the taller man's pack, scowling at his snicker and latches onto the cool metal with a death grip, finger crooked into the trigger. Shane is right on one account, no bears are going to get him on this trip, or he'll get a face of mace and whatever cool shit Mothman can do when it's spooked.

They dump their bags in a patch of grass amidst the trees, far from any established trails or camping grounds just to be safe. With a sigh of relief, Ryan's wings materialize at his back, dark against the dimly lit forest around them, dwarfing Ryan with their span. It seems they hadn't been at their full size that day in his apartment. They now stretch twelve feet in total, drawing a sharp awed inhale from Shane as the powerful limbs flex and stretch in their freedom. The best part? Ryan didn't even have to take off his hoodie, the wings found their own way through the material without really altering it.

Ryan rolls his neck and relishes the warmth that the cracks leave behind as the soreness melts away, and he grins at Shane. "What now?" he says, a little breathless already.

"Whatever feels natural, Ryan." Shane says with a wolfish grin of his own, "Just let go of all the stress and embrace mother nature."

So Ryan lets his eyes flutter close and gives in to that wild part in him that has started stirring since their investigation in Virginia. When he opens his eyes again, their red glint sharpens his vision as his wings carry him straight up into the air. The wind whips at his face and he has his arms spread wide, laughter bubbling out of him as his previous fear of heights dissolves into the crisp rich air.

He rides the soft winds, weaving through the semi-dense woods around their campsite and listens to his new instincts as he twirled in the air performing moves that he had once seen professional divers do. He feels free in there, and even though the falls and dips in height still send his stomach clenching, it's more in anticipation of the thrill of control, of pulling back at the very last second to glide just a few feet off the ground, rather than fear. He flies and perches on various treetops and swoops again, all to the whooping and cheering of Shane from down bellow.

"Hey Ryan! Look what I brought!" He shouted, and Ryan glides down to a lower branch to give the not-so-tall looking man a questioning glance, the man was smirking with mischief, holding out a hand to wiggle a bright camping lantern in his direction, "Since you're Mothman, d'you feel anything for this here light?"

Ryan was about to adjust his grip on the branch to only using a certain finger on both hands when suddenly Shane yelps and starts to do a twitchy dance with his upper body. For a second Ryan panics, but he was just close enough for his enhanced night vision to see that the strange behavior is, in fact, not caused by a demon possessing his friend.

"Oh, fuck is that a wasp?" Ryan bursts out laughing at the way Shane's face contorts a little at the tiny insect buzzing uncomfortably close to his face and did not feel sorry at all for his friend. Nope. Ryan was almost squealing in delight as Shane batted at the wasp as best he could, flapping his long arms around with a panicked look on his face.

"See what you get? This is what you get! Yes! Take that for--" Its a shame that his victory speech is cut short when a wasp materializes right in front of his own face, sending him tumbling backward off the branch with a high pitched screech.

A part of his brain thinks that if people heard what he had just uttered, there are going to be reports of the first Mothman sighting in Los Angelas.

For some life-fucking reason, the wasp--actually three of them now-- tormenting Shane decide to refocus their attention on the flying creature instead of the sasquatch. They obviously haven’t taken physics or learned about surface area.

Ryan threads his way through the trees with much less of his previous flare and joy, flying for his life as the few wasps quickly grow to a swarm, despite a small voice in his head encouraging him to stop, to take a stand. What the fuck did he ever do to them?? It's not like he kicked their nest or something. Frustration and exhaustion combining is never a good look on Ryan, and after what he estimates is four minutes of high-speed air chase, he dives to the ground. Landing softly, he lets instincts take over, whirling around to let out a snarl at the swarm that races for him, wings arched at his back and shaking slightly to make rustling sounds.

The wasp swarm halts before him with a jerk.

Ryan's teeth are bared, which is kind of dumb, cause he doesn't have fangs so that image must not be very scary to anyone. But the wasps hover before him, their formation shifting uncertainly, and Ryan can see the detail on each and every buzzing insect with crystal clarity. A deadly calm washes over him.

"Heel." He growls, and his own voice startles himself. With all the macho, gangster bits they've done on Unsolved, he has never heard his voice go this low and guttural. Ryan blinks, and the heavy blanket of calm is gone.

The wasps hold still, their formation now in a fixed sphere as they buzzed quietly. Respectfully, a part of Ryan's mind supplies, they serve him now. What the hell just happened?

A crackle of a boot on dry leaves has Ryan whipping his head around to see Shane approaching him with a flashlight and bear mace in perfect Harries position, concern and something like dread tightening his face. "Ryan come here, get away from the wasps."

"They're not a threat anymore Shane," he said, tone stiff and tired. "They obey me now." The taller man looks doubtful but after a few flashes of light at the swarm produced no change in the wasps' motion, he slowly lowered the mace can.

"I-I didn't know what to do so I just grabbed this," he said, lifting the mace a bit and then letting his arms drop back to his side. "Ryan are you okay? Your hands are shaking."

"What?" Ryan says absently, and there are tremors running through his hands. He clenches them into fists and tucks them into his hoodie pocket. A flick of his head at the swarm has them dispersing, buzzing back to wherever the hell they popped out from. "We're losing light, we should set up the tent," he says as he turns to walk back to where they had dropped their bags.

Shane stands his ground and reaches out a hand to catch the smaller man's shoulder when Ryan tries to walk past him, and his eyes widen slightly as Ryan's wings bristle at the contact, but his grip is firm. "If there's something wrong, Ry, anything at all that feels off about this whole Mothman thing, you'd tell me, right?"

"Yeah. I'm fine, big guy." Ryan offers the taller man a small smile, though it might have wavered a little. He can tell that his friend would have liked answers to a great many questions about how he felt, about the mad chase and about that final showdown, but the man didn't push. He trusts Ryan to reach out if he needed it.

The problem is, Ryan has never been that good with emotions.

But at the moment he feels... okay. The excitement of the ordeal seems to have canceled out his energy. So he smiles some more, "I promise." At Shane's not at all satisfied expression, he nudges the taller man with the tip of a dark wing, "Come on, help me light a fire. I'm dying for some smores."

And so they did.

#fanfiction #inspired by awesome art #I love Mothman!Ryan so much #alex writes #Ghoul friends

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spoopybruh · 6 years

Text

Reframing Perspectives

Fandom: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)

Relationships: Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej

Characters: Ryan Bergara, Shane Madej

Summary: Just like he said, Shane inevitably slips up after a long period of doing so well and Ryan calls him out on it as promised. He’s convinced he’d single-handedly ruined everything he fought for. Ryan disagrees.

Note: This is the third part continuation of Taking Risks (1) and Steady(2). As mentioned, this is a fic version where Shane is on the spectrum, hence his thought processes differ. As someone who’s on the spectrum himself, I want to try and paint a picture of what we struggle with as realistically as possible. I’m aware that people might find some of Shane’s actions/perspective to be cruel. And I do want to address that emotions aren’t fact. Hold our actions accountable, like everyone else, not our emotions. Help us reframe our perspectives, meet us in the middle.

Additional Tags: Stigmatisation of mental illnesses

For as long as he could recall, Shane Madej has always been standing on the opposite end of a glass tank, looking in on civilisation behind a cold unyielding surface that he can’t quite breach. So close he pretends that he could brush the fingertips of others without feeling distance and the isolation that comes along with it. Growing up, he’s made aware of the differences between himself and the rest of his peers.

It’s not that he couldn’t feel anything, of course he could. He just couldn’t understand why others chose to be torn up over one matter for an extended period of time. Sure, he comprehends when situations are negative and unwelcome. He just doesn’t necessarily think dwelling on it for too long is any form of a recommended solution. And it’s uncomfortable, because what else was he supposed to say to make other people’s sadness, anger and the like go away? There’s no clear manuscript for that and he’d be lying if he said that continued distress of others doesn’t frustrate him. He wants it to stop. He cares enough to want it to stop but somehow whatever he says is misconstrued into not caring, or being inconsiderate.

Shane vividly remembers the time he had baby teeth knocked out when he got exasperated at one of his cousins over them crying about their deceased pet for an uncomfortably long time. “I don’t see why you can’t just get over it. It’s dead, it’s not coming back.” He’d tried to explain and before he knows it, teeth on the ground. His mother had broken up the brawl that ensued soon after and upon finding out what happened, tried to patiently explain that they were sad because they lost precious family. And Shane doesn’t get it. He doesn’t. He comprehends loss obviously, he just doesn’t understand why there’s anything wrong with speaking the truth. That day, he leaves with the knowledge that it was the wrong thing to say. It’s only years later, through watching boring drama shows on television, that he learns what he was supposed to do and say instead of speaking the truth.

But that was only one instance. There were many others that culminated into repeated visits to therapist after therapist. He doesn’t remember much afterwards, only the occasional memory of his mother crying and that sick feeling that something is wrong. He was a teenager when he finally comprehends what exactly was wrong. Apparently he doesn’t have the same empathy quotient as an average person. What bogus. He’s not a killer. He’s nothing like the criminals one sees in the news. Sure he’s had the occasional errant thought here and there but who hasn’t had inappropriate intrusive thoughts? Maybe he’s an alien, he theorised. And for a while that brings him a measure of comfort even though he knows that it couldn’t be further from the truth. At least he wouldn’t feel like the strangest thing around, what with plenty of other strange aliens around.

He’s probably 14 or 15 when he decides that blending in was a lot easier than getting people to see his point of view. There’s something beyond frustrating to feel like the only one studying people and their behavioral patterns but he makes do. He adapts and survives out of necessity. He picks up on verbal cues, facial expressions, body language and memorises the ‘right’ responses for each social situation, he learns even when he doesn’t understand why. Maybe if he faked it hard enough, it’d become something real. It never did become anything real.

Just another constant feeling like he’s walking on a tightrope. One misstep and he’d be sent plummeting into the deep end. Some days, he thinks maybe it’d be easier if he just let himself fall. Maybe it’d be easier to just...become the monster people seem to think he is. Maybe then he’d stop feeling like he’s in so much pain, maybe he’d stop resenting himself and others for having to do this when he can’t. Having to always pretend and give something he doesn’t have. He’s not a sham. Not a charlatan. At least it wasn’t a willing choice.

Throughout the course of his life, he’s done a pretty good job keeping his head on straight. He’s adapted. He’s got things under control. He’s doing fine. But as always, he has to ruin things for himself. That impulse. The ‘unacceptable’ streak in him that he tries to suppress. He slips up.

This time, it’s over budgeting disputes. During a meeting. With their superiors. Shane honestly didn’t mean to do what he did at all. But when faced with excuse after excuse, delay after delay, any sane rational human being would have seen red. The flow of conversation is briefly interrupted by the sound of glass shattering and a curse as he sets the remnants of what had been his own cup down on the table. He’s dimly aware that the room is deathly silent now and that everyone is currently eyeing him like he’s a ticking time bomb ready to go off. Shane wouldn’t fault them for that because for the first time in a good long while, he’s livid.

Movement in his peripheral vision tells him that Ryan’s shifting in his seat next to him, but he’s not interested in looking back. Not interested in anything else except the words that came out in a harsh clipped tone. “Of course you’re not going to give us the proposed sum we need. You’re going to hem and haw for an eternity but who the hell are we kidding? The answer’s always going to be no. Because we’re hunting ghosts and things that go fucking bump in the night. We’re not earning your company anymore money than we already are. This wouldn’t have been the case if we were-”

“SHANE!”

The rest of his words were cut off with a loud shout of his name and he finally turns around, shoulders tense, coiled tight. He’s yelling back before he could stop himself. “WHAT!!!” Ryan’s hands hovered in the air for a few brief moments, as if he’d been meaning to touch him, before he retracts them. Good, Shane catches himself thinking with viciousness. He’s not in the mood to be touched.

"Shane.” Ryan’s voice is quiet but firm when he addresses him again. Good ol reliable boogara. “It’s enough. I’ll handle this. You should get that treated.” Against his own volition, Shane followed the motioning to his own hand, blinking when he notices several cuts. Probably from the impact of glass shattering. It should alarm him that he hadn’t noticed that he’d been bleeding from his shaking hands. It doesn’t.

“Go. I got this. Trust me, alright?”

For a moment, he wants to rebel. He wants to continue yelling. But Ryan’s already moving to block him off from the meeting space with his own body and he’s not going to hurt Ryan. Hes not.

“Fine!” He finds his voice again enough to snap, making a beeline towards the door as he throws both his hands up in frustration. “Whatever, do what you want.” He leaves like Ryan wanted, locates the nearest washroom, sticks his hand under the running cold water and lets himself fall to pieces.

When Ryan finds him again, Shane is sat in one of the spare rest areas in the Buzzfeed office, unable to quite bring himself to return to his desk yet. He sees the other approach and tenses imperceptibly. Waits. He’s expecting anger. He’s expecting disappointment. He’s expecting a lot of things from him. Instead what he gets was a level “I cleaned up the rest of your coffee so you owe me a beer.”

"I’m not sorry.”

“I know.” The calmness in Ryan’s tone has Shane bristling yet again. This is wrong. He’s supposed to be the angry one. He has every right to be. “What the hell do you know?”

"I know you’re not really mad at me. And we’re not having a fight right now.”

“Oh? We’re not? Because that sure sounds like fighting words to me.”

“Shane-” He watches Ryan run a hand through his own hair, appearing a lot more tired in the aftermath of whatever went down in the office. “We’re not fighting. I’m not angry over you not being sorry even if you want me to be. Don’t get me wrong, I thought that was shitty and I disagree with what you did but I’m not mad at you. I just wanna know one thing.”

Shane had been about to needle him. Had been about to push and prod so that he could just explode on him so that it would have been the final blow. But the presence of a question has him pause, hesitate. “And what is that?”

“Do you have any...hang ups about the success of the Worth It boys, the Try Guys or you know...everyone else who has a series going? Do you think they don’t deserve what they have?”

“What? No! Of course not! Ryan, what the fuck.”

“So you agree that they’ve all worked hard to get to where they are. And they deserve all of what they’re currently getting.”

“Yeah. What does this have anything to do with-”

“You were going to use them as an example, weren’t you? With what you said back in the meeting. You were going to say that the execs wouldn’t have hesitated if we were any of those people.”

Fuck. It stung with how accurate Ryan was. Shane huffs out a deep breath to steady himself. He could lie, but Ryan knows him enough to see when he’s trying to bullshit his way through. And what was the point of lying now? It’s not going to redeem him. Ryan’s not going to feel sorry for him and excuse what he did.

“I was.” The admission was somehow a lot more painful than losing his teeth back then. “I.. just wanted to make them hurt... Unsolved is ours, Ryan. It’s our baby...I don’t hate any of those people. I’m proud of them for what they accomplished. I just-” Another deep breath. “I just wanted to hurt the execs so I said what I said. It’s not them, it’s just...about hurting the execs in the most effective way possible. That’s all. I know it’s a shitty thing to do but I’m not sorry about that. I’m just not.”

"I know.” The other end of the sofa dips with the weight of Ryan when he takes a seat beside Shane, their knees briefly knocking together. “That’s why I’m not angry. You didn’t do it out of intent to sabotage the rest- that I would have been pissed off about. And I’m not going to argue with you since you knew it’s a fucked up manipulative thing to do even if you don’t feel bad doing it. But Shane.”

Ryan held his gaze unflinchingly when he finally peels his line of sight off the floor to focus on him.

“It wouldn’t make me happy if we got a budget increase because of that. When we started Unsolved, we agreed that integrity would be our thing, didn’t we? No faking of evidence, no shady shit. If we were to get a budget increase because we guilt tripped the execs, that’d make us hypocrites. We’d be going back on our word. It wouldn’t make me happy and I don’t think you would feel like it’s something we earned together through our own efforts either. Would you?”

He’s forced to exhale when he untucks the bottom lip he’d been chewing on to reply.

“...Right. That’s fair. You...have a point.” It wouldn’t be their thing anymore. Ryan’s half right. Truthfully, Shane doesn’t give a shit about how they can acquire more for their spending budget. But he does...he gives a shit about Ryan. He gives a shit about their thing. He gives a shit about not ruining it. For himself. For Ryan. For them.

“So. No more, alright? No more of that whole fuckin dickery back then. I won’t force you to apologise but I trust you to make things right.”

“Yeah. I’ll...be more careful.”

“Good.”

A warm hand clasps his shoulder and squeezes. Shane wants to lean into his touch, he lets himself do so for a little while. Just for a little while.

“You know what? How about we look further into the regulations and rules of our contracts, big guy? That’ll at least refresh our memories on what we can and cannot do. Maybe we can find some loopholes. You know, in terms of getting external sponsors and such.”

The fact that Ryan could still be speaking to him so normally has Shane feeling like it’s a lot easier to breathe. And for one moment, he thinks he could cry. He doesn’t. Instead, he grins.

“Why colour me impressed! There’s that sharp Detective Bergara brain whizzing with sneaky ideas.”

“Shut up. Inspector Shane.”

Ryan’s grip is considerately gentle when he tugs at Shane’s hand in a motion to drag him to his feet so they could get started. And much like always, Shane follows. There were plenty of things he could have said. How could you accept me that easily? for one. What’s wrong with you? for another. Thank you, yet another.

He interlaces their fingers together and squeezes instead.

#shyan #shyan fic #skeptic believer #shyanlibrary #myfics

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